An account for which I spent weeks dreaming up ideas, devising strategies, designing comps, writing copy, creating a winning presentation, and ironing out the particulars of our 3-hour-long presentation. Like that time when I was asked by the head of the ad agency I worked for, to help them win the coveted Barbie account. I’ve also experienced similar, albeit somewhat different, behaviors from women. And an art director at work, who told everyone we were sleeping together, even though we had no physical relationship whatsoever.īut let’s be fair, balanced and honest here - although I understand, in doing so, that I’m taking a calculated risk.
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There was also the boss who flirted openly, unabashedly and lewdly with me, in front of the team I managed, undeterred by their stares and whispers. A married, male co-worker who far outranked me and knew just how uncomfortable he made me. The same job, where I was once asked, in a small, saccharine-sweet baby voice, “What are you wearing for Halloween? Will you be a bunny rabbit, a kitty cat, a tiger, a lion, a cute little devil?”, by a married, male co-worker, twice my age. The very same job where I fielded endless comments about my appearance. I can remember my first “real” job where the CEO of the Japanese tech-giant I worked for had a company-issued calendar of scantily-clad women prominently displayed behind his desk. The domineering and aggressive college guy I dated while still in high school - who isolated me from my friends and made sex feel like more like an obligation than a choice. The first guy I slept with, whom I later found out was trying to score “virgin points” for his football team’s sex pool. The twenty-something man, in a Caribbean resort pool, who watched my every move as I splashed around with a group of similarly prepubescent girls - pretending not to notice. The friendly, neighborhood dad who used to lift me up, high over his head, to get a good look up my skirt. The camp counselor who was a little too chummy and “hands-on”. There was the young, flirtatious, male teacher, at my prestigious private school, who chatted me up in ways that could only be construed as suggestive and incendiary. Words that are my truth regardless.ĭon’t get me wrong, like most other women, I’ve seen my share of harassment. Words I know will be wildly unpopular - and that go decidedly against the grain. I’m also a willing participant, a player of the game, and perhaps, even a perpetrator of my own transgressions. Let me start by saying this… I’m not just a victim of harassment and misconduct. Stories worth telling in this precarious, strangely unfamiliar time we live in. One of thousands with histories that, either benign or malignant, are nothing short of a cancer.
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One of thousands responding to a Weinstein-induced battle cry with stories untold and long suppressed emotions. While I realize that “me too” is the topic du jour and that I’m one of thousands of women recounting personal stories of harassment and assault, innuendo and quiet suffering, tragedy and despair.