Tag: sexual harassment

Red — Sexual Harassment

On By ZephyrIn Diabetic Lifestyle, gender discrimination, hyperglycemia, hypoglycemia, Liberation, Pool, racism, sexism, and other isms, sexual harassment, Type 1 DiabetesLeave a comment

Red and I did not speak about the text he had sent me on that Sunday morning after the work Christmas party. I figured it was a moot point. I assumed we would never talk about it and go about our lives as if the incident had never occurred. At least, that was my hope. A few days after the first text, Red sent me an innocuous text informing me that he would not be attending some social gathering a group of people from work had planned. I did not respond for the simple reason that I did not want to engage with Red on any level. He had been keeping his distance at work as well, and I felt safe believing his attraction would wither and die out in time.

A few days later, though, I received another text from Red:

Have you thought about inviting me over? I can make you feel real good. I know how to treat you like a real man should.

I remember this text because, immediately after I read it, I decided to get stars tattooed on my hands. It was an impulsive decision, but I desperately felt the need to do something that celebrated my independence from expectations placed upon me from external sources. The guy in the tattoo shop was initially reticent about tattooing me in such an exposed area. His comment, “hand tattoos can kill jobs,” was met with my own quip, “what jobs?” He laughed, shrugged, and commenced to design the stars that are forevermore prominent whenever I reach out into my external world.

The text Red sent me was again in the early morning and I sat at the library, waiting for the tattoo shop to open, while composing my response to him. This time, I was not willing to let the incident go without challenge because I wanted it to STOP. I do not remember my exact words, but I do remember bluntly informing Red that I did not appreciate his disrespect for me by not accepting my previous answer of NO when he asked me if I was willing to be more than friends. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was angry with him for reducing our friendship to sex, and that I was absolutely NOT interested in him. I graciously informed him I would not tell anyone at work about his pressuring me, but that I did not want to be friends anymore. I told him to please stop texting me, that I was willing to work peacefully with him, but I wanted this situation to be dropped. His reply was simple: “Sorry. I misunderstood.”

It was at this point when I began to realize how I might have misled him by answering “yes” to his question about feeling the attraction when he had trapped me in the back office. From my experiences over the years since this moment in time, I can now easily recognize how mindlessly I had internalized my perceived role of what it meant to be ‘feminine’ and ‘polite’ and ‘nice.’ Even as I began to realize my mistake, I felt guilty for having caused the “misunderstanding.” I honestly believed I was partly at fault for what was happening to me. I knew Red was acting like an asshole, but I did not find the fault to be entirely his. Instead, based on my social conditioning, I believed his divorce was to blame, or his drinking, or his pain and distress, or conversely it was my lack of maturity, or my inability to respond effectively to his comments, or my inadequacy in how to handle a situation where a man shows more interest in me than I am comfortable with.

****Please notice how each one of those excuses above focuses either upon Red, as a man, being influenced by negative circumstances, or upon me, as a woman, who is in some way defective or inferior. THIS IS THE RESULT OF BEING BORN AND RAISED WITHIN A CULTURE THAT ASSIGNS MORE VALUE TO A MAN THEN TO A WOMAN. These cultural beliefs hurt women and I am sharing my understanding of how it hurt me.****

At the time, I only told two people at the pool about what had happened. A year or so later, I also ended up telling Bill Kuzmer and Luke, one of the younger lifeguards who worked with Red, because they both asked me why I was no longer friends with Red. Luke eventually ended up taking sides with Red and I lost my friendship with him as well, but he was the young lifeguard who Red had been selling weed to during the early mornings while upstairs in the staff breakroom. The early morning Building Supervisor had told Fryer her concerns about Red and Luke, but Fryer never did anything about the situation. At least, to give him the benefit of the doubt, he never did anything that anyone else on staff could easily recognize as being an action taken against the possibility of drugs being sold on the Park District’s premises.

Luke eventually lost his job as the early morning Building Supervisor a year or so later, after he was arrested for possession of cocaine, but I do believe it was because he quit. He was rehired again some time later, but he quit that time, too. I do not believe he was ever threatened with the loss of his employment, but I do not know. This may seem like an unfounded rumor, but it was only last summer while working with a younger lifeguard, who had been a swimmer on the high school team and was now in college, when the old story came up again in our conversation. He told me during an early morning Saturday shift about Red selling marijuana illegally to someone at the pool years ago. I asked him how he knew about it and he told me that his mom, who had heard it from Bill Kuzmer, had told him. This is exactly how information at the pool is officially shared and communicated: Gossip and Rumormongering.

Bill Kuzmer, on the other hand, simply agreed with me that what Red had said was disturbing, but he never provided me with any advice on how to proceed dealing with the situation. When Fryer finally got around to investigating what had occurred and asked Bill if he knew anything about me and Red, Bill replied, “he asked Sam out on a date and she said no.” At the time, though, when Bill agreed with me that Red’s behavior had been inappropriate, I took this to be validation for being justified in my anger towards Red, and my choice to avoid him at all cost.

My mom would tell me that I needed to tell Fryer about the texts, but I had erased all of the texts. I honestly expected if given enough time, then the situation would resolve itself by simply going away. I was not capable of recognizing what had happened to me as being Sexual Harassment. I had always been taught that Sexual Harassment happened when a boss told you to do something sexual and you were fired for saying NO. I thought Sexual Harassment was nudie pictures on the wall, being called “babe” at work, having my ass grabbed or my tits pinched. I did not understand how being stared at could be a form of Sexual Harassment, and was illegal.

For the next three years, I worked six days a week with Red, and I performed my shifts with an ever-increasing knot of dread, disgust, anger, and frustration growing more solidly within my heart whenever I would catch Red looking at me with his glassy eyes. Every time Red was in the water teaching a lesson, he would find a way to be underneath the guard stand and he would stare up at me. Every single day. Every time I was in the water teaching a swim lesson, I would look up and see Red standing above me on the deck and discussing my teaching techniques with someone else, many times he would be speaking with Fryer. I became so incredibly distressed and uncomfortable wearing my bathing suit at work, that I felt to be blessed with a miracle when I finally switched from syringe therapy to a pump, and could no longer spend time in the water being disconnected from my insulin. The extreme discomfort I felt every time I caught Red staring up at me taught me how to conduct my lifeguard scan while effectively managing to NOT make eye contact with anyone in the pool. It was during these three years when I lost my ability to smile, and show joy and gratitude with the people in my life, and at my job. Three years of being gripped by the detrimental effects of such negative emotions are the basis for my claim of having suffered through undiagnosed PTSD.

