Name It

On tiptoes, I stretched to replace the binder in the metal cubby. I was shocked to feel cold, clammy hands on my back, sliding into the waist band of my skirt. I spun around. 

It was him  again.

“What are you doing?” I sputtered, incredulous but restrained so not to disturb the meeting in the adjoining office.

“I was just tucking in your pretty little blouse,” he clucked. “Did you get dressed in a hurry this morning?” Audaciously, he raised his hands toward his nose, sniffed deeply, and sauntered down the hall.

I sensed the rush of blood inflaming my cheeks and turned toward the desks of my co-workers, two middle-aged women.

Their mouths agape, I knew they had seen it all.

“You have to do something about this,” Trish, the executive assistant, said.

“That fucking bastard!” exclaimed Judy. “I’d like to cut off his tiny dick and serve it to him on a dinner roll.”

“You have to do something,” Trish mumbled, shaking her head. She lifted her reading glasses to the crown of her head.  “It’s getting worse, he’s emboldened.”

“I know, I know.” I sighed. I was furious and discouraged.

I needed help. I had already reported the sexual harassment to my boss. He’d promised to do something. But the harassment was only becoming bolder and more frequent. I was backed into a corner.

In 1990, I worked for a high-tech company in Cambridge, Mass. as Project Administrator. My company was an industry leader in internet development and encryption. The race to launch secure internet service was highly competitive, and there were shareholders and potential business partners keeping a close watch on our company’s advancements. At twenty-six, I was a bright, earnest, and independent woman. I believed that although I did not have a college degree, I could succeed using my intellect and ambition. The movie Working Girl with Melanie Griffith had been a hit just a couple years earlier. It reinforced the message that, while brains helped, being pretty and sexy assisted a woman even more in the patriarchal business world.

The man who assaulted me at my desk was Dr. John Bow, our company’s encryption rock star. In his early fifties, he was pretentious without personal boundaries. Pockmarked, short, portly, and balding, he was the tired trope of a dirty, old man. His eyes were rheumy and bulging. Appropriately, he looked like a pig. My female co-workers coined for him the nickname, “Piggy.”

It was my misfortune to manage Piggy’s project reports and budget. I had to attend his staff meetings and check in with him for project updates. Working one-on-one with him was perpetually demoralizing. My anxiety and depression increased. I hated going to work. I second-guessed every outfit and makeup choice. Are these shoes too high? Is this skirt too tight? Is this outfit too sexy? Am I provoking him?

“It required delicate negotiations to steal him away from a competitor in England,” a female Human Resources officer told me upon his hire. She emphasized how fortunate I was that he was joining my department. I was to support him.

“He will be our star,” she stressed. “Please make sure he is happy and settles in here comfortably.”

I was familiar with this company charade. Personnel often assigned young women to welcome new scientists and executives. I knew this practice was sexist, but like most other young women in the company, I played along. Men’s successes led to our successes, and hopefully, promotions. What choice did we have? In the high-tech workplace, one had little value unless they had a degree from MIT, Harvard, Stanford, or all three. I was copiously aware of my unfinished education and the company culture. This was how the male-dominated industry operated.

From the moment I met Piggy, I disliked him. He was pompous and lewd, dismissive of my need for professional distance. He constantly pried into my personal life, asking loaded questions about my romantic status, my weekends, and my living situation. I pointedly changed the subject each time.

When he discovered I studied visual art before leaving college, he tried to engage me in a conversation about Japanese erotic art. “I have an extensive collection,” he told me while twisting the long, unkempt hairs of his right eyebrow.

“You know what I’ll do?” he said as he grabbed my shoulder, squeezing so hard it hurt. “I’ll bring some pieces in and we can critique them in my office. I’d love to see your reaction.” I shrugged off his sticky hand and walked away stiffly, knowing he was drooling over the sight of my backside.

When he spoke to me, he touched me, placing a hand on my arm or grabbing my wrist. And always, always,stared at my breasts. In conversations with male colleagues, he placed his face too close to theirs. He encroached upon everyone’s personal space as if he ruled the realm. After a month of working together, he grew bolder, draping an arm over my shoulder. I squirreled away from his disgusting, limp limb.

We had “accidental” encounters where his hand grazed my breast or bottom. He would apologize profusely with “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry,” adding, “My, my, it’s hard to avoid your dangerous curves.” 

