Part II - What Happened in 2014

The first week went as expected: everyone was busy finishing up ongoing projects, and I was mostly ignored. That's what happens when you join a video game company in early June. I waited for guidance, perusing files and documents seeking to learn and absorb whatever I could find. 

My main colleagues were Cindy* and four people on the video team in the main office. Cindy worked a similar role to my own and was in the same satellite office as Greg Everage and me. She was a spirited young woman around my age with a love of food, adventure, and creativity. Where she didn't have passion for the company or video games, she had passion for life. Cindy was one of those people that got along with everyone, and if you didn't get along with her, that was on YOU.

After a couple weeks of no work and no guidance, I again requested some training or reading to dive into while everyone was preoccupied. Cindy and Greg each stated that there was nothing—no training documents, no processes, no guidelines, no...plan. Strange. I had worked in the corporate world for several years for a few companies at that point, and each time there was a transition and onboarding support. Left with no other option, I trusted Greg and Cindy, hoping they would eventually provide clarity about how to fulfill the job duties I signed up for. 

As it turned out, the only training I would receive from Greg was being CC’ed on emails—a lot of them. In fact, Greg's school of training was to forward or CC me on every email he had, and for me to ensure ANY and ALL (his words) of my received emails included him. My daily routine was reading through a flood of conversations with no rhyme, no reason. In our nearly daily morning meetings, I asked for context regarding the long email threads and was told “it would make sense eventually” and "you just have to dive in."

Strangely, I was not allowed to talk to employees about work-related topics without Greg being present. If I had a conversation with someone in passing about a project, I would tell Greg what was discussed, and I'd be reprimanded for not bringing him into the conversation as it happened. After enough lectures from Greg, I opted to stop colleagues from talking to me about anything work-related and would either escort them to Greg or suggest they reach out to him directly. (More on this later.) 

Along with no onboarding to my job, I was given strange administrative tasks from Greg to assist him. 

• Greg would come to my desk and dictate to me. The directive was to type out what he’d say, send to him for review, and he would either send the email from his own account, or I'd send the emails stating they were on his behalf. 
• He would send me lists of meetings and appointments to set up for him. He would then meet with these individuals one-on-one to sell our team's services. He would show off his personal demo reel, asking that the individual consider using his team for "any and all of your creative needs." My role in those meetings was to "be a quiet fly on the wall" and take notes for him to review.
• I scanned, cleaned up, organized, and printed documents for him. 
• I would often read though his emails for him, highlighting important items for him to focus on.
• Greg used me as a conduit for communicating with our remote team; I would relay messages between him and the four team members. For example, he'd ask me what a team member was doing on any given day. The expectation was I'd call each of them daily, ask what they were doing that day, and relay that information to Greg via a daily report. 
• I recommended we have standup meetings (where each team member summarizes what they're working on and what's coming up) to be more efficient, but Greg refused my solution. "You need to know what they do every day by getting on the horn [picking up the phone and calling them], and you need to share that info with me. You need to be all over this, for me." Of course, the four remote colleagues resisted this strange chain of communication, and luckily, they realized I suggested a more logical ways to review projects' status, but Greg wanted it HIS way.

Sure, none of that sounds that strange if you're an admin or an assistant. Thing is, I was not hired to do those things, and that was all that I did. I was Greg's assistant. I felt confused, frustrated. The tasks were drastically off-script from what was described in the job listing, but I was committed to making it work. I moved from Chicago to the Bay Area for my...dream job, after all. 

[The job description]

You’re an Admin Now 

From a Skype conversation with Greg: "i am putting something [together] for ben right now and half listening so take good notes for me"

This nap could have been an email!

Up next: Till the (First) Breaking Point in 2014.

*All third parties in these stories have changed names.

Part I - Before it Began

As a child, I switched career aspirations as often as the sun rose and set. That is, until I played one game: The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. That game ignited a fire in me. I always enjoyed video games, but Ocarina of Time was a game-changer. I loved the story, the music, the characters, the gameplay—every element that brought me into that world. From then on, I dreamed of working at this company. I wanted to be a part of a great purpose: bringing incredible games to people all around the world. Hopefully I could inspire others the same way that I was. 