During those three years I tried to work through my emotions without professional help. I had been required to speak to therapists while growing up and I came away from those experiences feeling as if the specialists were only good at making me feel worse about myself then I felt before even walking in the door. I struggled with the volatile combination of anger, disgust, and resentment and tried to find a way of simply going to work and not being consumed by my emotional turmoil.

There was one day when Red decided to confront me in the back office to demand that I stop ignoring him. I can still distinctly feel the intense acrimony and rancor I felt as I tried to maintain my dignity and simply told him to leave me alone. I used to teach a classroom full of seventh graders, so I know how to be a broken record repeating the exact same instructions over and over and over again until something finally manages to penetrate the thickest skull. Red intensified his demands to the point of scaring the other staff away, but all I could do was stand in place and tell him over and over and over again, “NO means NO!” until he finally walked away.

This period in time was also the beginning of the severe and pervasive harassment I have received from the administration of the Park District. It began with Fryer ambushing me in the back office, much in the same way Red had done earlier, to tell me about some new complaint he had received about my attitude. I was never given the exact nature of the complaint, a name of who was complaining, or any kind of description as to what I was actually doing wrong. So, not only was I trying to deal with the destructive emotional leftover from my experience with Sexual Harassment, but now I had paranoia being incorporated into my daily perspective of life, and of myself. I lost the chance to develop stronger friendships at work because I was perpetually terrified that anytime I spoke with someone I may be offending them, and I would get another reprimand from Fryer. During this time, I simply stayed away from the people who could have helped me. Hindsight is always 20/20, and it is only with hindsight I can truly appreciate the extent to which I allowed myself to be isolated and ‘cut off from the herd,’ as to become easier prey.

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The only other time in my life I have had such adverse repercussions for my ‘attitude’ was while I was living and working in Las Vegas before my diagnosis. I was angry all the time. The slightest incident would send me reeling into a fit of vitriol. Cognitively, I was able to recognize the absurdity of my quick temper and intolerance, but that did nothing to alleviate the anguish of always feeling and being angry. One night, I even came home from work and grabbed the yellow pages to spend the evening looking up every therapist, psychologist, and psychiatrist I could find, in the hopes of learning what was wrong with me so I could fix it. Luckily (Ha! That’s a good pun), I was soon diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes and I learned the anger came from severe and persistent hyperglycemia, which is curable with the administration of insulin.

Unfortunately, beginning regular injections of insulin does not cure the long-standing effects of hyperglycemia immediately. In fact, the very action of insulin dropping my blood sugars to more acceptable levels (or even lower into the hypoglycemic range) also became an instigator for foul-tempered mood swings. After the first year of trying to live with Diabetes, I finally made the choice to leave my job in Vegas and move back to Eugene. I wanted to work at the pool with the people who I trusted would support me through the transition into my new insulin-dependent life. My greatest hope was to have the opportunity to learn how to manage and control my formidable glucose-influenced emotional rollercoaster in a safe and friendly environment.

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During the three years after Red sent the texts, I would also receive complaints from patrons about my behavior and attitude. At the time, I did not necessarily take all of the patron complaints seriously because I recognized many of them as coming from individuals who were associated with Red, either from his role as a swim instructor or as one of the swim coaches. I know for a fact Red encouraged one of his private lessons to write a letter of complaint about me, and to drop it off at the main office, because the early morning Building Supervisor, who was a good friend of mine, overheard Red and told me about it.

Yet, I still did not consider telling any of this to Fryer. My years of association with Fryer had taught me that it is seldom worth the backlash of bringing a problem to Fryer that bothers him, because he will only take his frustration out on the messenger, and rarely do anything to solve the root problem. I believed there was no point in telling Fryer about what was happening unless I told him the whole story about the texts (which I had foolishly erased), and tried to explain how Red made me feel by looking at me. I simply was incapable of breaking past the wall of silence I had constructed, or the feelings of shame and embarrassment, to complain about something that seemed so minor—until I was conclusively pushed into action by the impetus of being verbally assaulted by Red at work.

Dale Weigandt, the Park District Superintendent, ultimately became involved the day I had to sit upstairs with him and Fryer and be told about a nasty letter that had been sent anonymously to the main office accusing me of shouting at and attacking patrons and coworkers. I remember feeling horrified—and being absolutely positive that the letter had been written and sent by Red. Dale told me that he did not put much faith or credibility into anything said by someone anonymously, that he believed such people to be cowards, but that the problem of my behavior and attitude was becoming unacceptable.

If I were to be ambushed by this particular meeting again, as the person I am today and after having learned all that I have in the past three years, I would say to Dale and Fryer, “Why are you bringing this letter to my attention at all? If you give no credence to the cowardly rantings of a person not willing to share their name, then WHY are you sharing it with me?!? How can you possibly sit there trying to convince me that you have no assurances of the validity of an anonymous claim, yet you use it as a way to blame me for the very accusations that the anonymous letter is describing?!” But, as we all know, I was not smart enough, or brave enough, to stand up and speak out for my rights at that point in time. NOW, however, is a much different story!

I did not share my suspicions about the nascency of the anonymous letter to Dale or Fryer. It felt, at the time, as if it would simply turn into a session of ‘he said/she said’ and that is a particular game I have never had any interest in playing, with anyone, for any reason. I was smart enough, at the time, to instinctually know I would never have a snowball’s chance in Hell of winning that game. I may not have been able to articulate my instinct at the time, but I do believe the intervening years have since given me the ability to critically analyze and better understand the social construction of Sexism, which gradually became the dominant discrimination encasing my experiences at the pool concerning my invisible disability.

I can’t elucidate my reluctance to inform Fryer and Dale about my experiences with Red any further. Mostly what I remember is just wanting it to all go away. I didn’t want to talk about it, to think about it, to describe what had happened, or to somehow exasperate the situation even more. I did not believe that divulging my problem to Fryer would somehow help me. At the time I was worried that telling would simply make the situation worse. I did not want to confront Red. I just wanted him to leave me alone!

