Transcriber: Cesar Guadarrama Reviewer: David DeRuwe
When I was younger, I loved to read:
Percy Jackson, Katniss Everdeen, Hermione Granger.
The protagonists of my favorite books
were my heroes.
From them, I learned much:
how to shoot a bow and arrow,
the intricacies of Greek myths,
and of course: “Wingardium Leviosa.”
But most importantly,
from my heroes I learned what it meant to be one:
the brave, dauntless protagonist who sets off on their long,
winding journey against all odds,
dodging ogres, dragons, demons,
determined to stand up, do what’s right, and be brave.
Growing up, my siblings and I loved those “Choose Your Own Adventure” books,
the ones where you played the role of the hero flipping to certain pages
depending on your decisions.
Do you fight the ogre with the spear or the sword?
Do you save the princess or your friend?
Do you forge forth into the blizzard or stay warm at home?
While I’ve never actually experienced any of these hero-like situations myself,
I always had this feeling, that I, too, was a hero,
that when the time came, I, too, would make the hero’s choice.
This narrative was everywhere:
in books, in movies,
in anti-bullying training at school, and even in policies for jobs.
I remember when I was fourteen,
I took the California state mandated sexual harassment training online.
My computer screen had flashed through a series of training
that had reminded me of those “Choose Your Own Adventure” books.
Your coworker said something to you that makes you feel uncomfortable.
Do you leave or do you stay?
Your boss asks you to get drinks.
Do you say yes or no?
You feel a wrongdoing has occurred?
Do you report or not?
Even at the age of fourteen, this training had felt laughably easy.
Of course you report the wrongdoing,
of course you don’t get drinks with your boss,
and if you feel weird in a situation, then you leave.
It felt laughable.
I’m sure all of you today have also wondered what you would do
in a hero-like situation.
Maybe you’ve gone through training,
you’ve read the same books, or maybe you faced one yourself.
Today I want to tell you all the story
of the first time that I faced a hero-like situation,
and how through that experience, “this myth” of being a hero was shattered,
and instead how I’ve come to forge my new definition
of what heroism should look like today.
My story starts at the United States Department of Defense,
the five sided Pentagon building across the river from D.C.
that’s home to a maze of hallways
of five-star military generals, military officials,
and the brightest, most brilliant minds in American national security.
I was an intern there, and I was thrilled to be in the building.
I felt like I was making an impact, doing something, and protecting people.
But my story starts not at the Pentagon, but across the river at a happy hour.
I was already anxious to leave.
Being an intern, I was underage, so I couldn’t drink with my coworkers.
I didn’t understand what this “networking thing” was
that everyone seemed to be doing,
and I was still wearing my sweaty H&M business casual from my day in the office.
But mostly I wanted to leave because I was being harassed.
An older drunk coworker in the office had begun to follow me and another intern
around the happy hour.
getting into our personal space, asking me inappropriate questions,
and dropping to me what sounded like sexual innuendo.
Toward the end of the night, myself and the other intern
took refuge among a large group of people to avoid him,
when suddenly the drunk harasser broke through the group of people
and lurched toward me with his arms outstretched,
only to be pushed back by an older military officer
who was standing nearby.
There was an agonizing moment of silence,
in which no one standing in the circle moved or said anything.
Finally, a woman in the office, not much older than us,
grabbed the other intern and I, and drove us home safely.
In the car, I felt outraged, but also confused.
The injustice to me felt as clear as day,
the setting of the Pentagon,
an agency dedicated to the protection of others.
Ironic.
Why were we the ones that had to leave?
The co-worker explained to us, warning us,
that if we decided to report and nothing happened,
not to be surprised.
“At the end of the day,” she told us,
“the Department of Defense is still a boys club.”
Back at my apartment, sitting on my bed, teary and dazed,
I began to realize that I’d found myself, in a hero-like situation.
Yet the path of reporting, which felt so righteous, so brave,
so noble, exactly what a hero would do, what I would do, felt inaccessible.
I was an intern, three weeks in.
I was still figuring out if it was possible
to buy those little socks for wearing high-heels
or if I had to straighten my hair before a meeting
or if I had to take notes in a notebook or on my computer.
The idea of navigating the Pentagon’s sexual harassment reporting process
felt Impossible.
And even if I made it to the end of that journey,
of that long winding road, who would believe me?
If this was a “Choose Your Own Adventure” book,
two pages laid before me:
In one, the intern faces down a dragon.
Alone.
In the other she returns to her office the next day,
eating her lunch alone at her desk,
avoiding eye contact with those who saw the harassment happen,
and she gets through the summer.
In both, I wasn’t exactly safe, and in both, I was alone,
but I’d taken on my internship to write memos and impress my co-workers,
not to fight a dragon.
And so I began to gaslight myself.
I told myself it wasn’t that big of a deal.
If it’d really been harassment, someone else would’ve said something,
I was overreacting.
I needed to calm down and just get back to work.
I rejected the hero decision.
I didn’t want to be the hero in my story anymore.
But when I got back to the office the next day, a new story awaited me,
one I hadn’t expected.
A series of pages turned that I never knew could even exist.
Walking into the office the next day,
I learned that the military official, who had pushed the harasser back,
had reported.
I cannot describe what it felt like when I learned that he’d reported.
Something like the combination of a heavy release of pressure
lifting from my shoulders and a rush of validation.
I felt like crying, and celebrating all at once.
Women in the office continually checked in on me throughout the day,
the assistant secretary took the time to do a meeting with me
and talk about what had happened and how to reform and educate the office,
and the harasser, ended up quitting
before the investigation into his actions even began.
My office became what I would like to call a community of protectors -
a community that recognizes the shared responsibility
to protect its most vulnerable members,
acknowledging that everyone has a role to play.
A few weeks later, I wrote an article in the New York Times
about the incredible and unique outcome of my experience.
I received a lot of congratulations,
people telling me how brave I was, how strong I was,
but I think that a lot of people missed the point.
I wrote in my article at the very end,
that a few weeks after the incident, I approached the military officer
who had pushed back the harasser and then reported,
and tried to thank him for what he had done.
He had brushed off anything close to a thank you.
“It’s about protecting each other,” he said.
“It’s an honor, and privilege to serve with you.
It’s about protecting each other.”
So often these talks aimed at youth
are telling you to stand up, against the injustice that you’re feeling,
to be brave, be a hero, do what’s right.
It would be easier for me today to stand here and do the same,
but I’ve come to learn through my experience,
that heroism is also a sacrifice.
And heroism is also something that is often placed on the shoulders
of those who are most vulnerable
and least well equipped to walk that long winding journey, alone.
This hero narrative also isolates the victim or the hero,
telling them it’s their journey and battle,
everyone’s fighting their own, you have yours, and frees others
from the responsibility of protecting them.
So today I’m here to actually say the opposite.
Rather than telling the young people to get on the stage and fight your battles
I’m talking to everyone in the audience:
to the parents who are CEOs of their company,
to the principals of high schools,
to the supervisors at offices,
to the assistant secretaries, in other government agencies.
How do you create a community of protectors?
How do you educate, reform, and if necessary, react your spaces
to protect your most vulnerable members?
Nearly every woman I know has her own story of sexual harassment.
I published my story, and my story was unique,
not because I was sexually harassed, but because my community protected me.
I still love to read,
but there are so few stories out there like mine.
How can we write more of these?
How can we create more communities like mine, that I experienced?
It starts with you. It starts with us.
Thank you.