Bernini’s “The Rape of Proserpina” (1621-22), marble. Galleria Borghese.
I once had a movie producer kiss me on the neck.
How’s that for an opening sentence? Pretty good, huh? Got your attention, right?
It was at the end of an interview when, shaking my hand goodbye, he suddenly lurched forward and kissed me on the neck. (It may have been more of a bite than a kiss, but I don’t actually remember and don’t want to overstate what was a pretty bizarre sendoff.)
Afterward, the embarrassed publicist apologized, concerned that I would be writing about this. But I was a young journalist and had, as a woman, been raised to soldier on. So I said, wrote and did nothing about this. And I hadn’t thought about it until Harvey Weinstein’s alleged sexual harassment of, well, just about every woman on the planet opened the floodgates of ew-ness.
It was not the only incident in my six decades of femaleness and almost four decades of journalism – the four young men who looked at me like they were hungry dogs after a lamb chop when I was all of 11, a moment that filled me with such dread that I vowed then and there that I would never marry; the hostile cops I covered who refused to see their requests for dates as conflicts of interest; the advertising executive who used to leave Playboy centerfolds unfurled on my desk; the sportswriter who used to pull down the pants of my mini troll dolls on my computer so they’d be mooning me; and the news reporter who made daily comments about my neck, my ears, my jewelry….
Until the day he said, “I like your earrings. I like them more than the cross around your neck.”
That was the tipping point for me. I had been raised to take a lot. My aunt was fond of this Jesus maxim: “To him to whom much has been given, much will be required.”
I figured, however, Jesus didn’t want me to stand by while he was insulted.
I got up, slammed my hands down on the partition between our desks, looked him in the eye and said, “Whatever.”
And then I decided to get even in a manner that would’ve made a character in a Neil LaBute play blanch. (Forget going to HR. My harasser used to touch a colleague of mine, who complained to Human Resources, which did nothing.)
A young reporter – who coincidentally had the same first name as my harasser – had joined the staff and was assigned to a cubicle adjacent to ours. We’ll call him New Tom. New Tom, was as gracious as he was handsome, and one day I asked if he’d like to play a game. He said, “What do you have in mind?” I explained the circumstances and what I proposed to do. Every day thereafter, I made sure I complimented New Tom, who played along. Well, Old Tom found that hard to take. I had found his Achilles heel, the Achilles heel of all men – their egos.
Not long after, Old Tom got a new job across country, from which I’m pleased to say he was ultimately fired. And I used his skeevy physical appearance – big nose, kinky hair, weird flat fingernails – for a character in my new novel “The Penalty for Holding,” as writing well is the best revenge.
But it’s not enough. Male dominance of the female may be related to our animal nature and primitive brain, but it’s also an acculturation process that’s hardwired into our DNA. Changing it must begin with parents who teach their sons as well as daughters to respect themselves and others. Change must be reinforced by teachers, who continue the socialization process. It must be championed by school administrators and business managers, who support a zero tolerance policy for sexual harassment. And it must be exemplified by leaders of our government.
Finally, women have to get smart and tough. They need to be financially and emotionally independent so they can walk away from the Harvey Weinsteins of the world. That’s not always possible, of course, because this isn’t just about male financial and political power. This is about male physical power. Men rape women, not the other way around. It may not be possible to elude your harasser. And part of the fear of speaking out is the real fear of retaliation.
But women must speak out. And they need to use beauty in a new way. For millennia, they have traded it for status and power (the sex symbol, the trophy wife, the mistress, the prostitute, the stripper, the porn star). We need to turn the tables, ladies. For years, I have kept the walls of my office filled with images of attractive men, everyone from Alexander the Great to Rafael Nadal. I used to say I’d take them down the day Playboy folded.
Well, Playboy has been forced to change focus and its founder, Hugh Hefner, is as dead as Jacob Marley.
But my male pinups remain. They are a reminder of what my aunt always said, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” They are a reminder that regardless of what men think, they are not the center of the universe and they will never be the center of mine. They are a reminder that most men are no Apollo Belvederes. They are a reminder that I would never love any man as much as I love myself.
I’ll take them down when women are finally free of harassing males.
Somehow I think my guys will be with me for a long time.