Discrimination is a ‘Bitch’

On By ZephyrIn diabetes, Diabetic Lifestyle, disability discrimination, gender discrimination, invisible disability, Liberation, Pool, sexual harassment, Type 1 Diabetes, Type 1.5 Diabetes, Type LADALeave a comment

Every three months I see my doctor concerning my diabetes. During my visits we talk about any questions or concerns I may have, we try to analyze the data downloaded from my pump, we determine new strategies to be incorporated in my management techniques, and we end up chatting about my job at the pool. The other morning, I told her I quit my job and her face lit up with pleasure. Most of our meeting was spent talking about the issue of discrimination and how it tends to infiltrate our daily experiences without challenge.  Over the past year, my doctor and I have had many conversations regarding my attempts to inform Fryer and the Park District about my emotional and behavioral disability, while still having to mitigate the effects of simply being female and labeled as a ‘bitch.’

But first I want to share my good news — my A1c was 7.6, which is amazing!

Back in May, my A1c was 7.6, but that was after a hard year of dragging it down from a 9.2, and my intention was to bring it down even lower. By August I had succeeded in dropping to a 7.2, and I was anticipating a 6.8 today because of the incredibly stable glucose levels I have sustained for the past three months. My first reaction to seeing the 7.6 was to groan and feel slightly dejected, but I have learned in the past ten years to not take a number seriously. After all, it is only a number. A basic lesson I have cultivated while living my diabetic experience is that numbers are capricious, with the only constant being that the good numbers will come, and then go with no explanation.

After analyzing the data retrieved from my pump, listing all the blood sugar levels that have been entered for the past month, my doctor was able to determine that my debilitating early morning and afternoon lows seem to have finally disappeared. The rest of my numbers were in a steady range between 100-200. My A1c had increased because I was actually healthier than I had been when my A1c was lower three months ago! Tricky, tricky Diabetes!

When I explained what had happened at the pool leading to my decision to walk out, and how my diabetes had been a core factor in the incident, my doctor and I discussed the ways in which women are expected to behave in public. We talked about how easy it is for men to be disagreeable, unpleasant, or even straight up rude, and not be held accountable. Yet, as women, we are immediately labeled as ‘bitchy,’ ‘up-tight,’ or ‘unreasonable’ simply for behaving in a manner analogous to men. The ability, and willingness, to proscribe different values upon the exact same behavioral traits being expressed depending upon the sexual organs of a person’s physical body is GENDER DISCRIMINATION.

I suffered gender discrimination at the pool. Before this last summer started, I wrote a letter to Fryer explaining one of my ‘reasonable requests’ under the Americans with Disabilities Act was to begin my shifts at the exact same time every morning. This one action has been huge in helping me to manage my glucose levels and is directly relevant to my lower A1c. I informed Fryer of the letter in advance, and that I would be including a letter from my doctor as confirmation of my disability. I asked him if there was any specific information he would appreciate being included in my doctor’s letter, and his answer was to tell me that he simply didn’t want to receive a letter that gave me “carte blanche to act like a bitch.” HIS COMMENT WAS GENDER DISCRIMINATION. 

Back when I first began to understand how many of the ‘problems’ Fryer was blaming me for, in terms of my ‘attitude,’ were actually caused by fluctuations in my blood sugar that were detrimentally affecting my personality, I attempted to educate Fryer and Dale about this new insight into my disease, and how it affected me. I tried to make an analogy to Fryer’s well-known bad-tempered moods, which have culminated in full-blown tantrums where Fryer has had to be avoided at work because of the backlash. When I pointed out Fryer’s own personally disruptive and troublesome moods (that are not the result of a dysfunctional endocrine system) his immediate response was to label his moods as being a result of times when he is “focused.” THIS DISTINCTION IN LABELS IS GENDER DISCRIMINATION.

It is unfair, and illegal, for the pool to hold me accountable for displaying behavioral traits that are exhibited by other members of the workforce (especially by my male boss), but to only hold me accountable, and to consistently reprimand me for not changing my ‘attitude’ — especially considering that my unacceptable behavioral traits are a direct result of the stress and anxiety I have been experiencing at work because of being sexually harassed, and retaliated against, during the past six years. My ‘attitude’ has been a direct consequence of my disability created by diabetes and the hostile work environment Fryer helped to create by marginalizing me. The Park District’s continued unwillingness to change their ‘attitude’ towards me, and for continuing to blame me for being diabetic is DISABILITY DISCRIMINATION mixed with GENDER DISCRIMINATION.

This is why I quit the pool. I had enough. I was no longer willing to participate in my own suffering by allowing them the opportunity to continue discriminating against me because I am a diabetic female.

The Equal Employment and Opportunity Commission (EEOC) guidelines state that it is “illegal to harass a woman by making offensive comments about women in general.” During my meeting with Fryer and Dale at the end of the summer in 2017, I was given an ultimatum to either quit my job (and receive a good reference from Fryer) or remain employed at the pool under the condition that one more complaint would result in immediate termination of my employment. I chose to remain because I was not prepared to be unemployed, but I wanted to make sure that my bosses were aware of the difficult relations I was having with one of the water exercise instructors at the time, so if she were to make a complaint, at least it wouldn’t be coming out of the dark. When I told Fryer about my difficulty getting along with Jakki, Fryer simply replied, “Well, if she has a problem then she can pull up her big girl pants and deal with it.” That statement, in those circumstances, was extremely offensive to me as a woman. Especially considering the fact that the complaint made against me, resulting in the ultimatum, had come from a man at work who wasn’t even in the same department as me. I wanted to demand why John in Maintenance was not told to “pull up [his big boy] pants and deal with it.” Instead, I was still under the belief that I was required to respect the authority my bosses held over me, so I let the offensive comment go without challenge.

Research shows that service-based industries, in which employees rely on customer approval, can breed an environment of harassment, but 73% of sexually harassed women never report incidences because:

“If you do come forward, you’ll be labeled a ‘troublemaker’ or a ‘bitch.’ More importantly, you won’t be believed.”

—Gretchen Carlson, former Fox News Channel host filing a sexual harassment suit against Fox News chairman and CEO Roger Ailes in 2016

Men most often have the power to determine if an organization will prevent and treat sexual harassment—or allow it to spread. I believe the same statement is true concerning gender discrimination. After all, sexual harassment is nothing more than the recognizable face of discrimination against a woman for being a woman in a man’s world. Women who deviate from the gender norms attributed to them by exhibiting traditionally masculine personality traits, or who simply are employed in supervisory roles, are especially likely to experience harassment in their work environment. This was true in my case, at least.

