He wasn’t Harvey
Weinstein, but I was completely unprepared when my supervisor tried to sleep
with me. I was in my early 20s when I moved to LA to become a movie star. I met
many people who wanted to help me make it in the business; most of those offers
came with a price. A Midwest girl with strong moral values, I had heard of the “casting
couch” long before I made the trek West. These offers, although uncomfortable
and off-putting, did not catch me off guard; I had been warned.
After
a few years waiting tables and trying to break into the entertainment industry,
I decided it was more important to have a regular paycheck and my electric bill
paid. I got a job in an office doing customer service. It was a small company,
and it didn’t take long for me to be promoted to become the trade show and
education coordinator for the company. This required my inexperienced self to
travel extensively, most often alone, but sometimes with senior sales force as
support for the trade show.
One
show I attended was at a hotel in Las Vegas. I went, accompanied by the VP of
Sales. Summer in Las Vegas is sweltering; I spent the day setting up, crawling
on the floor of the convention center, opening boxes and putting the booth
together. It was dirty, sweaty, and exhausting. The VP, John*, came in at the
end of the day, told me where I should make changes to the displays, then left
for the evening.
The
next morning, I arrived at the trade show floor, hair done, makeup on, wearing
a suit and heels. John met me at the booth, expressed our sales goals, then
proceeded to head outside for a smoke. I worked the floor for a few hours alone.
He came back with a client, Steven*, and they spent the afternoon shooting the
breeze in the only two chairs in the booth. I stood and wrote orders while they
sat and chatted. After 10 hours, the show ended, and John and Steven invited me
to dinner with them. I was exhausted, but starving, so accepted. We ate, and
shared a couple bottles of wine. Steven left to find his business partners.
John and I had dessert and finished the wine, before I announced I had to go to
bed and get some rest. John offered to walk me to my room, since it had been a
long day.
I
was uncomfortable with the offer, but he was close friends with the owners of
my company and had known them for over 15 years. I accepted, feeling dread, but
forced it down; I knew this man could change my career. As we walked, we talked
about the show and the day’s sales. I felt like I was impressing him with my
knowledge of our customer base and sales numbers. Then he made a comment about
the outfit I had worn the day before, to set up in the Las Vegas heat. He told
me I should wear my shorts and tank top to the show floor the next day, instead
of my suit. Feeling as if there was no other response, I laughed it off, and tried
to change the subject.
We
arrived at my room, and I opened the door, thanking John for walking me up and
trying to close the door. John was the same age as my father, over 6 feet tall,
and proud of his exploits in his heyday on the college football field. He
stepped into the doorway; I couldn’t retreat into my room. He looked past me,
and tried to push his way in.
I told him, “You
have to leave.” His response was to grab the back of my head and kiss me. I
remember trying to pull away, while at the same time thinking, I can’t piss this guy off, I’ll never get a
promotion. I honestly had no idea what to do at that moment. I let him kiss
me and felt his hands move down my body. I stepped back, horrified, but didn’t
shut the door, just stared at him. I knew this was the moment of truth, but I
didn’t know what to do. This was the “casting couch”, and I could feel my
career stalling. I placed both of my hands on his chest and shoved him
backwards out of the doorway. He looked at me, slightly drunk and confused.
I told him
again, “You have to leave.” This time he seemed to hear me and backed out. I
locked the door and flipped the safety latch, my hands shaking so badly I didn’t
know if I’d ever be able to stop. I went to bed, but I didn’t sleep all night.
The next morning,
I went back to work; John was in the booth waiting for me. I didn’t know what
to say. He immediately began discussing the sales numbers from the day before,
no mention of the incident. Steven came to the booth, and the two of them sat
down in their seats, behind me, watching every move I made for the rest of the
day. I have never felt so exposed in my life. I spent the day trying not to cry.
Our encounter
was never discussed. Several months later, John made an offhand comment about being
“inappropriate”, but I had already been passed over for a promotion to lead our
sales team in the East Coast market—his market. I left the company shortly
afterwards, to work at a female-driven non-profit, where I felt safe.
This happened over
15 years ago, and I still think about it during every new encounter I have with
a male supervisor. I often wonder how many of my male coworkers re-examine
their words and actions in every single encounter they have in their
professional lives. I never hesitate to compliment female coworkers, but I don’t
extend that same courtesy to male coworkers, for fear of being misconstrued. I
no longer travel for work. How many men have adjusted their entire career path
to protect their safety? It is time to put the Harvey Weinsteins of the world
to the same scrutiny women have always had to face.