Thereafter, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I responded with the same answer: the president of my favorite company! While I look back and chuckle at that statement, I did want to be part of the team, taking part in the great mission of bringing smiles to people’s faces. The desire to make that thought a reality burned brightly as I grew into an adult. Several years ago, someone nearly extinguished that flame. A flicker of hope here and there kept me going, but he slowly crushed my spirit before I found a way out.

---

In 2014, I was happy with my job in Chicago. I converted kids’ print magazine content to digital format and added interactive stories, games, and videos. It was a rewarding job that allowed me to flex my creative muscle. After I graduated college, I received weekly job alerts just to keep an eye on my prize. 

In February, I received an alert for a “Creative Development Specialist.” After reading over the description—describing duties like managing and creating marketing materials including retail pieces, online content, and videos--I decided to throw my hat in the ring.

[The job description]

A few weeks later I had an interview with a recruiter, then the hiring manager: Greg Everage. Soon I flew out to have an in-person interview with the team. I presented examples of the creative work in my portfolio, we discussed the role, and how it would be a blend of a project manager and creative contributor. We discussed commercials, designs, and all the goals Greg had for the team and how I would help bring them to fruition...if I was chosen for the role. 

Right before the interview

I flew back on what felt like cloud nine and having a row of seats to myself certainly helped.

DREAM AIRPLANE SITUATION

Every day I waited for any indication whether I was chosen or not. A couple weeks after the interview, my colleagues brought me out to the Magnificent Mile in Chicago during our lunch break to distract me from looking at my phone constantly. As I tried something on in the dressing room, I heard a ding. A missed call! A voicemail! No signal! Ah! I wandered around the store like a hound searching for a scent. In the middle of a Nordstrom's, I listened as the recruiter told me they were extending a job offer and would email me the details. I cried. I cried like everything in my life led to this moment, and that my life and the world around me had purpose anew. I landed my dream job.

I soon learned the difference, however, between a dream job and a dream company. And how one person can turn a childhood dream into a constant, waking nightmare.  

--

An excerpt from an email thanking my future manager, Greg, for the chance to join the team:

It is encouraging to see the passion everyone has to bring these amazing game experiences to people around the world. I believe my professional background and enthusiasm make me the ideal fit for this role. I will bring innovative ideas to the table that will help energize these amazing brands to effectively reach core consumers and also attract new ones. I truly believe you can do your best work if you find what you love--and that is what I've come to do.

Next up: Part II - What Happened in 2014.

Is She Autistic?

(This is a brief account of my first job at Business Leader Media.)

Right out of college, I worked at a publishing company called Business Leader (hereafter BL) in North Carolina as a designer, editor, proofreader, and IT specialist (I was the youngest employee in the office, after all). BL started as a local business magazine focused on all the commercial happenings in the Raleigh area. Shortly before I started, BL was bought out by Eran Salu, a venture capitalist (I think I'm using that term correctly) who sought to expand the business, increase profits, and then sell. Soon, the company had tripled its magazine count into the Charlotte and Greensboro areas. Tripled it's workload, if you will, and yet the headcount remained the same. 

What type of employer is Eran? He was the type of employer who would hire fledgling photographers to shoot cover photos for the magazine, not pay them, and use the fine print in the contract they signed against them. There was always new creatives looking for work, and he was always ready to take advantage. If I recall correctly, we had to keep a list of burned photographers on a "do not employ" list.

Around that time, Annette, the art director, demanded she needed help with the influx of new work, thus my hiring. My main objective was to support her in publishing the increasing amount of magazines each month. Annette, a woman in her late 40s, was fiercely strong and independent. She had golden-blonde highlighted, shoulder-length hair that always had a bit of fuzz to it. You could tell she blow-dried her hair for efficiency, not style. And she would realize the hairy situation about midday with an exasperated comb down. She rode horses as a hobby and had the firm thighs and butt to match. I know this because once I complained about my putty bottom, and she told me to take up horseback riding. We consented to compare backside muscles, and wow, how is that for trust between two employees? Annette listened to the classic rock station on the radio, she brought her Chow Chow, Mooshoo, in every now and then, and we had a great work environment between the two of us (good, because we shared an office).

I also would work with Dave, the Chief Technology Officer (when you work for a company with fewer than 40 people, half of them tend to be vice president or chief officer of something). Dave was a funny, smart guy who didn't take shit from anybody. You could tell he was there for a paycheck, but still, he was good at what he did.