His persistent sexual harassment raised the ire of Trish and Judy, both mature women who knew this game. Their mother-hen feathers ruffled. They shot him wicked glances, answering him curtly. They had neither the patience nor the stamina for the continued displays of chauvinism. But like me, they felt powerless in this complex hierarchy. We knew there was nothing official we could do about Piggy’s behavior. He was the company’s golden ticket. Aside from committing murder, he could do no wrong in their eyes. 

Judy and Trish advised me to document every incident of inappropriate behavior or harassment. Once I had a lengthy list, they said I could present it to Human Resources. The raw act of writing down the details of each incident was humiliating and raised my anger toward all the men in the company.

As I detailed each assault, each impropriety, each knowing “oops,” I thought about who I really was, my core, my essence. I was a daughter, a sister, a friend. I was someone’s niece, someone’s sister-in-law. And I was a person, damnit. When these men objectified me, they disrespected everyone who loved me.

Piggy’s male co-workers knew he was crossing a line, but none of them objected. No one dared to reprimand or report him. Introverted male scientists appeared as equally offended by him. The man was a piranha in a sea of awkward men and powerless women. 

One afternoon, my co-worker, Jennifer and I hopped in the elevator after our lunch break. The door was about to close when a ham-hock of an arm pried it open. Piggy ambled in.

“Well hello, kittens,” he said, sweat beading on his brow. The elevator inched up sluggishly. Piggy stared wantonly at Jennifer’s breasts, watching them jiggle with every jolt of the lift. I was infuriated, deciding what I could say. 

Suddenly Jennifer snorted like a pig. She grunted and squealed like a madwoman. With full fury and fire, she spit in Piggy’s face and raised a hand to strike him. Piggy intercepted her wrist and held it above her head. 

“Stop staring at my tits, you fucking pig!” she snarled as she yanked her hand free. The elevator door opened, and she strutted out like a queen, shaking her ass with gusto. I followed her out stiffly, not wanting to remain in the elevator with Piggy. I looked back and saw him wiping his face with a wrinkled, yellowed hanky.

When I returned to my desk, I was breathless as I told Trish and Judy what had happened. They shook their heads and said, “I hope Jennifer doesn’t get fired.” 

Word of the elevator fracas spread through the office building like an electric current. Jennifer’s fiancé, a staff accountant, marched into Piggy’s office. He told him and that if he ever laid a hand on Jennifer, or even looked at her, he would be beaten to a pulp. This display of machismo seemed to resonate with Piggy. 

I climbed twenty flights of stairs to my tenth story cubicle as many times as needed in a workday to avoid an elevator ride with Piggy. One afternoon in the stairwell, the door opened on the floor below me. I peered over the railing to see Piggy. I ascended the stairs quickly in my high heels, exited at the next floor, and scrambled into the ladies’ room. I splashed cool water on my face and tried to slow my breath.

My boss, Mark, was a Harvard grad in his forties. I had worked with him for over a decade, following him up the corporate ladder. It was time for my annual review. He asked me if there was anything I was unhappy about in my position. I summoned the courage to talk about Dr. Bow. I described his assaults and offensive comments. I named it aloud: “sexual harassment.”

Mark paused for a minute and took a deep breath. “Yes, I’ve seen him behave inappropriately on occasion,” he agreed, “but you are making some profoundly serious allegations. You need to understand, we paid a huge fee to a recruiter to convince him to come work for us. He has an upcoming speech at the scientific consortium in San Francisco. And think about our stock options. In all honesty, he can make or break this company right now.”

“What are you saying?” I sputtered. “That I have to tolerate his behavior?” He’s touched me on numerous occasions!”

“Yes,” Mark replied, “I may be able to reassign him to work with one of the older women. He will be less likely to bother them. If he continues to bother you, come to me; do not go to personnel. Promise me this, okay?”

I swallowed the sour taste in my mouth and nodded reluctantly. 

Trish and Judy knew about my plan to talk to my boss. When I told them his response, they shook their heads. Trish hugged me. “I am very sorry, sweetie,” she said.

“It’s sexual harassment, plain and simple,” Judy steamed. “This should not be tolerated!”

Cornell University activists coined the term sexual harassment in 1975, but here we were fifteen years later. Piggy’s behavior prevailed, becoming a company norm for which there was no appreciable consequence. As a result of this prevailing attitude, dozens of young women faced lack support from HR. I came to work each day angry, disgusted, and frightened. I never knew when Piggy’s next attack would occur. How far would he go?

In late November we received a corporate memo that Ted Kennedy would be visiting our company. Employees who wanted to meet him were asked to arrive forty-five minutes before his speech. In an era before social media and cell phones, we were excited to meet a Boston political legend.

