Give the People What They (Don't) Want
By which I mean, today's topic is: (drumroll please) sexual harassment. I know what everyone's thinking: Anika, please, this is embarrassing! What happened to nights at Marquee and receptions at the Four Seasons? What happened to cocaine and Bungalow 8, fashion models and sleeping around?
What can I say? I'm losing my edge, and now I'm starting to sound like a corporate recruitment flyer. Soon enough I'll buy a Volvo and listen to NPR all day long and drink only nonfat lattes. Or something.
The point is, sexual harrassment. When I left for TM in New York, I was worried because they included a little flyer on this pleasant subject, and then I heard (through the mysterious Medill grapevine) that a girl had, in fact, been harassed on TM and it had resulted in all kinds of unpleasant litigation. So of course, the first thing I did when I reached New York was weed my wardrobe. Skintight camis? Out. Micro-minis? Gone. I mean, who wants to be the office "skintern"?
It turns out I had nothing to worry about, the people in my office are almost unnervingly professional all the time. But that's not always been the case. I still remember one summer job I had a few years back. I worked in an all-female department, but the office was full of men. One day, one of the men dropped by our cube to talk. We discussed the weather, politics, recent movies...and then he mentioned that he had just bought new pants.
"Wait, the ones you're wearing?" asked one of my supervisors, pulling her glasses down her nose to get a better look. He shifted (perhaps uncomfortably) and said,
"Yeah. I like them."
My supervisor ran her pink nails through her blonde hair and said,
"To be honest, ____, I think they're a little risque for [this office]."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, they're quite tight. I can definitely see the shape of your butt." And she laughed while I, the man, and the other woman in the office all picked our jaws up off the floor.
"Uhh..." he said, and fled back to his cubicle. We didn't see him again for weeks.
Or, for example, I used to go to a bank where the tellers (mostly women!) wore lingerie to work. And I don't mean lace-trimmed blouses, I mean transparents shifts and high heels. Turns out this bank was actually famous for this. But the point is, walking up to deposit a check, I felt like I was being harassed by their painted-on goo-goo eyes. (It later turns out I wasn't the only one.)
Move over Clarence Thomas, you're playing with the big girls now. In fact, I'm starting to worry that I might be guilty of this heinous crime. Let me explain. Days in the office tend to be long, and occasionally dull, and there's never really enough work to go around. I mean, at least, never enough work to go all the way around to me. So yesterday, I was sitting at my desk, and my officemate and I started talking about David Beckham (I'd just seen Bend it Like Beckham). And I said, "Too bad soccer isn't an extreme sport, that would be a fun photo shoot" and she answered "Well, maybe something can be arranged..."
The point is, there's now a picture of David Beckham on our wall. Yes, we did waste company resources printing it. But before anyone gets too freaked out, I'd like to say (in our defense!) that he is wearing pants. But not much else. In fact, nothing else. So my question is: is it possible that our male colleagues, forced to stare at this image every time they come into our office to ask us for even the smallest thing, might feel harassed and offended?
What can I say? I'm losing my edge, and now I'm starting to sound like a corporate recruitment flyer. Soon enough I'll buy a Volvo and listen to NPR all day long and drink only nonfat lattes. Or something.
The point is, sexual harrassment. When I left for TM in New York, I was worried because they included a little flyer on this pleasant subject, and then I heard (through the mysterious Medill grapevine) that a girl had, in fact, been harassed on TM and it had resulted in all kinds of unpleasant litigation. So of course, the first thing I did when I reached New York was weed my wardrobe. Skintight camis? Out. Micro-minis? Gone. I mean, who wants to be the office "skintern"?
It turns out I had nothing to worry about, the people in my office are almost unnervingly professional all the time. But that's not always been the case. I still remember one summer job I had a few years back. I worked in an all-female department, but the office was full of men. One day, one of the men dropped by our cube to talk. We discussed the weather, politics, recent movies...and then he mentioned that he had just bought new pants.
"Wait, the ones you're wearing?" asked one of my supervisors, pulling her glasses down her nose to get a better look. He shifted (perhaps uncomfortably) and said,
"Yeah. I like them."
My supervisor ran her pink nails through her blonde hair and said,
"To be honest, ____, I think they're a little risque for [this office]."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, they're quite tight. I can definitely see the shape of your butt." And she laughed while I, the man, and the other woman in the office all picked our jaws up off the floor.
"Uhh..." he said, and fled back to his cubicle. We didn't see him again for weeks.
Or, for example, I used to go to a bank where the tellers (mostly women!) wore lingerie to work. And I don't mean lace-trimmed blouses, I mean transparents shifts and high heels. Turns out this bank was actually famous for this. But the point is, walking up to deposit a check, I felt like I was being harassed by their painted-on goo-goo eyes. (It later turns out I wasn't the only one.)
Move over Clarence Thomas, you're playing with the big girls now. In fact, I'm starting to worry that I might be guilty of this heinous crime. Let me explain. Days in the office tend to be long, and occasionally dull, and there's never really enough work to go around. I mean, at least, never enough work to go all the way around to me. So yesterday, I was sitting at my desk, and my officemate and I started talking about David Beckham (I'd just seen Bend it Like Beckham). And I said, "Too bad soccer isn't an extreme sport, that would be a fun photo shoot" and she answered "Well, maybe something can be arranged..."
The point is, there's now a picture of David Beckham on our wall. Yes, we did waste company resources printing it. But before anyone gets too freaked out, I'd like to say (in our defense!) that he is wearing pants. But not much else. In fact, nothing else. So my question is: is it possible that our male colleagues, forced to stare at this image every time they come into our office to ask us for even the smallest thing, might feel harassed and offended?
posted by Anika at 1:36 PM
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