The CEO, Eran, had this habit of not talking to the low-level employees, including myself. He would have back-and-forths with Annette and Dave about work that I did, which I would overhear considering my office shared a wall with Eran's. The usual MO for Dave or Annette upon their return was asking, "Did you get all that?" To which I'd let them know I already started.

Sometimes I created assets for the company website to help Dave, and one task included creating 100 web banners--one for each of the "100 Movers and Shakers of Raleigh!" I overheard Dave talking to Eran about an error I made across all the banners, explaining that it was an easily rectified mistake. "What is she, autistic or something?" Eran said. To which Dave denied, saying that it was likely an exporting error. "OK, so you're saying she's just stupid?" As I mentioned, I could hear everything through the wall and was upset. Dave came in the office, "Did you hear all that? ...Yeah, I know you did. Don't worry about him." Although I wanted to bust in there and tell Eran off, Dave encouraged me to let it go, that confronting Eran would change nothing. Bite your tongue and move on--you're better than him. For the next year, my interactions with Eran were limited to the obligatory hello in passing from the bathroom or kitchen. In a way, it was a gift that he refused to speak with us bottom-feeders.

After 15 months of working at BL, I talked to Annette about my performance. She agreed that I was going above and beyond my original job duties and deserved to be compensated as such. I made $24,000/year. Luckily, rent in Raleigh was dirt-cheap at the time, and I was paying about $300/month for a shared living space. Much to our chagrin, Annette wasn't in charge of giving merit raises, only my performance review. Annette provided her evaluation of my work to Eran, with the recommendation to give me a 10% raise ($2,400 more a year), and she never heard back. She followed up with him during their next meeting, and he dismissed the idea of giving me more money since I was still entry-level. Annette suggested it may be more effective for me to appeal to him. I asked for a meeting a couple days later, and he agreed.

As I entered his office, Eran presented his usual one-ply friendliness--his words didn't match his tone. You can smile and speak cheerfully all you want, but disdain is hard for the unpracticed to hide. He understood I wanted more money, and I requested the discussed merit increase. Eran focused on the money I wanted, expressing how despite my great work, he wondered if it was worth the investment. It was at this point, that the conversation turned in a way that I didn't expect:

• What I expected: an outright refusal, postponement to year's end, or a smaller percentage. 
• What I got: I think it's time we part ways and terminate your employment.

What? What. What!? I don't remember the exact words, but Eran decided since I was advancing out of the entry-level nature of the job, it would be best that we parted ways. It was such a strange decision: he'd rather lay me off then give me a dime more. Thereafter, I worked two more weeks until I was laid off. Luckily for me, I was able to collect unemployment since Eran classified my departure to be the result of not having further work for my position.

One strange thing that Annette warned me about was the NDA Eran would have me sign. "If you don't sign it, he will withhold your final paycheck; you will have to fight for it. It's up to you, but you're young, and I don't know if you have the resources to go down the rabbit hole of challenging him." She was right. On my last day, he had me come into his office to read and sign the NDA. My paycheck was sitting on his desk, his shadow not so metaphorically hovering over it. I read through it, noting commands to never speak about anything publicly regarding my time at BL in any capacity--positive or negative. (Hello there!) I was 23. Young. Naïve. I signed the document. He handed me the check I already earned before that moment.

A few months later, I found out that Annette, overburdened by my work being returned to her, gave Eran an ultimatum: hire someone to help or she would quit. He eventually succumbed, allowing her to hire another entry-level assistant. Annette would complain to me about the new hire, recanting our partnership and comradery. 

Eventually, like most others, Annette grew tired of the chaos at BL and quit. And like all others before her, Eran required her to sign an NDA stating she would not speak publicly about the company and its practices. However, Annette was not young. Not naïve. She didn't sign the document. Eran refused to hand her the check she earned. The difference between she and I, is that Annette had the knowledge and wherewithal to fight.

Annette soon filed a lawsuit against Eran for her rightful wages, court costs, and lawyer fees. You'd think the case was cut and dry. There was no previous contract binding employees into having to sign the NDA, let alone to not be paid for accrued work completed. Eran was simply taking advantage of folks who were depending on the paycheck to bend to his will.