When men are competent they are perceived as being forceful. Women who display the same traits of competence are conversely seen as being aggressive. I was a victim of this particular brand of discrimination based upon my gender. My prominent personality traits, which include my tendency to be assertive and refuse the arbitrary roles expected of me by society in general, allowed my coworkers and bosses to label me as being ‘bitchy.’ I was given less latitude in being able to ‘get away with’ similar types of rude behavior that Fryer, and other men I worked with, were commonly known for exhibiting.

This is where the intersection of racial discrimination joins in making a rather special case out of my experiences. Despite the Civil Rights’ Movement, and educational gains within the black community, many black women still struggle to overcome stereotypes that paint them as ‘aggressive’ or ‘difficult to work with.’ Many black women who are immersed within a mostly white, male-dominated setting (such as my employment status at the Park District) will find themselves assigned with the stereotype of being the ‘angry black woman’ simply because of our intelligence, our out-spoken-ness, and the confidence we have in our skills and capacities.

My experiences, and struggles, at the pool have taught me to recognize how my diabetes affects me. I am now capable of explaining these traits to my next employer. I wish my previous employer had felt enough respect for me to listen more and learn with me over the years. I wish I didn’t have to walk out on my friends. I wish the world was a fair place to live in. I wish women didn’t have to struggle with being called a ‘bitch.’

But wishes are like farts. At worst, they stink and then dissipate. At best, they simply go unnoticed.

Thoughtful Reflections

On By ZephyrIn diabetes, Diabetic Lifestyle, disability discrimination, invisible disability, Pool, sexual harassment, Type 1 Diabetes, Type LADA, UncategorizedLeave a comment

I had an entirely different post written and edited ready to be published. I was going to make some final touches this morning when I went out for coffee, but I forgot my flash drive.  When I finally got around to grabbing a beer with my dinner and publish, I forgot my flash drive. Again.

So. This is what I started writing this morning and what I am finishing right now with the last of my beer (a bitter at Falling Sky, in case you’re interested).

Spending my time writing instead of working has been cathartic. I know my writing pretty much sucks at this point. I also know it is only my mother, and two or so random friends (with a couple of strangers added to the mix), who are the only people reading this crap. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to say Thank You! Even if this is the only post you have ever begun to read, and you have absolutely no intention of reading to the end, I still would like to Thank You!

I need this time to process and untangle the knot that has been residing in my heart for the past six years. Many of the friends I left behind at the pool never had the opportunity to know me without the influence of the knot of dread that has been harboring in my breast since I lost my friendship with Red. I wish I could have had more time to experience being the person I am, without the stress from harassment and the high blood sugars it causes, while working at the pool, but I know it would be of no use. The people working there believe they know who I am. They believe that the crabby, grumpy and unpredictable Sam is the real Sam I am. How can they possibly understand how much of my personality is hijacked when I am stressed, or hyperglycemic, or tired from managing my diabetes all night instead of sleeping, when I have only begun to understand how diabetes affects me for myself?

The stress derived from my encounter with sexual harassment resulted in my strenuous struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was never officially diagnosed because I never told anyone about what happened. I suffered in silence for years. I feel free now knowing I will no longer suffer, nor be silent, but that knowledge does nothing to erase the emotional knot I have been living with since I refused to have sex with Red. This knot has become an entity within myself. It can, at times, be a puppet master pulling at my emotional strings and causing me to behave in obstinate and cantankerous ways that are misperceived by those who don’t know me as being ‘bitchy.’ But, I am not a bitch.

I repeat, I am not a bitch. I am a strong-headed, loud mouthed, sarcastic, and fundamentally independent woman. I speak in a manner that is blunt and direct with no flowering or sugaring of words (after all, I am diabetic and don’t need any more unnecessary sugar in my life). My manner can be abrasive, offensive, and judgmental, but I never speak with the intention of causing harm. I may not be very nice most of the time, but I am always kind.

The problem is that my kindness is easily disguised, or hidden, by the puppet master crawling around in the dank safety of my heart’s infernal knot. This damn knot has been an insufferable curse I have never been able to truly escape, but, over the years, I have learned how to begin releasing the negativity infecting my heart’s true purpose born from the traumatic experience of harassment. I no longer blame Red. There is no need. I accepted long ago that blaming anyone is useless and more harmful to myself then to them. I was lucky enough to not leave the pool before I had the experience of knowing that I had healed from my trauma caused by Red’s actions.

On the same morning when I had my encounter with Amanda (which became the crucible of my decision to quit) I finally had an encounter with Red that was as calm, peaceful, and uneventful as the days before his solicitations for sex. Being able to speak with Red, to have him speak back respectfully, and feeling safe enough to hand him a pen to write with, proved to me beyond a doubt that whatever problems Amanda believed she had with me were of her own making, and existed within her own mind. What I had ‘done’ to upset her so much was more a consequence of her own emotional immaturity and past behavior. The maturity that evolved from my personal suffering over the years had already made its mark. My diabetes, however, that is an entirely different story, and the foundation upon which the Park District has been capable of marginalizing both me and the issues I brought to their attention.

Red — the Text

On By ZephyrIn Pool, sexual harassment2 Comments

On a normal work day at the pool six years ago, while sitting in the back office waiting for my turn to rotate, Red came over and sat in the chair next to me while wearing his street clothes before heading home. He was struggling with his second divorce and had been dealing with his situation in unhealthy ways. Several other employees believed he was spending a majority of his time inebriated and worried about his safety while riding his motorcycle at night. On a different day, while we were working a shift together, Red told me about getting drunk over the weekend and taking a sledgehammer to a wall in his house he had tiled into a mosaic for his wife. They were still married at the time of this incident, but Red was living in his trailer. It was during this time when one of the Building Supervisors also suspected Red of selling weed to a younger male lifeguard on staff.

“I am strongly attracted to you and I was wondering if you would like to be more than friends.”

