Ahhh, Oh Yeah. Delicious. Let's You and Me

In the seventies, sexual harassment came with the job at RCA. Although you couldn't find the harassment clause in the job description, it was just understood by everyone that it existed and no one talked about it.

In December, 1969, I was hired as an entry-level secretary, one of the lowest paid salaried jobs in the company.  I was the secretary to three men, but the entire industrial design staff could use me and the other secretaries for such duties as clerk, typist, stenographer, filer of papers and things, gofer, coffee deliverer, and the object of a nasty-nasty joke or, on occasion whenever they felt like it, a booby or butt feel.

I loved my job and, except for Ray Coates (my mean boss), I liked all of the managers and industrial designers (all men except for one cranky, chain-smoking old lady graphic artist) in the Design Department. Most of the men were gentlemen and said or did nothing inappropriate, but of those approximately two dozen men who shared my space, a handful (what is a handful?) thought I and my female co-secretaries were fair game. But here's the non show-stopper. We all allowed it. We even laughed at the dirty jokes. Why? Because we loved our jobs and if we complained, the good ole boys' club would have found a reason for security to escort us to the door.  I don't know how the other girls dealt with the harassment, but I rationized my way through the obstacle course, all the while reminding myself I still had a job. What's an occasional pinch on the boob? It didn't hurt, so let it go. A slap on the butt that may linger a little too long. Oh, well. No big deal. An off-color joke? Disgusting but, in the big picture, laugh anyway.

Sometimes the lines would get blurred when the secretaries would join in. For example, when a male co-worker would say to me, "Hey, let's you and me go somewhere and do the nasty-nasty," and I would say, "You go first and if I'm not there in five minutes, go ahead without me." That always brought the laughs. I was complicit; I was part of the harassment I claimed to not like.

My career at RCA spanned thirty years with one two-year break from 1975-1977. The Design Department moved twice in that time, changed its name to The Design Center. In the early 1990's we were purchased by the French Government; they dropped RCA's name in favor of Thomson Multimedia. By the time I graduated college, after going to night school for twenty years,  I had had eight different jobs throughout the company before coming back to the Design Center in 1987, ending my career as a Program Manager in 2001.

In 1991 President Bush, the first one, nominated Clarence Thomas to the Supreme Court. It looked as if he were a shoo-in when Anita Hill, a former employee of Mr. Thomas, raised her hand and said, "Excuse me." The story she had to tell didn't put Mr. Thomas in the best possible light. His appointment to the court was in jeopardy. Ms Hill told of sexual harassment in the workplace. He denied it; she was vilified; he got the job.

One day, shortly after the Anita Hill/Clarence Hill story broke, upper management called a meeting for every man to attend. No women allowed. The Design Center emptied out, leaving just us girls to wonder what was going on. When the men returned, they told us that as of this very day, all sexual harassment would cease. Sexual harassment gone, adios, so long, bye bye, don't let the door hit you in the butt on your way out.

From 1969 to 1991, when the big bosses finally said "Stop it" I had been grabbed, poked, and brushed up against so many times I'd lost count. One married-with-kids co-worker, Bob, showed up at my house one Saturday morning. The expression on his face was one of urgency, and I thought he was there to deliver bad news; maybe a co-worker had died or The Design Center had disappeared into a cavernous sink hole. What was the urgent reason for this man to come to my house? "You have always been really nice to me, I thought maybe you were thinking what I was thinking?" he said. Wow! I convinced him that I was nice to everyone and "No" I wasn't thinking what he was thinking. Another co-worker, Glenn,  (married with five kids) was following me home from work one day when he honked his horn and motioned for me to pull over. I did because I thought I had a flat tire or the back half of my car had fallen off. He got out of his car and walked up to my window and said, "I've been thinking about having an affair, and there isn't anyone I'd rather have it with than you." What? After I convinced him that that wouldn't work for me, we went on our separate ways and he never mentioned it again. One creepy co-worker, Ray, when passing a woman he thought attractive, would make the same sound I make when taking that first bite out of a double-decker decadent chocolate dessert. "Ahhh, Oh, yeah. Delicious; let's you and me get together." Another co-worker, Joe, married of course, told me that I had a heart-shaped butt, and he had been told there was nothing better than having sex with a woman with a heart-shape butt. On this one, I was speechless. I thought this guy was my friend. Where did that come from? Are all men pigs?

"Too friendly," he said. "You don't understand how a heterosexual man's mind works. If a woman is too friendly, they think 'maybe she wants him'."  His name was Mike and he had become a friend through business. We were buying paint from his company and he called on me and our factory weekly. On a business trip to Juarez, Mexico, he confided in me and told me how the male brain works. Up until that time, I was clueless.  Women don't think about sex all the time. Most women, that is. Men, on the other hand, well, you know. You're smart. By now you've figured it out.

Post Anita Hill, at Thomson Multimedia, a man could get written up for any touch at all, even innocent ones.  Hands off. Keep your mouth shut. Men were no longer allowed to say, "You look nice today." Nope! No way! Ain't gonna happen because these men loved their jobs, and they didn't want security to escort them to the door.