Worker Story: “Hostile Workplaces are Never Made of Just One Thing”

This is the first of an ongoing series where workers in Southern California’s game, tech, and media industries share their experiences anonymously. Do you have a story to share? Get in touch!

“Raven North” (they/them) is an artist for games and animation and a contributor to the GWSC anti-harassment working group. They share their story today in anonymity.

One of my first jobs out of college was at a small studio. I was really excited to be working in an office; going into arts and entertainment can be perceived as “not a real job,” so it was validating to my parents — and to myself personally — that I’d landed work.

“He Had His Face About An Inch From Mine”

My first year was mostly fine, but I did have a bad apple coworker who I’ll call “Henry.” Henry was in his late thirties, and considered himself the conservative dry-wit of the office. He liked to talk about how even though he lived in a liberal city, he owned several guns and was not afraid to use them. “For self-defense” he would say, citing a perceived need to protect himself from a homeless encampment near the office. As a justification for shooting people in public he’d offer, “they’re all already schizophrenics.” If you reacted to any of this, he would retreat and claim it was all just humor.

At the time I didn’t take the guy all that seriously. But I’m giving you this setup so you understand what happened next.

One day I arrived at the office early. I sat in my chair, seemingly the first to arrive. Then I got a sudden urge to turn my head — and I realized that I was not at all alone. Henry had his face about an inch from mine, eyes locked in an unblinking stare. In a low voice, he began telling me that I was going to start doing the work that he didn’t want to.

For the previous few days, Henry had been complaining that I should’ve been the one assigned to a task he found menial, which he claimed was beneath him. Meanwhile, my supervisor wanted me on something that was more pressing.

Henry didn’t like this; he’d been shot down. Now he was an inch from my face, telling me in a low, hard voice that I was going to tell my supervisor I would take on his work. Completely intimidated, I nodded and told him I would.

I later told my supervisor what happened. When confronted, Henry joked and said that there had been a complete misunderstanding. Nothing happened after that, and Henry unceremoniously left the company for another job some time later.

“I Would Have Been Let Go With No Warning”

Year two was uneventful. But in year three there was a management shake-up; our old director was replaced by a woman who I’ll call “Matty.”

I was initially excited to work under Matty. I had never worked under female leadership, and I hoped that she would create a more supportive environment. Those hopes were quickly dashed.

On her first day I volunteered to work through the night to finish art which management claimed they needed immediately. I had recently been passed over for a promotion, and I thought that working extra hard and getting in good with the new boss was my best course of action. So I worked all day, went home, worked through the night, and finished just 2 hours before I had to go into the office.

When I turned in my work I was told that I would not be paid overtime (yes, this was illegal). Furthermore, after busting my ass to get the project done, I was told that my work was not satisfactory and that the deadline I’d been asked to hit — no matter what — was in fact arbitrary and we could take the week to redo the art.

I later learned that Matty hated my rush job work so much that she wanted to fire me on the spot. If a coworker (who was about to leave the company) had not stood up for me, I would have been let go with no warning. The atmosphere made me nervous, but I was ironically more eager than ever to prove myself to management, despite them jerking me around.

“He Kept Avoiding Me After That”

Soon thereafter I met a man who I’ll call “Albert,” an older guy who had moved between jobs around the office. To be honest, I didn’t think too much of him other than that he seemed friendly enough.

One day the whole group of us were walking to lunch. l was a little bit behind, looking at my phone. A few of them, including Albert, seemed to notice that I was falling behind the group.

A moment later, Albert sidled up to me and slid his hand down my back, gently pushing me forward. As I continued walking, his hand slid further around my chest. It had reached a point just above my waist, and then suddenly I felt a sharp pinch on my breast from his finger. I jerked my head around to look at him. His head was pointed towards our coworkers, but his eyes were looking at me. We met eyes for a moment, and then his glance flickered forward. He quickly withdrew his hand, and power-walked away to rejoin the group at the front.

I immediately felt like shit. Just this sickening corrosive feeling all at once. I had never felt like this before, and it was kind of a shock.

I had been in enough sports and martial arts settings — and even just crowded places — to know that sometimes a hand touches something it’s not supposed to. I’d had people touch my chest by mistake before, and it never felt like this. It’s one thing when I and the other person both know that it was an accident — accidents happen, and it’s nothing a few apologizes can’t fix.

But after Albert touched me, the gross feeling would not subside. I tried to concoct a way that it could have been an accident. Had the pavement we were walking on been unexpectedly uneven? Had I moved in a way that was unexpected or irregular? “No, not really” was the answer that came to me. What I couldn’t explain either was the nonchalant way he moved away from me. Or how he kept avoiding me after that.

“It Was Almost Too Perfect For Words”

The capstone on this whole thing was when I overheard Albert and Matty at lunch in the office, not too long after this incident, talking about what an oppressive atmosphere the MeToo movement was causing. Oh, the movement was necessary, they both agreed — Weinstein was a monster — but now things had gone “too far.” It was almost too perfect, or just plain funny, for words.

I wondered if Albert was thinking about me in that conversation. Was he worried that one day I’d walk into HR and tell that story? If he was, he needn’t have been. The whole company was rotten. I didn’t trust anyone with that information; they wouldn’t even pay me properly.

It sounds strange to say, but I kind of did just want to talk to Albert about that day at lunch. I just wanted to know what happened and why. Was this a pattern, or a genuine accident that had been misinterpreted?

“Bottled Up At Work Every Day”

By the day after the incident, the gross feeling subsisted. And I wouldn’t say that I was traumatized by it. I don’t have flashbacks or cry. The incident never stopped me from doing anything I wanted to do. But I did feel like I couldn’t talk about it, and that’s the thing that affected me psychologically the most.

The feeling of being bottled up at work every day thereafter, not able to know if what happened was an isolated incident or not. It’s weird, in a bizarre culture war way, to say “my workplace harassment is a free speech issue.” But sometimes that’s what it feels like. Even now, telling this story, the names are changed and I’m writing under what I hope is enough of a veil of anonymity.

And I think the final thing I take away from all of this is that hostile workplaces are never just defined by one thing. When I started to write this story I thought, “yeah, there was this one fucked thing that happened.” But as I started remembering the details, I realized how interconnected everything was.

When the scary guy at the office gets in your personal space and tries to intimidate you over petty bullshit, and nothing happens, you learn how powerless you are. When the new boss cheats you out of wages and then gets buddy-buddy with the guy who inappropriately touched you, you’re left all by yourself stewing in silence.