After he spoke, I immediately felt trapped by Red’s body position, which effectively put me in the corner between the wall, the counter, and Red himself. I felt distinctly perturbed knowing that if I were to try and move away, I would not be able to pass Red without touching him. Wearing my uniform exposed my thighs and cleavage more than I am comfortable exposing in public when I wear my own clothes. The extreme vulnerability I experienced while feeling exposed and trapped became instantly entangled with the combined emotions of disgust, resentment, and anger, which consequently became devastating for my psyche and emotional well-being over the next six years. The closest Red had even come to asking me out on a date was a month earlier when he had casually mentioned taking me out to lunch one day, then never mentioned it again.

I looked into Red’s eyes. They were glassy, but they were also the eyes of a friend I had trusted and confided in for the past three years. I had sought this man’s counsel and advice concerning my own recent trauma from an emotionally abusive relationship I had remained too long involved with because of the love I felt for the man’s three-year-old daughter. Red was a friend I had been grateful to share many personal issues with over the past few years.

My fist instinct was to use a response that would not cause further harm to Red’s feelings. I knew he was in pain. I knew he was suffering from his divorce, and I believed his pain was affecting his judgement. I believed Red was reaching out blindly for comfort and not truly aware of the line he was crossing with his behavior. I wanted to spare him the embarrassment I was sure he would feel as soon as he sobered up enough to realize what he had said.

“Thank you, but I only want to be friends. I appreciate you telling me how you feel. It means a lot to me.”

I felt relieved when he seemed to accept my answer, but then he turned to me and asked, “do you feel the attraction?” Unfortunately, I interpreted his question to be asking me if I had felt his attraction to me. I told him “yes,” but it was a couple weeks later before I finally realized he had been asking if I felt attracted to him. A few days before this moment, I had hosted a potluck for a group of coworkers at my house and ended up feeling profoundly uncomfortable around Red because of the way he intensely stared at me with his glassy eyes. I consciously spent that evening, in my own kitchen, doing what I could to persistently keep someone else between us.

Again, Red seemed to accept my answer and I was relieved to think the situation was over, but, a few weeks later, we had the work Christmas party at a bowling alley, and I had to leave early because of the acute discomfort I felt in Red’s presence that night. I remember the intensity of his stare, the way he would focus on me in the crowded room. I wanted to play air hockey at one point, but Red was the only person who would play. I had fun, because it was air hockey, but I felt so remarkably awkward because of his undeterred attention. After the game ended, my friend Paige asked me why Red had been acting weird while we played. I told her what had happened in the back office and how it made me feel. Paige asked me what my plan was for responding to the situation. We talked about Red’s obvious drinking, and all the other various manifestations of his emotional turmoil, and Paige agreed that my idea to simply stay away from Red, and give him the time and space necessary to pull his life back together, was sufficient.

Paige agreed to leave the party and drive me home early because of Red’s proximity and increasingly erratic behavior at the bowling alley. During the drive home, Paige and I discussed how inappropriate the situation was, not only because of Red still technically being married, but because he is old enough to be my father. I am, in fact, closer to the age of his children then I am to him. This was the only time in my life when a man who is distinctly my elder has ever made such a strong pass at me. I did not know how to politely tell him to leave me alone. The worst he had done at this point was to look at me and tell me how he felt. I believed, at the time, that he was doing nothing wrong, but that I was simply having a hard time dealing with his affection. I can recognize now how I had internalized my role as a passive female who is intent on not hurting a man’s feelings. Especially a man who is in a position of authority, such as Red was, by his age and his role as a Building Supervisor at work.

The next morning, I received a text from Red. At first, I was simply angry he had sent me a text and woken me up at 6:30 in the morning on the one morning of the week when I didn’t have to get up to go to work. Then, I read the text:

Invite me over. I want to show you how a real man pleases a beautiful woman. I want to please you the way you deserve. Let me show you how good I can be. I do bite.

From the instant I read his words I was consumed by a wave of stifling anger and deep disgust, not only for the implication I would be so easily interested in having sex with him, but for the absolute sense of betrayal and disrespect I suffered in the process of reading his text. I immediately erased the text before going back to sleep. I absolutely believed Red had gotten so stinking drunk after the work party that he sent the text unaware of what he was even doing. I wanted no evidence to the fact the text ever existed! It never remotely occurred to me that I might need to save the text, or that the situation would escalate. I believed the best thing to do was ignore the text, pretend like it never happened, and allow Red the opportunity to recover his dignity without further embarrassment for either of us.

Day 3: The Darkside

On By ZephyrIn Diabetic Lifestyle, disability discrimination, gender discrimination, Liberation, racism, sexism, and other isms, sexual harassment2 Comments

Everything has a darkside. Everything. Not just the Park District, the Force, or the moon.

I have a darkside. It has gotten me into trouble many, many times. It is the Yang to my Yin. The flip to my flop. It is an undercooked hotdog served with a slice of Wonder bread. It is the side of existence that we avoid and ignore with what little passion we have left in our hearts after spending our days working at jobs that simply don’t pay us enough to breath.

I’ve only begun to tell the darkside of my story. It amazes me to think this is only the third post I have written in my new life as a writer. I’m not exactly sure what this new life will look like, but I am certain it will be filled with the love, joy and support that I have been receiving from my friends and family. My parents are helping to pay for my rent and holiday travel, my brother is helping to pay my electricity bill, and I have been saving and preparing for this moment since August of 2017 when Fryer and Dale tried to scare me into quitting by threatening me with a bad reference if I were to stay and receive one more complaint. I was ambushed for that meeting. It was not the first ambush I have survived while working there, but when they tried to ambush me again last Tuesday — I quit.

And walked away with peace and joy in my heart.

I had hoped I would be able to survive working and receiving a reliable paycheck until I could respectfully put in my two-weeks notice, but that option was ripped away from me and I was forced to walk out on the spot. There was no drama. I did everything in my power to avoid making a scene and causing a fuss… other than the fuss caused by the fact that my boss had no one but himself to cover my shift.

The inherent irony of the moment when I quit is a thing of pure beauty. To put it succinctly, Fryer has been forced to work a shift as a lifeguard, for the past month or so, ever since the woman working the day shift with me suddenly quit with barely a two week notice. Fryer conducted a quick ‘mini’ lifeguard class in order to hire two senior men who are regular patrons at the pool to cover his shift, yet one of the men quit before he was hired and Fryer still had to guard, albeit a shorter shift. Two days after the new guy was finally ready to work by himself was the day I quit. My cherry on top: Fryer spends everyday sitting in the hot tubs or sauna while being scheduled as the Building Supervisor. It is an act that not a single one of the other Building Supervisors are allowed to imitate. Fryer commonly refers to these moments during his workday as his daily “hot tub inspection.” I caught him upstairs as he was in his swimsuit, with his towel over his arm, and headed out to the hot tub to start ‘working’ his shift for the day.

