Emma Koza joins SDTC for a four-part series entitled, Diary Of A Hostess. Read parts one and two.

Part Three: All The Small Things

There were a number of small instances: inappropriate stares, explicit comments and unwelcomed hands. And they all happened so quickly. It wasn’t until the moment was over and I was left with an itching sensation underneath my skin and my heart beating in my fingertips when I realized what had happened. But did I want to be the girl that cried sexual harassment?

One of the servers I worked with, an older man, made a point of calling me beautiful. Whether he was commenting on my work performance or asking me about my day, he always slipped it in. I can only guess that he thought he was being nice when he called me beautiful and I was supposed to find it flattering. The way I’m supposed to find getting whistled at in the street flattering.

Comments in the workplace, like whistles in the street, are not flattering because they are unsolicited and have less to do with how a woman looks and everything to do with her being there; a woman, taking up space. The comments on my appearance negated the compliments on my job performance. Instead of feeling like a valued member of the team, I felt like a fragment of a person. I was being reduced to my appearance; a small piece of who I am and a part on which I never placed much value. I think if these comments were infrequent they would have come off better, even genuine, but they happened so often they felt unrelenting and invasive.

Working in a restaurant is stressful; everyone is frantically running around trying not to get in each other’s way. If you’re in a high traffic area you might feel a hand on your back as someone zips by you. One of the support staff used to let his hands slide down to my low back, even if he wasn’t trying to pass me. I dismissed it – again, not wanting to cause trouble – but when he started to knead his fingers into my hunched over shoulders, massaging me in the middle of work, an alarm went off in my head. I didn’t know if I wanted to vomit or cry.

Instead I smiled politely and kept working. I didn’t feel comfortable with the way I was treated at work but I didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of talking to anyone about it either. Because of my rank and my lack of seniority, I didn’t think my voice would be heard or that what I had to say mattered. I didn’t believe that management would take my experiences seriously. I was afraid of seeming weak or worse – dramatic. In some places, “feminist” is still a bad word.

It’s hard to discern exactly what sexual harassment is. The line between flattering and inappropriate, and between friendly and invasive, is small and different for everyone. Perhaps it’s in the placement of a hand or how long it stays there; it could be in the way that something is said or the intensity of a stare. The action is hard to define but we know when something is wrong because of the way it makes us feel. I think as women we have to learn to listen to, and trust, what our gut is telling us.

I never came forward with these things because I felt they were insignificant and I didn’t want to cause trouble. Even now I feel strange writing about my experience with sexual harassment because it was so minor. Sexual harassment is any unwanted sexual advancement. Even the small things are worth talking about.