Trigger Warning: This post deals with themes of sexual harassment, and child sex abuse. It may be triggering for some readers.
Working in the entertainment industry was always going to be an eye-opener for me. I was prepared for that.
I was a naive, 20-year-old Italian girl who still lived at home. I didn’t swear and was easily embarrassed. But for some reason when I got in front of the mic, I was happy to have a chat and I was even a bit funny.
So, I scored a job in breakfast radio at a regional radio station. I stayed in radio for a decade, working at five different stations.
During that time I was groped by celebrities, sexually harassed by a boss and forced to watch pornography in the announcers’ room.
I quickly learned how to swear and was introduced to my male colleagues’ ‘fuckability’ metre whereby any female who walked into our building was immediately graded as either ‘fuckable’ or ‘unfuckable’.
Two categories was all my dribbling colleagues could manage.
One boss thought it would be funny to mark down on a wall calendar each time his wife gave him a blowjob.
Some months were better than others. His tally was loudly discussed in the hallways.
At one station, the slimeball who was responsible for most of the groping incidents at our office – including one where I was accosted while trying to use the photocopier – was appointed the point-of-contact for all sexual harassment complaints. So we were meant to complain about him, to him.
During my 10 years in the industry, things got progressively better – or at least attempts were made to improve things.
After those first few horrible years, at one station we started getting called into meetings where we were told to report incidents of sexual harassment. But despite what they said in those meetings, they implicitly made it clear that reports of sexual harassment would not be welcomed.
So I didn’t say anything, and neither did my equally-harassed female colleagues.
And every time I failed to report an incident, I died a little.
I didn’t report when the soapstar fondled my hand when he was just meant to shake it. I didn’t report when the movie star put his hand on my butt while we took a photo for our website. I didn’t report when the singer asked me to meet him back at his hotel room. I didn’t complain when we were forced to view a celebrity porn video during an announcers’ meeting.
I didn’t complain when my boss told me his monthly blowjob tally. I didn’t complain when my boss told me a very young girl who arrived to collect her prize had made it onto his ‘fuckbility’ metre. And I didn’t complain when another boss massaged my shoulders for an extended period of time.
My anger today is boiling over. At them, at myself.
Because people like Robert Hughes and Rolf Harris are permitted to prey on women and children due to collective silence.
And while of course it wasn’t my fault, I know I contributed to that silence.
I know logically that if I had complained I would have just been fired and the sexual harassment would have continued in my absence – but at least I would have had my dignity.
Things are so different these days. And I’m relieved because I am raising children to complain LOUDLY whenever anyone touched them anywhere and in any way that makes them uncomfortable.
I have told my son that if anyone hurts him, harms him or threatens him, he is to cause a ruckus and if he gets in trouble I will support him 100%.
He remembered this a month ago when the student body listened to a presentation on sexual abuse.
“Mum, today we learned about sexual abuse,” he told me. “And if I ever tell you someone has touched me mum, you HAVE to believe me, because sometimes parents don’t believe their kids.”
“I would always believe you,” I told him. “And that includes if someone we love, who we know well, or even a priest touches you.”
“Like a priest,” he said in shock.
“Yes, darling.”
Then I sat him down and explained to him about the Catholic Church’s history with sexual abuse complaints. I also told him that he was most likely to be sexually abused by someone he knew and trusted. It was a difficult conversation, but it was necessary.
I forced myself to have that conversation because I want to do everything I can to stop my children ever be victims.
We can always do better. Don’t be afraid to sit your children down and explain to them what is right and wrong, where people can touch them and what to do if they ever feel uncomfortable. My children are 5, 6 and 10 and we have the conversation regularly.
They will complain loudly and proudly. And I will never be silent again.
If this post raises any issues for you around sexual abuse, please contact, please call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or visit lifeline.org.au.
Top Comments
Okay, kind of long but I think worth telling. Horrible incident, positive outcome...
I have a chronic illness that has required regular hospital treatment for most of my life, and each hospitalisation I undergo a pretty standard invasive procedure for
which I'm fully conscious but locally anaesthetised (I'm lying down flat on my back and can't really move while the procedure is being performed). Without going into too many details, there was one incident when, during the procedure, an assisting nurse more than once brushed past my chest in what felt like a subtle but deliberate movement to touch my breasts. From childhood I've had many accidental “chest brushes”, but this one felt completely different so I went with my gut and told someone I trusted once the procedure was over. It was awful because there was no way to prove the person had intentionally done something wrong, and I didn't want to accuse someone who was innocent. I didn't even fully believe myself what had happened, but I paid attention to the “wrong” feeling, and how extremely uncomfortable that person had made me feel with their demeanour and attitude – which was very outwardly jovial and friendly but somehow also sinister. It creeped me out. I told someone, the hospital took it seriously and the director of nursing visited me to hear my version of events and personally apologise that I'd been made to feel that way in a place where I was supposed to heal. She made it absolutely clear that as far as she was concerned, regardless of whether the nurse had accidentally or intentionally touched me, I had done the right thing.
Although nothing could be proven it was a good outcome, they took an official complaint from me and counselled the person appropriately. If it was in fact an accident, the nurse had been made aware that they needed to take more care with touching patients. If it wasn't, there is now a record of the incident that any further complaints can be compared against.
I honestly think abuse and harassment has a whole lot more to do with power than sex. From my minimal experience, before speaking up I was terrified I would not be taken seriously, or be accused of making it up or attention seeking. I was extremely confused, didn't want to believe the possibility that I was taken advantage of when I was so vulnerable, and certainly didn't want to make it real by talking about it. It was icky and revolting and I just wanted to scrub the experience off but I couldn't. Knowing how difficult that situation was for me I can't imagine what it must be like for victims of serious abuse or assault, and how brave and strong they must have to
be to speak out, when probably all they want to do is forget it ever happened to them.
Thank you for sharing this. This reminds me so much of what happened to me. I was getting a massage at a shopping center.. I've had many before but this time it was different. I asked for a back and shoulder massage but the masseuse seemed to skip over what I'd asked for and massaged around or on my bum instead (the majority of the 20 min session in one way or another). It felt really wrong and like you say, there was something about his demeanor that made me feel really creepy. But I doubted myself a lot as I thought he might have gotten confused and thought it was lower body not upper body and it wasn't on my bare flesh. But regardless, it felt awful and my gut told me something was up. I would have never reported it if my husband hadn't encouraged me to do so ( I mentioned it to my husband as a joke, to convince myself it was nothing, but he took it seriously). As you put so well: This situation for me was awful and I cannot imagine what people go through when much more serious acts are committed against them. They're so courageous.
Thank you also to the author for speaking about this. You are brave and admirable.
The first time she molested me, I was three. The last time, I was twelve, and able to walk away.
I put Walter in jail for molesting one boy. I had tried to intervene
when I was 13 by telling Mother and Lisa, and they just moved him into
his own apartment.
I had been living partially on couches since I was ten years old
because of the out of control drugs, orgies, and constant flow of people
in and out of our family “home.”
None of this should be news. Walter was a serial rapist with many,
many, many victims (I named 22 to the cops) but Marion was far, far
worse. She was cruel and violent, as well as completely out of her mind
sexually. I am not her only victim, nor were her only victims girls.