Now here's the kicker: Eran countersued Annette, claiming her dog, Mooshoo, DAMAGED the carpet. No joke. He countersued for the cost of having to rip out and replace the entire carpet on account of her dog chewing and soiling the carpet. Of course, none of that happened, and the evidence presented in court was so dubious, the judge threw out the case. Annette won her original lawsuit, received her rightful wages, funds to cover her legal fees and time, and validation that you can win against the bad guy in the real world.

I don't know much about how BL eventually went out of business. I know more than half the staff was laid off soon after my departure. I know much of the work was soon outsourced overseas--so much so, that the main phoneline was a customer service rep in India. You know, for a local Raleigh business magazine, the main contact was some dude in India. The company eventually went under. 

I'm sure Eran is still slinking around, seeking opportunities to grow a company for profit, leaving a heavy cloud of bullshit in his wake.

You're Weak

I was visiting my friends at the University of Illinois during my sophomore year of college. My friend, Lisa, lived in a four-bedroom house with her brother, her friend Lizzie, and a friend that I can’t remember the name of. Let's call him Steve. Lisa's brother was out of town for the weekend, so I bunked up in his room. 

That Saturday, all the housemates and a few other friends hung out in the evening. Later on, mostly everyone including Steve decided to go out to the bars. Lisa and I opted to stay in, and Lizzie went to stay at her boyfriend's apartment.  

What must’ve been a few hours later, I was asleep in bed and felt someone climb on top of me. I woke up to heavy pressure on my hips, blinking my eyes open to the darkness. I made out that Steve was on top of me. He pulled me up to sitting position and urged me to come out to the hallway. I pushed his chest, saying to leave me alone. I turned around and lifted the covers over my head. This pissed him off. He remarked, in a drunken slur, that this was his home and he could do what he wanted. He ripped the covers off the bed, the cold air reminding me I was wearing only my underwear and a cami. He pulled my arm so forcefully that I nearly fell out of the bed. I continued to resist until I had no choice but to stand, as it felt like my arm was being pulled from its socket. I kept mumbling, "What are you doing...stop...leave me alone...where's lisa..." Deaf ears.

Steve dragged me outside into the dimly-lit hallway where several other people stood, drinks and cigarettes in hand. He positioned me next to him, his arm firmly around my waist. I didn't recognize the people--these were not the friends from earlier in the evening. They seemed older. They laughed and chatted, seemingly ignoring what was going on. Still confused from sleep, I muttered to Steve, "Let me go." He laughed, mocking my timid voice. "What was that? Can't you speak up?" He refused saying he was stronger than me, and I couldn’t do anything since I was weak. He continued to grope me: my stomach, my breasts, my butt. Anytime I pulled away or told him to stop, he gripped harder, enjoying my weakness. 

I don't know why no one helped me. I remember staring at the individuals in the hallway, pleading with tears in my eyes for them to say something, do something. I don't know why I didn't scream. I suppose--at the time--the embarrassment of being fondled and toyed with was easier to stomach than putting up a fight in my friend's home. Was I disturbing the peace? Would I cause a fight among the roommates? Whatever logic I had, my feeble attempts to stop him went nowhere. I felt defeated.

At one point, he let down his guard to get a drink. I jerked away and ran into Lisa's brother's room, locking the door. As I pulled my hand away from the door, I saw it vibrate from knocking. Steve yelled, demanding I let him in. I said nothing. I stared at the doorknob. I stared until his footsteps returned to the group of drunk friends. I pushed the desk in the room up against the door as safety. I climbed back into bed, staring at the ceiling until the halls went quiet, my mind dozing off as daylight crept into the room. 

When I woke up, I texted Lisa, asking her to come to my room. She was there shortly thereafter. I told her everything. Having fallen asleep drunk, she didn't hear anything that transpired; however, she assured me she and Lizzie would talk to Steve about what happened. While he was nowhere to be found that day, I told them I didn't feel safe there, and they agreed. I was heading back to my school that day, anyway, so we went out to breakfast, and I left shortly thereafter.

That evening, Lisa told me they had a hard conversation with Steve about what happened. He claimed he didn't remember any of it. Division among them reached a boiling point--because of this matter and others--and they soon severed ties, both as friends and as roommates. 

I look back at that night as a time where I felt helpless. Were something like that to happen to me today, I surely would act differently, knowing I'm stronger now both physically and mentally. I wish present me could go back and kick Steve's ass and lambast those people for doing nothing. Thing is, I'm sure they never again thought about that whimpering girl in her underwear.

