When I worked in Washington, D.C., I was the public relations assistant to the director of communications for a professional association. The director had an impressive background as a former Atlanta-Journal Constitution reporter and as press secretary to Senator Herman Talmadge.

He wrote on yellow rag paper fed into an old Remington in the corner of his office. He said he’d mentor me and help me cultivate my voice to tell my stories, so he gave me some plum assignments and personally edited my work. We often talked about The Elements of Style, an industry classic by William Strunk and EB White, and he commented on my style more than once. Sometimes he looked at me in ways I didn’t understand. I thought it was his vision.

I used to watch another assistant, Lori, with raven hair and big blue eyes, change the director’s typewriter ribbon. I remember our time spent as lunch friends, as colleagues sharing laughs, lightening the workload that often weighed on us. Then, one day, she was gone.

I heard stories about her departure, though I never knew if any of them were true. That she eloped with her boyfriend. That she had gotten pregnant and had gone home to North Carolina. That she got fired. That she’d suddenly found another job. When I called, her phone was disconnected.

Sometimes, I answered calls from the director’s wife, who had a delicate southern voice. She appeared delicate, too, at least in the photo he kept on his bookshelf, next to one of his grandchildren playing.

I often sat beside that bookshelf, perusing his collection. I can’t count how many conversations we had about writing and politics and the best ways to spin a story. Sometimes, he talked about showing me off. I thought he meant my writing.

Several months later, he invited me to a reception, saying he wanted me to meet some people. I remember meeting many that night, though now I don’t remember whom. I listened to lots of stories, although I can’t recall them today.

What I do recall is that, at some point, we had a drink together. We talked a lot, especially about writing. Early evening became late night. I missed the last Metro home. He said he’d drive me. I sat on the leather bench seat, which was pale blue, like his eyes.

At my apartment, he stopped the car. As I prepared to step out, he told me how proud he was of me, how far I was advancing in my work, what important connections I was making.

Perhaps I was, although I remember none of them because, within moments, still slightly out of focus, he told me how beautiful I looked and reached for me with his strong arms and firm hands. I smelled scotch as his mouth crushed mine, and my leg got caught between his and the seat. Somehow, I squirmed away. In a blur, I mumbled something, opened the car door, and ran. 

I didn’t know who to tell. All I could think was that it was my fault.

When I returned to work after several days off, he told me he thought I felt something for him, excusing his behavior by saying he was “contrite.” It was an ironic word from someone who said he valued simple ones. I networked quickly and found another job as managing editor of a trade magazine.

After a few years, I thought I heard he retired. Then: that he died.

I got other jobs. Eventually, I became a minister and heard lots of similar stories. One day, a congregant confided that she had “messed up” with her supervisor and didn’t know who to tell.

“You can tell me,” I said.

I knew her story—chapter and verse.

“It’s my fault,” she sobbed. 

“It isn’t,” I said.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because I’ve been there.”

“You, too?”

I nodded.

“I’m so glad I could tell you,” she said.

Because she had the courage to tell me, she also told her supervisor’s boss. The harasser was reprimanded, and she joined another department where she could continue her career unimpeded.

These kinds of stories don’t always have happy endings. But telling them provides relief, the healing that comes from solidarity, knowing we’re not alone. Maybe, one day, we won’t have to tell them anymore. ❧

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