“As repayment for all the years I spent being unfairly mistreated, I am doing this one small unfair act at the most inconvienent moment for you. I quit.”

I handed him my key and rode my bike home for the last time. I could not have planned the timing better if I tried. Life planned it for me.

I had made the decision to quit the night before. The full impact of what Fryer said to me during the middle of my shift on Tuesday did not register at first, but by the time I was home and capable of uninterrupted reflection, I realized I would not ALLOW the Park District one more opportunity to marginalize me. To victimize me by blaming me with unfounded statements and rumors that were NEVER investigated.

 It was providential that, a week prior to my decision to quit, a young high school student just beginning her first job working at the pool decided to challenge my authority as her Building Supervisor on an early morning Saturday shift. I had a coworker proofread my texts to her to make certain I was using a proper and respectful ‘voice’ of authority before sending them. When the young lady complained to Fryer about my ‘voice’ in the texts, she offered to let him read them. Fryer declined. On the Saturday in question, I had informed Fryer what was occuring (since he was at the pool doing the ‘mini’ lifeguard lesson), I explained what I had said in my texts, and told him about her snarky reply challenging my authority to chastise her for lack of following procedure (which, it turns out, was the exact same mistake she had made a few days earlier during one of Fryer’s shifts). I offered that Saturday morning to let Fryer read my texts and her reply, but he refused. On Monday, after the young woman complained to Fryer, he had to rotate with me and the first words out of his mouth were, “well, it’s the same old complaint about how you say things.” When I offered to let him read the texts for the second time, he again refused, but said, “keep them though. Just in case it gets worse.”

FAILURE TO INVESTIGATE is the reason I quit my job. Well, that and the fact that I have spent the past six years being labeled a “bitch” because I have had difficulty learning how to control my glucose levels, because I have a hard time recognizing the emotional and behavioral side-effects of my diabetes, because I refused to have sex with Red, because I am assertive and direct, because I am a strong black woman, because I tend to speak my mind, because I intimidate some people with my confidence, and because I have a habit of trying to fix problems on my own without complaining to others.

Like I said, I have a darkside. And it has gotten me in trouble many, many times. This time, however, I used my darkside to discover the ‘voice’ of Liberation hidden deep inside me and buried under years of doubt, fear, anxiety, confusion, trepidation, torment, and anguish. The erosion of my self-esteem during my years of oppression at the pool was an aspect of my employed existence that I was no longer willing to accept. The strength of my personality preserved me through the years of suffering. My darkside has always shown itself as a side of my personality that can be intimidating, authoritative, judgemental, and intolerant.

But, there is always a silver lining to every darkside. The silver lining of my current situation is the support and love I have received from the people who care about me, and the opportunities that have been continuously appearing before me that I would not have been able to capitalize on if I was still employed. The day after I quit I was offered a spot on two different women’s soccer teams, I have been offered professional help with my resume, I have been given links to new job possibilities, and I have uncovered a fathomless depth of energy and enjoyment for my new life, which would never have been possible without my unemployment.

As much as I am enjoying the freedom to live my new Life, I have to face the fact that I will simultaneously find myself in a position of losing as much as I gain. This morning I had to accept losing a friendship because of my actions at the pool. I have not contacted anyone still employed at the pool. I have absolutely no intention of ever going near that place again. The people I enjoyed working with who are still working there will have to be willing to reach out to me. I will not feed my energy into the destructive atmosphere of the pool ever again. Like I said yesterday, the pool is a cult. Supporting my assertion is the fact that I am not the only ex-employee of the cult hiding in town, and unwilling to have contact with anyone at the Park District.

Thursday morning I texted my friend still working at the pool:

I quit the pool yesterday. I waited until Jeff showed up and then handed him my key as he was in his swimsuit headed out to the hot tubs. I said, “As repayment for all the years I spent being unfairly mistreated, I am doing this one small unfair act at the most inconvenient moment for you. I quit.”

I feel good today 🙂

Wanna grab a beer and hear the whole story?

I expected her to be thrilled for me because she has been talking for the past month about how much she wants to quit working at the pool, how unfair the place is, how many problems she has to face during her shifts, and how tired she is of the fact that the pool never changes. I have shared my stories about sexual harassment and discrimination over the years with her. I thought at the very least she would reply with a simple, “wow! I hope everything works out ok.”

Instead, her response was:

I am under the weather

Maybe another time

At the time, I thought it odd that she would use illness as her excuse, only because a few days previously she had called in sick to work at the pool because she was, in her words, “sick of working there” and instead had a beer with me and talked about how much she wanted to quit.

I was hurt, but I did what I always do — I accepted her as the person she is and held my silence in peace. The exact type of response that has allowed me to be in a position of being systemically harassed and discriminated against. After three days of silence from my ‘friend’ I decided to speak up for myself and my hurt feelings. Last night I sent her another text:

I’m confused as to why you haven’t reached out. I tell you I quit the pool and you have nothing to say?? It feels as if you don’t care and, to be honest, that kinda hurts. Are you ok?!? Is the fact that I quit coming between our friendship? I hope not, but I will understand if it has become a problem for you.

This morning I woke up to her reply:

I am not sure how to respond to this. I have been ill for a few days-but… Clearly I am unable to meet your needs as a friend and I have disappointed you. Also, Amanda is coaching staff and this is too close to home for me, don’t you think? But the only thing I can do is respectfully back away because I really don’t know how to support you. I can’t handle any more negativity in my life at the moment and I will leave it at that.

I realized immediately that this person was my last affiliation to the cult and I needed to sever ALL attachment with the pool. In a single text, my ‘friend’ not only gave her support to the power structure of the pool cult by listening to whatever rumors are rampantly spreading among the void left behind by my absence, but she effectively proved that my well-being and happiness were not an issue of importance to her.