Jeans

When I was 18, I worked at Home Depot. Yep, orange apron and all. There was a locker room where you placed your personal effects before your shift. 

One morning, I approached my locker, bending over to pick up something off the ground. I could feel eyes on me. I turned around and an older man that worked in the carpeting department (let's call him Carpet Don) stood in the doorway staring at me--well, at my butt. I was more reserved back then, and girls are taught to be polite and kind, even in the face of indecency. I asked if he needed something. "No," Carpet Don said, "not when you wear a nice pair of jeans like that." He continued to stare, smirking, holding his position in the doorway. I squeezed past him, pacing toward my register to start my shift.

I later told my supervisor, Nathan, what happened. He insisted I inform HR with haste, going so far as to  offer to go with me if I wanted; and if I was scared, he would report it on my behalf. (Leaders: take note on how to support those under you). 

A formal complaint was put forth and HR let me know that Carpet Don (I really can't remember his name, nor does it matter) was reprimanded and disciplined. HR told me to let them know if anything like this ever happens again. As much as I disliked my job at Home Depot, I commend the company's urgency in addressing the harassment.

I don’t remember if Carpet Don was later fired or quit. In the weeks and months he remained employed, whenever we crossed paths, he gave me this look of disdain which spoke "you did this to me." I would feel that so many more times in my life--that feeling victims are meant to feel by there attackers: this is my fault.

Chased

This memory is bit hazy. 

When I was about 16 years old, I walked to the street where my car was parked to visit my dad. There was an SUV parked about 100 feet behind my car with an older man wearing sunglasses inside. I didn’t think much of it and proceeded to get in my car. 

• I drove toward the entrance of the neighborhood, noticing the SUV was behind me. 
• As I took a left, he took a left; as I took a right on the first main road, he took a right on the first main road. 
• He followed so closely that I decided to take a right into a McDonald’s. So did he. 
• I began to feel suspicious and promptly exited back to the main road. So did he. 
• I then took the next right and then a left into the larger neighborhood my dad's home was in. So did he.
• At this point, there was no doubt he was following me, and I started to pick up the dangerous speeds upwards of 50 mph in the neighborhood. So did he.
• He kept up behind me. I kept driving faster and taking random turns. So did he. 
• I remember sweating. I remember knowing there was an alley behind a strip mall near my dad's house. I picked up speed again and quickly parked in between two cars. 
• I slouched in the seat looking toward the alley. The SUV slowly crawled by. It stopped. I slouched even lower. 
• I remember my heart racing, my hands scrambling for my phone. I called my dad and let him know what was going on. 
• A couple minutes later, I saw my Dad running toward my car. I got out and demanded we go inside his home. I told him everything.
• I didn't get the plate numbers, so there was nothing to report of substance. My dad scolded me for not knowing to go straight to the police department. I retorted saying I NOW knew and would do that if it happened in the future. 

It didn't. I don't know what that man's intent was: to scare me, to kidnap me, to joyride. I also don't know if I ever saw him again. Through my foggy memories, I can still see his face behind the windshield.

My Life (So Far) Under His Shadow

This is a series of stories I've wanted to tell for sometime now. While I prefer to write stories that make people laugh, there are few moments of levity in these. My focus will be the treatment I received by certain men in my life including previous workplaces and one specific relationship that I only remember as convincingly sweet until it became poisonous. As I was told so many times in my younger years--and even in many of my writing classes--I will try not to be emotional and stick to the facts. 

In my teens and 20s (and perhaps a li'l now, too), I wanted to be treated normally. My hobbies, my words, my actions, my ambitions--often because I am a woman were these things judged differently. There was a time, no longer, that I thought "if I were just born a boy, things would be better...easier for me." And it's true.

I don't know what the schedule will be or how many I will tell at a time. I do know that I have a lot to tell, and although I hate staring at the past, perhaps this history lesson in bullying, harassment, belittling...perhaps it's worth telling to help put an end to this sort of treatment. I will change details as to not specifically identify individuals or workplaces; however, perhaps one individual who was particularly malicious doesn't deserve to be shielded by anonymity.

The scary thing about posting these stories is thinking how they will make ME look bad. I suppose that is normal. In most of these instances, I'm the unwilling participant. I don't want these stories to be part of my life, but they were.

P.S. There are many, many good men in my life, past and present. And there are bad women, too, of course.