Confession of a Feminist

As a single woman in her mid-thirties, with a career-long rap sheet in the culinary industry, you would assume that I would support the #metoo movement.  I have stories, I have harassment, I have glass ceiling lower than a garden apartment.

I am angered by the way I have been treated, I am angered that I put up with it to some degree. I am mad that I thought this “locker room talk” would make me stronger, I am mad that I thought my career was more important than my dignity.

I have never been physically harassed beyond butt grabbing and boob groping, but I can comfortably say that I have been verbally harassed just about every day on the job.

“You gotta have thick skin if you are going to make it in this industry.”

Christ on a stick, I have heard that so many times I want to puke.

It’s not always words, it’s glancing, it’s licking of the lips (I know, ew), it’s the brushing against the butt repeatedly, it’s the unwanted advances, it’s subtly lewd comments, it’s the never being taken seriously because of the way that I look.  I have not been granted second interviews for management positions because of my innocent smile, soft eyes, amiable nature.  Every time I tell anyone that I work in the foodservice industry, people always assume that I must be a server.  I am a damn fine cook and a successful chef,  I don’t rely on talent or beauty, I rely on skill, determination, drive, and a great sense of style.

I do not back the #metoo movement because social media is click bait, and that is it.  #metoo a damn trend and right now at some point soon it will trend downward.  There is no fight in a hashtag.  There is no march, there is no riot, there is nothing beyond words of disapproval.

Last year’s person of the year was a monster who insists still that the title of the Time magazine award should be REVERTED to “man” of the year.

This year’s Time Magazine’s Person of the Year is a fucking hashtag.

GET REAL.

THE CONSEQUENCE OF SEXUAL HARASSMENT ARE MORE THAN A MAGAZINE COVER.

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