It was not difficult for me to find my ‘voice’ of Liberation and to respond to her as kindly and respectfully as possible:

Ok. My quitting had NOTHING to do with Amanda and I have never felt better in my life. I regret the fact that you would rather believe in pool gossip, but I respect your choice. There is no negativity involved for me, but it does sound like you have enough to deal with on your own. As for supporting me as my friend…all I wanted from you was to feel like you cared about me. We could have easily talked about anything else over a beer. I wish you the best of luck 🙂

And now I am truly finished with the pool. I have escaped the cult and I am not damaged by the repercussions of the ostracism inherent within a cult’s culture. I have no fear of not being able to return. I am exactly where I want to be. Darkside included.

Day 2: The Great Cult Escape

On By ZephyrIn gender discrimination, Liberation, racism, sexism, and other isms, sexual harassmentLeave a comment

***Disclaimer: The names of the guilty will not be changed. I will not protect them. I am sharing what happened to me from my perspective. I will share my story.***

I met a good friend from my old job for coffee this morning and we talked for almost four hours. I shared my story of how I quit the pool, what I said to Fryer on my way out the door, and how amazingly Free and Vibrant I feel as a result of my actions.

My friend was born the year after I graduated high school, and I was always in a position of authority whenever we worked together during the past six years. She shared a few stories of her own experiences at work, and she spoke of a time when I scared her with my style of confrontation concerning her performance as a lifeguard.

What I found to be the most interesting revelation from our discussion was her description of our work envirnoment as being the “Cult of the Pool.”

The pool is a cult — Jeff Fryer is not the leader. Dale Weigandt is not the leader. They are simply the old white men who are in charge of administrating the pool.

The pool was built in the early-mid 1950s as part of a Parks and Recreation District separate from the city’s tax base. Santa Clara exists within, and as a part of, our local municipality, but our little neighborhood Park District, on the northern edge of town close to the surrounding rural areas, is an entity of and in itself, supported entirely by local residents. We have our own tax base for financial support, but it is slowly and systematically being reduced in piecemeal parcels by our city government. The District has had to beg its remaining voters for a levy multiple times in order to remain open and functioning.

I love the Park District. My love and respect for the District is what has kept me from hiring a lawyer and from seeking financial recompense for my suffering of harassment and discrimination over the years. The District offers swim lessons, recreational swim times, water exercise, lap swimming, an expanded exercise room, as well as two hot tubs and a sauna. And that is only on the pool side. The dry side of the District offers daycare, Pre-K classes, after-school programs, senior programs, and adult activities and classes to name a few. The surrounding park grounds offer a beautiful setting of towering Douglas Firs with picnic tables in the grass, two shelters for rental, a renovated playground, a skate park, a sand volleyball court, a track and basketball court, and the last functioning wading pool in the entire city — also newly renovated as of last summer from a grant.

The District building also includes several classrooms, a large multi-purpose room for gatherings and exercise classes, a fully functional kitchen, and the main office along with smaller department offices. A few years ago the building was outfitted with solar panels as part of a grant from our local energy provider EWEB. The pool side has been equipped with automated chemical systems for the hot tubs (which tend to fail at regular intervals) and a brand-spanking new UV filtration system for the swimming pool.

All in all, the Park District is an amazing facility and it offers a variety of services that should ultimately be offered in every community throughout our entire nation!

The processes by which the Park District is administered, however . . . that is nothing more than a stubborn remnant of a society born during the post-war boom when women were considered successful if they were married, had dinner cooked on time, and had the kids well-dressed and ready to greet daddy when he got home from work. My two previous bosses, the Aquatics Director and the Park District Superintendent, are men who have been allowed to remain in power within a professional culture lacking oversight, personal responsibility, and an awareness for the social evolution of Equality within the Workplace.

But, back to the main point of the pool being a cult . . .

It is hard to quit the pool. And it can be extremely easy to get sucked back in once you do manage to leave. There is no rhyme or reason as to why it can be hard to leave. We simply get sucked into the pattern of showing up for work and doing our jobs and spending our paychecks. The hardest part, I think, can be the friendships we make while working at the pool. It can be difficult to decide to stop working with the people who laugh with us and believe our stories. The people we work with are the only people in the world who can possibly understand and comprehend the absurdities we experience daily while working for a small neighborhood Park District that is hidden among the most diverse and relatively rural section of town. It is an experience not easily shared with people on the outside who do not have the exposure to our private hell.

I will share an example that was provided by my friend during coffee this morning. A short story to justify my assertion that the pool, and District in general, are stuck in a timewarp that defiantly ignores the social changes swirling around us in our post-modern culture. A story that may help to prove how the forces that can keep a person locked within the surreal confinement of a cult are diligently at work within the pool environment.

My friend shared a story of her own personal encounter with a patron at the pool who easily fits into the category of ‘creepy old man.’ This is a man only a few years older than myself, who was once on the North Eugene High School swim team, and has been swimming at the pool for the past twenty-plus years. I have my own stories of this person’s ‘creepiness,’ but luckily for me, I am of an older generation than my friend, and I have always been able to relate to this particular male on a different level then what was accessible to her at the time of her encounter.

I listened as she told me about a time she was at the pool during her off hours and wearing her swimsuit instead of her uniform. This man asked her for a towel from the back office and, as she turned to get one for him, he put his hand on the bare skin of her back that was exposed from the cut of her one-piece bathing suit. This particular male has grown up swimming at the pool and tends to think of everyone working there as his ‘family.’ The problem was that my friend is too young to think of him as her ‘family’ (let alone a ‘friend’) and she was upset by his blind familiarity. This was not the first time this man had inappropriately touched her without her consent (and made her feel “icky”), but it was the first time she decided to say something.

My friend told the Building Supervisor working that night about the incident and the Building Supervisor was upset. This particular BS is slightly younger than me, but older than my friend, and male. He told the story to Jeff Fryer, the Aquatics Director, who he expected would do something about the incident. Instead, Fryer simply said he told the head swim coach, Bill Kuzmer, about the situation and would let him handle it, since the man in question had swam for Bill during his time in high school twenty-five years prior. The problem, of course, was that Bill is known for doing nothing that would result in a confrontation. Fryer is equally known for doing nothing when it comes to any form of confrontation. As a result, we have all learned over the years to not bother informing the ‘men in power’ of the problems we face as young lifeguards, or as females.

Learning how to survive within a culture of blatant sexual harassment that is never acknowledged, nor challenged, by the people in power is equivalent to being in a cult and never questioning why, or how, things are done. The pool sucks us in and we know it. We are aware of our failure to escape. Even when one of us manages to run away and not look back, it is usually our friends, those who were left behind to try and manage surviving within this broken system, who somehow manage to reach out and hook us back in. Misery loves company.