Hundreds of employees packed the cafeteria, awaiting Kennedy’s arrival. The security officers positioned people to create a wide aisle for the Senator. The CEO tugged the youngest and prettiest of his female employees to line the path, like frozen statues of Grecian goddesses.

“Smile at the Senator and reach for his hand,” he ordered. We were too stunned to protest. A network engineer from Smith College walked back into the crowd of co-workers, muttering curses under her breath.

Despite the rampant sexism, we were desperate to stand out, be recognized, and make connections. Ted Kennedy, dressed in an impeccable tailored pinstriped suit, smiled broadly and stopped to greet each young woman. A staff photographer captured each handshake like the paparazzi at a Hollywood premiere.

The sexual harassment in our workplace continued until October 1991. The nation was captivated by the televised court proceedings in which law professor, Anita Hill, accused Supreme Court Justice nominee, Clarence Thomas, of sexual harassment. With cringeworthy details and raw honesty, Hill detailed Thomas’s advances and inappropriate actions. Despite Hill’s graphic testimony, the Senate confirmed Thomas’s nomination.

Hill’s actions encouraged women to question dangerous, disrespectful behavior like Thomas’s or Piggy’s. The public harassment and humiliation of women had no place at work but had a place in court. Companies in active fear of harassment-sparked litigation (including the one where I worked) initiated “sexual harassment awareness” for all employees. Manuals were printed and distributed.

Judy and Trish attended one of the trainings. They encouraged me to go to the HR office and file a complaint about Piggy’s behavior. I made an appointment with the female director the following week.

The personnel director listened to my complaints and took notes. She asked me if I had been physically hurt or needed counseling. She asked me to take notes and record the dates of any future incidents with Piggy. I left the meeting buoyed and hopeful. 

As I had expected, Piggy’s assaults continued. But this time, I kept copious notes. After Piggy stuck his hand in the back of my skirt, I marched into the personnel office and asked to speak with the director. She listened and took notes with a stern expression.

Weeks passed. I heard nothing back. Trish, Judy, and I discussed the possibilities. Maybe HR was reviewing my notes. Maybe they had talked to Piggy. Three weeks after, the personnel director called me down to her office.

“I am sorry, Karen,” she said. “We reviewed the notes with our legal office and determined there was not enough evidence to file harassment charges against Dr. Bow. Even though you have witnesses who can verify your story, we just don’t want to file charges now.”

I was stunned into silence.

“You may consult with a lawyer and pursue legal action on your own, but I am sure that will be quite costly and time-consuming. And of course, you should consider that your private life will be made public.”

Publicly ridiculed just like Anita Hill.

Flustered, I asked for my notes back. “I can’t seem to find them,” the Director replied. “You must have another copy, right?” No, no I did not.

I walked back to my desk. I stared blankly at my computer and realized what I needed to do. I typed up a letter, printed it, signed it, and left it on my boss’s desk. I slid a second copy under the door of the personnel director. I had resigned.

Despite my hard work and determination, Piggy’s actions had taken an irreparable toll. I was degraded and humiliated on a daily basis. In the face of my complaints, the company made their choice. Cash yields and scientific success meant more to them than the emotional well-being of any woman. 

I found another job in academia and kept in touch with my co-workers. I learned from Jennifer, Judy, and Trish that Piggy moved to England about a year after I quit. Years later, I ran into Mark, my former boss, in Harvard Square. We grabbed a cup of coffee at a local diner and reminisced.

“You were courageous to quit,” he said. “It sent a message loud and clear.”

“I guess” I replied, “but did anything change?”

“I'm not sure,” Mark replied.

“Why didn’t you stand up for me?” I asked with the hard-earned confidence of a forty-year-old woman.

“I was afraid I would lose my job, that we would lose our jobs,” he said, taking a bite of his bagel.

“But I did lose my job,” I answered. “I just quit before something worse happened.”

“Well, times have changed,” he offered with mock optimism.

“No, we’ve changed,” I replied, “but times are very much the same.” I thanked him for the coffee and stepped out the front door. I pulled my coat close to my body. And with eyes to the sky, I moved cautiously into the night and the rest of my life.

-Karen Koretsky

Karen Koretsky is a visual artist, arts advocate and writer living by the sea. Her work has been published in The Boston Globe, Spirit of Change Magazine, Health Magazine, Alternating Current, Writer's Rock and anthologies. She received her MFA in creative writing from the Solstice Program of Pine Manor College and is crafting a memoir.