Sexual Harassment — What’s Fame Got To Do With It?
Reading about Weinstein was like being thrust into daylight after a night of total darkness. At first I was blinded, then I saw the truth.
Like the women who shared stories of their encounters with Harvey Weinstein, I was victimized by a man who was in a position of power over me. Unlike Harvey Weinstein, he wasn’t famous. He was a college administrator who preyed on the “little” people who entered his professional orbit; newly appointed associate professors, support staff, and students like me. And before I go any further, it’s important to clarify that I don’t consider myself brave for telling this story. If I were brave, I would have told it 30 years ago.
People who know me think of me as confident, successful, and in control of my life: a person who proudly advocates for what’s right in this world. On the outside, I am a 52-year-old man; privileged and living a good life. But inside, I can still feel like the wounded 20-year-old boy wondering what I did wrong, wondering what signals I gave off to deserve this, wondering why he, the predator, saw me as nothing more than a receptive and inconsequential body. For so many years, I often felt “less than.”
The details of my story are familiar; how the man in power creates a false pretense for a meeting and, in the process, traps his victim. As a senator from the College of Fine Arts at Arizona State University in the mid 1980’s, I was serving as the student representative on the search committee for our college’s new dean. It was a heady experience; reviewing CVs for highly experienced candidates and meeting the finalists for elegant diners with professors and administrators who controlled my academic fate and, by extension, my life path. So, when this administrator called me into his private office to talk about the search, I had no option but to obey.
At the time he was in his early 60’s, an impeccably dressed man with a wife, a family, and a distinguished professional appointment. He was not famous, but he was successful as both a musician and a college administrator. I was 20; broke, unsure of myself, and eager to please. I can still see myself entering his office, sitting down, and watching as he casually flipped the lock on the refurbished door that kept his private suite separate from the noisy student hallways. More than anything, I remember the harsh sound of that locking deadbolt, the sudden realization that I was trapped, and the stifling fear that followed.
Almost immediately he began telling a story about how all the boys in his high school class had marveled at his huge penis when they showered after gym class. He mentioned my penis and what he imagined it looked like beneath my jeans. If reading those words make you feel uncomfortable, imagine what they felt like in real life and how horrible it is to relive them all these years later. Then the words quickly escalated into assault. He walked behind me, reached over my shoulder, and grabbed me hard; it hurt. I remember staring at the door, the locked door, wondering how to escape. I remember fumbling with words, apologizing for my inability to participate, and biting my lip to keep from crying.
The whole experience happened in less than 10 minutes, but it may have well lasted 30 years. Almost immediately I blamed myself; what about me made him feel welcome to just grab me like a piece of meat? Reading the accounts of Harvey Weinstein’s accusers, I am stunned at how much we have in common and how we compartmentalize the experience — the guilt, the self-doubt, the fear of repercussions.
And why did I bury this experience? Why did I — a man who made a career advocating for those in need — refuse to confront the predator so many years before? How many other young men suffered my experience because I didn’t have the courage to speak out?
In retrospect, a part of me felt sorry for him. He was born during a period when being openly gay meant a greater risk of isolation; professionally and personally. As a man who came of age during the early 1980’s, I was born into a very different world. Although bereft of the kind of positive LGTBQ role models who today fill our pop culture canon, I never contemplated living my life as a lie; in the closet like he was. I came out in 1981, when I was 16, and I never looked back. So, I made excuses for him.
Most puzzling to me is why he didn’t take care of his sexual needs in a different context; why didn’t he just go to a place where he could have had consensual sex? Even back then, long before the internet gave questioning men a place to explore their sexuality, there were ways to meet and agree to consensual sex. It took me 30 years to figure this out, but this wasn’t about being gay, or finding a way to experiment with one’s sexuality. It was purely about power and abuse. And sexual harassment and assault isn’t just about Hollywood or the offices of cable news networks. The predator can be Harvey Weinstein, or Roger Ailes, or a college administrator, or the manager of a fast food joint. It doesn’t matter what position of power they are in, only that they use that power to assault, intimidate and silence their victims.
The man who harassed and assaulted me died almost 10 years ago. I know that because I recently googled him and, in the process, found his obituary. The lengthy and generous piece praised him for being an accomplished artist and contributor to society. Reading it today and seeing his picture brings up a million emotions; anger, sadness, humiliation and regret. Ultimately the obit is a whitewash of a hurtful and destructive life; a life of privilege that gave him the position to molest others he deemed powerless. I’m not writing this for revenge and I feel no need to make his children suffer for their father’s deeds, so I won’t name him. He is dead and time has robbed me of the chance to confront him and the power structure that protected him for so many years.
I am writing this to free myself and hopefully give others the permission to acknowledge the truth — that when people in power use that power to sexually harass and coerce those beneath them, it is sexual assault. Over 30 years after he locked the deadbolt in his office, I am finally unlocking it. No, I am actually smashing it into a million little pieces so that he, and the countless predators who followed him, will be forever warned — you can no longer lock us in, you can no longer assault us, and you can no longer hold us silent.
The daylight has finally come.