The ability to survive within a hostile environment that seeks to destroy your inherent strength and dignity is comparable to learning how to survive in a cult. At least, this is my personal belief. It is part of the reason I believe I was capable of working at the Park District for so many years despite the abuse I suffered. It simply was just the ‘way things are done.’ There was no reason to question, no need to challenge, no reward for resistance.

I escaped the pool. I quit my job and I left everything behind me as I walked out. My swim suit, towel and uniform are still hanging on my hook. Memos are still sitting in my box in the employee breakroom. Food is still in the locker I had been using for the past five years or so. I left everything behind. I did not turn around to look behind me as I ran out the front door and towards a life I am proud to live! A life that will not harm me daily on an emotional, psychological, or physiological level. I ran away from the pool exactly as if it were a cult and my very life depended upon my successful escape.

Liberation is a CHOICE you must Act upon

On By ZephyrIn Diabetic Lifestyle, disability discrimination, gender discrimination, Liberation, racism, sexism, and other isms, sexual harassment, Type 1 Diabetes, UncategorizedLeave a comment

I quit my job Wednesday morning.

I started my shift at 8:30 and waited until my boss showed up to start his shift. He arrived at 9:40 and disappeared upstairs in his office. My rotation for lifeguarding the pool ended at 10:00 (when his Building Supervisor shift began) and I went to the bathroom to pee before heading upstairs to confront my boss and give him my key to the building.

My first words to him were: “I have suffered years of harassment and discrimination ever since you allowed Red to manipulate you into retaliating against me for not having sex with him.”

The last words I said to him before I walked away were: “I will not allow you the opportunity to marginalize me again.”

It was the most rewarding and liberating act I have ever performed since the moment of my birth!

My story is long and it deeply involves the hidden and unspoken forces of sexism, racism, and our seemingly collective inability to take responsibility for our personal perceptions of ‘others’ who happen to be ‘different’.

The trouble began over six years ago when an older male coworker of mine was going through a nasty second divorce. Some of us suspected he was coming to work at least slightly intoxicated because of the smell of alcohol and his glassy, bloodshot eyes. One day, after his shift ended and he was dressed in his regular clothes, he cornered me in the back office while I was still on shift and in my lifeguard uniform. There are two chairs in the small back office and he placed himself so I was unable to get up from my chair and walk away without having to physically push past him. I felt extremely uncomfortable the moment he sat down, but I didn’t say anything because I had become used to the feeling of being uncomfortable within his presence.

I remember feeling offended when I realized I was unable to simply get up and walk away from him if I wanted to. He hadn’t said or done anything to scare me, I simply did not appreciate feeling ‘forced’ to participate in his conversation. He started by telling me how much he appreciated my friendship and how attracted he was to me. At this point, the only thought in my head was “Shit. He’s finally crossed over into ‘creepy old man’ territory.”

***This is a territory most younger women must learn to navigate without a map or directions. I once had a senior male patron at the pool say to me, “You are looking good today, Sam! I can say that because I’m old (wink, wink)!” I stood in my guard uniform, while being paid to spend my time observing our patrons and respond to any medical emergency, and I calmly responded, “Just because you think you can say something, doesn’t mean you should.” These are the types of comments some people would complain about and I would end up being in trouble with my boss.***

Red asked me if I wanted to be “more than friends” with him. My immediate reaction was to feel disgust and disdain for his approach. At the time he was still married and we had enjoyed a three year friendship at work where he would share stories about his kids who are closer to my age than he is. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings anymore than I already knew they were hurting from his current life situation. I tried to be ‘lady-like’ and ‘polite’ and ‘respectful’ and ‘nice’ — just like I had been taught to do since being a little girl while learning how to ‘behave properly’ with my elders.

I thanked Red for his compliment and told him, “No. I do not want to be ‘more than friends.'”  I smiled when I said it because that was the ‘right’ thing to do. I did not challenge him on his approach, or his assumption that I would simply be willing to have sex with him (nor his obvious lack of respect for me by not bothering to first ask me out on a ‘date‘). This was not the first time I have had to turn away a man who wanted to have sex with me. This was, however, the only time that the man I turned away did not understand the word “NO“.

**********************************************************************

I have free time now. LOTS of free time. I’m looking forward to spending my free time writing my story, telling my story, sharing my story, and using my story to erradicate the dark Injustice of discrimination with the light of Awareness. The experiences I survived at my old job have given me a personal insight into the deep and abiding grip blind ignorance can have on the best of people. As a direct consequence of the sexual harassment I suffered from my co-worker, Red Liegel, and his subsequent behavior and actions (including two episodes of verbal assault at work), I have also suffered years of sustained and systemic gender and disability (for insulin-dependent diabetes) discrimination from the administration controlling my old workplace.

I even have possession of a copy of an opinion, written by a co-worker currently still employed at my last place of employment, expressing her belief that State-sanctioned slavery, supported by Congress and the 13th Amendment, is a reasonable and possible solution for the problem of illegal immigration within our nation. I found this opinion one day at work while looking for a memo, with the combination to unlock the money for the cashier, that had been taken out of my box. It was in her box, in the employee breakroom, where it could have just as easily been found by one of the high school swim team kids who were coming in to begin their practice. I shared the opinion with the head swim coach, but, despite his horror and disgust, he did nothing about it.

I am writing my story so I can send it out into the world. I want to share it with anyone who can use it to help make the world a better place to live. I will be sharing my story with newspapers, magazines, neighborhood groups, non-profit organizations, my City Council, the local school board, as well as sharing my reprimand to the Board of Directors of my old employer. I am looking forward to spending my free time making a difference in the world I live in.

I make my first vow, right now and right here, to write every day.

Everyday I will post a new part of my story. I will use this commitment as a way to improve my writing, and as a way to remember all of the smaller injustices I suffered that, at the time, were subsumed beneath the overall oppression of my situation. I will share my memories with everyone who is willing to listen.

Please ask me questions. Please feel welcome to participate with me in dialogue. I look forward to engaging with others so we may share ALL our stories and provide the support we ALL deserve!

It is only in silence when we allow ourselves to be harmed.

***The names of the guilty will not be changed. I will not protect them. I will say what happened to me from my perspective. I will share my story.***