Corporate America - My First Gut Punch

Looking back at my forty plus years in the business world, I can still feel the stinging blow that knocked me off the corporate ladder.

I was in my twenties, doing office work while taking college courses at night.   One day there was a job posting for a supervisory position in my department.  Without hesitation, I threw my hat into the ring. I allowed myself to dream about it.  Money.  Respect.  Prestige.  Days later, when my boss invited me to lunch, I just knew I had the job.


At noon we walked to a tavern near the office, and we sat down at a tiny table close to the bar. My boss chatted incessantly, never getting to the point.  Did I get the promotion?  When would I start?  How much money were we talking about?

He talked until it got dark, and lunch turned into the dinner hour. I felt a shift.

When he ordered a cocktail, insisting that I join him, I got nervous.  I toyed with a glass of white wine, as he continued to talk in circles. I felt the bartender’s eyes on me. He’d been watching our little table for a while. He sensed that something was up.

Finally, at nearly eight o’clock, my boss made the offer.

If I’d have sex with him that night, he would give me the job and salary increase.

He said the hotel room, which was already booked, was just steps away – we could leave now.

I felt violated. Dirty. How could even suggest it?  I choked back tears as I told him I couldn’t do it.  He was unfazed, and quickly made a counter-offer.

 If I didn’t sleep with him I’d have to lay down with some of the company’s vice presidents, and he named names. 

The  list included  executives I knew.  Men I’d passed in the hallways. Men who were twice my age. Again, between sobs, I told him I couldn’t do it. His response will be forever burned into my conscience.   

“Who do you think you are, Joan?  You’re just a nigger. I can crush you out just like I can crush this glass!” 

He picked up a cheap water glass and crushed it.  He didn’t wince.  He just stared angrily at me while blood and water dripped down his hairy wrist.

I don’t remember what happened next.  I don’t know how I got home. I don’t know how I managed to show up at work the next day. And I don’t know how I endured seeing him smirking at me, week, after week, as if to say,

“I dare you to tell our little secret.”  

I was broken.  I should have walked out, but I desperately needed my paycheck.

Most of all I needed my mother, who’d passed away ten years prior to this nightmare.  I called my favorite aunt and blurted out the whole unspeakable story, while it was still raw.  She contacted her lawyer.   He told us I could never win a case, and I had to accept the way things were.  But we couldn’t accept it. My aunt took care of my finances for an entire year, so that I could quit that job and go to school full time.

My aunt was my savior.  She helped me turn a horrible blow into a B.A. degree with my name on it.  

We won.