Women all have them, memories of the way things were back when it was a man's world. That mode of operations was revealed even today, remnants of the age of sexism and intimidation, and still going strong with the champions of male dominance; men are the truth tellers, and why ruin a man's reputation for something he may have done years ago. Even if he went somewhat astray, it was decades ago and he has long since assigned it to the past, part of his adolescent growth period.
That would be sound reasoning except for the fact there was another person involved, a woman who lives with the memory, unable to reconcile it to youthful exuberance. Some things leave a lasting impression, and not a good one.
A while ago, I was cleaning out my files, stored from a long time ago, when I was young enough to think everything was worth preserving for those who would doubtless be interested in retrieving what had gone before.
I came across a manilla file labeled Yucky Things. I knew instantly what was in it, and threw it away, unread, because it made me feel embarrassed, as if I had done something not exactly wrong, but somehow unwise. I don't know why I'd kept it, as I had never told anyone about it. I realized I never would, so I tossed it. The point is this event was way more than 36 years ago, more than 50 even, but the aura of it remains as clear as when it happened. Here is the tale, which I may well delete in the light of day.
After I had taught for 3 successful years, being granted tenure even, I decided to resign. I thought it stagnant to continue to teach at the school I'd attended. A friend in similar circumstance felt the same. We were 25 years old and wanted to seek our fortunes elsewhere. We discussed flying to Hawaii, and indeed she did so, but I backed out for various reasons. My sister was working then in the education or employment division of the State,and she referred me first to a job as a representative for NY Telephone. She later told me of a teaching position in Brant Lake of all places, but it seemed somewhat interesting.I never went anywhere alone if I could help it, so one day Dorothy, Ruth and I set off for the then extremely remote location, a place we'd never even heard of.
We 3 girls arrived at the school for the interview, with the principal, a man in his mid or late 30's. All seemed to go well, and he offered me the position. I was wary of the job because in addition to English, there was a class of Latin. He said since I'd taken 3 years of high school Latin, it should be easy. I wasn't sure of that, but indicated I'd think about it.
After the interview was when things started to get weird. He wanted to show us the community, such as it was. He piled us 3 girls into his car, and drove us first to his house where he invited us in to where his harried-looking wife was surrounded by 4 or 5 children, one in a playpen. We soon left for what was to be an extended tour of the entire area. We 3 were exhausted by then after the long trip on dirt roads, and we were hungry and thirsty, and I had a migraine, a regular occurrence in those days when hungry, thirsty and stressed.
We really wanted to get started back home, but Principal Mr. Z. was in no hurry. It was an isolated location, and we assumed he enjoyed driving around with 3 young girls in his car. He even drove us to a log cabin, somewhere in the wooded area, and said he could arrange for me to live there.At one point he saw a person he knew and he stopped the car to talk to him. He rolled down the car window, which is what you did then, actually use a handle to roll the window. In doing so, he reached across me, in the front passenger seat. And his arm remained across my chest, if you know what I mean, during the fairly long conversation. Innocent gesture maybe, but I was uncomfortable enough to recall it to this day.
Eventually we got to leave. He called me several times , but I said I didn't want to teach Latin and declined the position. Things got weirder.
Later that summer, some months later, he called me again. He had left Brant Lake and was now in Germantown, and he had the perfect teaching position for me. So Dorothy and I drove down there as he'd requested. I couldn't think of a reason to not accept the job, so indicated I'd take it.Mistake!
Home, I had second thoughts, and after awhile wrote him a letter saying I would not be taking the job, citing personal reasons.You may think that would be the end of it, but no.He called me at home trying to get me to change my mind,so often that I wouldn't answer the phone. Then he called me at work, the manager asking me if I wanted to take the call. I said no and the manager said he didn't think so; I gathered Mr. Z, was being a jerk.
THEN, I received a call from the Teacher Placement service at Albany State, a service I'd had no contact with, though my graduation records were there. The administrator there was a woman, and she directed her anger at me. How dare I say I'd take a teaching position and then decline it! She told me Mr/ Z. had called her, expressing his displeasure, and that in conversation with him the only "personal reason" they could think of was that I must be pregnant.
Obviously I did not take the job. I felt stupid and embarrassed and was afraid that my teaching career was forever ruined. That didn't turn out to be true, but I didn't know that then.
So I, as many other women, can relate to the present. The scars of being alone and powerless last a lifetime. Even women then touted the culture of the males. There was no place I knew of to go for assistance. I never told anyone because I felt awful about what had happened.
I'm sure Mr. Z. must be in his grave by now, BUT if I had learned somewhere along the years that he was being considered for one of the highest positions in the land, I like to think that I would break my silence and tell what happened.
The pathway, thanks to other women, is a little more traveled now as compared to years ago when absolutely no one would have listened.
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