When I was twenty-something and had produced my first little 4-track demo of songs, I decided I might be-- well, special, and sent my cassette out to a few record companies. Miraculously, I had a reply from not just a great label but a well-known producer who had masterminded brilliant releases for some of my rock icons. He set up a meeting at his hotel; I was over the moon; the sequence was described in another blog. For him, it was a forgettable evening; for me, it was not just humiliating and hideous, but forever fused my songwriting aspirations with a kind of cheap, lecherous, predatory prerequisite. Not only did he deflate my ambition and my belief, but as a young 'no-one', I couldn't find the headroom to even share my experience with anyone but my own husband.
30 years later, as I divulged in a prior blog, the guy actually friended me on Facebook. He's sober, he's old, has passed his prime. I meant nothing to him-- maybe a twinge of morning-after guilt mixed in with his first cocktail of the day, but by evening he would have washed the proverbial blood from his hands, the hotel cleaners would have tossed the torn bits of my clothes he ripped as souvenirs. Me? I took my ruined outfit and went underground. Sure, I play and write-- but I never again put myself out there in the same way. The anger I feel? Yes, it's been diluted with distance… and maybe I should have taken the cue differently and steeled myself into a rock and roll warrior but I was not tough. In fact, it wasn't until I got old enough to be less attractive and less susceptible that I started to get some swagger. Throughout my thirties and even forties, I cautiously sidestepped opportunities.
For some years I worked in the art business. My very first job was in the massive apartment of a handsome collector from whose bedroom almost daily a variety of companions emerged-- most of them younger than his own daughter; some would even sometimes share a coffee with me. I was extremely cautious and ignored his flirtatious remarks; he had some class and didn't grab. I needed the job. In fact I needed all the jobs I've ever had, and tolerated a level of inappropriate conduct we didn't learn to label 'harassment' until more recent times. Even my female bosses schooled me on how to manage some of this without causing a scene, without losing the sale.
When I was 14, my best friend's father accosted me on the way to the bathroom one night. I glossed it over. Who could I tell? My friend? My Mom who would never have believed me? And what then-- have my best friend's life ruined? There is a price to pay for honesty, for confessions and personal testimonials. I adjusted my behavior, insisted she sleep at my house-- that I had a homesickness issue.
So many of the women who have come forth in this Harvey Weinstein scandal are beautiful, successful actors. I can imagine what they've endured… especially in the 60's and 70's when women's lib was a campaign, a mindset-- but it never stopped the bullying behavior of men. Why? Because they can? Because the process of ratting and tattling smears the victim nearly as much as the perpetrator, but in different ways. You get blacklisted; people call you crazy. My own Mom turned her cheek when I tried to explain how my pervy uncle took advantage of us girls. I learned not to sing or dance or perform at family reunions. I kept silent and tried not to call attention to myself. Is this fair? It is not.
I've been date-raped, bullied, had inappropriate things insinuated and spoken by bankers, lawyers, politicians and rock stars. Some of them were high or drunk, but this is no excuse. One of my son's ex-girlfriends who was extraordinarily beautiful shared with me some of the reasons she was abandoning modeling. I cried. It seems so much more hideous when you hear someone else's story, when you see someone else's innocence spoiled, their dreams smeared.
So the question on the table-- the pink crippled elephant in the room-- why did these women not come forth? Because they loved their career, they needed the job, they did not want to permanently taint their reputation with these heinous personal scars? There is no way to emerge from this stuff unscathed. You make a choice, and so many of us choose silence. Knowledge is power, they say; there is our self knowledge, our self worth. The really sad under-story is the enormous talent-pool who were so discouraged and burned by this kind of thing, they left the stage.
Here's a new twist. Recently I've been the victim of some heinous back-stabbing remarks and behavior perpetrated by a jealous bystander trying to destroy one of my beloved bands. Not only had I tried for months to 'let it go'… and to ignore, but I did not really protest until this woman insisted that a male band member had made all kinds of sexual advances. Like reverse, slanderous sexual harassment, because it seemed credible. So I took up the cause and began to fight back-- not for myself, but for others whom she has wounded and maligned-- why? Because she can? Because the nature of social media allows this kind of behavior to ignite in new ways and gives her power? Isn't that what this is all about?
How sad this is. Our own president is a perpetrator of this kind of personal sabotage-- of bullying, of sexual denigration, of the low-level insult, of the under-the-table communique. He sets the bar so low it is hard to pass underneath. As for my own vendetta to save the reputation of my friends and fellow band members, the whole incident has left a mark on us. Our little musical family is awkward and our brotherhood is undermined. There are no winners in these cases; well, maybe the ones who are financially compensated-- but the world is full of snakes, especially where stakes are highest. We can only keep our eyes open, become accountable-- learn to decipher fake from real news, and make sure the silent innocent have a voice. Our children are growing up in a strange culture, where sexuality and the way we wear it is a personal choice. There are available methods of protection, even in the face of powerful facilitators and celebrities...and no one has the right to charge an intimate nonrefundable price to promote our dreams.