Summer, 1998. I am 14 years old. I dance several times a week at a dance studio in my town. I have long brown hair. I don’t usually wear makeup but I feel confident, and pretty.

My first job was at a local convenience store. The owners were Peruvian, an older married couple. The wife was my boss, and her husband worked the counter with her. He smiled a lot, spoke little English. He had white hair and was affectionate. At first, I liked to think of him a the Grandfather I didn’t really have.

It all started innocently enough. He would comment about how skinny I was, that I should eat more. He offered me tata and snacks for free. His wife was so austere, so stern, so harsh, it was a welcome reprieve when he spoke to me. It was a small store, and it was usually just me and them.

I can’t pinpoint when, but at some point he started to make subtle advances. He would put his hand on my waist as I walked by, murmuring about how tiny I was, about my “beautiful dancer’s body.” He’d come up behind me and put his hands on my waist, my shoulders, touch my hair. I didn’t do anything about it. I was young. I didn’t quite understand what was going on, though I knew I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. I rationalized that he was just a nice, lonely old man. Like a grandfather. I clung to that thought, using it as a rationale to continue working there, continue talking and joking with him, continue ignoring what was really going on.

He became bolder. He would tickle me, taking the chance to slide his hands under my shirt and touch the soft skin of my belly, the smooth curve of my back. I giggled, I danced away, I pretended it was ok.

Even bolder. He would slide his hand up underneath my shirt, complimenting my beauty, my grace. I tried to ignore it. I joked, I spun away, I stopped rationalizing and went with a full-on mental block. It wasn’t happening.

One Sunday morning at 5am, putting together newspapers, I hit my breaking point. My mother was there with me, helping me put the papers together. While she was in the back and I was carrying papers out to the front of the store, he pushed his hands up beneath my shirt and touched my bra. I ripped away from him. I didn’t speak to him again. I quit my job a week later, and it was a year or more before I told my mother what had happened. Not until my sister wanted to apply for a job there. I couldn’t bear the thought of her going through the same thing.

———–

May, 2009. I am 24. I am working at a corporate office, and I am pregnant and happily married. I love my job.

Nearly 2 years ago, I discovered I was pregnant with Geeklet. We were thrilled, and after a couple of months I decided it was time to tell my boss. He took me out to lunch. He drove. We talked.  He was a good friend of mine. We worked in a small department, all sitting together in a large office. Three of us, only three of us — young Greek guy that I was sure was gay, whose attitude often rubbed me the wrong way, and Gustavo. He was from Peru, and he was a true gentleman. He held doors for me. He opened car doors and offered to get me a drink at company functions. He was proper and kind and sensitive.

He was even kind, and gentle, and a gentleman, when he asked me to have sex with him.

He was kind, and sweet, when he told me he’d nearly cheated on his then-fiancee (now wife and mother of his child) while she was still in Peru.

He was gentle when he told me that he wanted to have sex with another woman, but didn’t want to pay for a prostitute. But I seemed nice, and he thought I might have sex with him.

He was sweet when I refused him.

He thanked me for not slapping him.

He drove us back to work, and he was polite throughout the entire afternoon.

He was polite when HR called him in and questioned him about the incident.

He was gentle and remorseful when he admitted to asking me for sex.

He was gentlemanly and polite when I changed departments because I could no longer work next to him.

He was polite when I confronted him months later to tell him that I thought I deserved an apology.

———–

I’m at a new job now. I work in a department of women. My husband works here. It’s a good arrangement. ‘Nuff said.