Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one’s definition of your life, but define yourself. ~ Harvey S. Firestone

My first two years at Milford Mill High School had been tumultuous and overshadowed by depression. My grades were decent, though I hadn’t applied myself academically at all. As far as I was concerned I was just biding my time till I could get out of there. Once I reached my senior year I wanted to have as little to do with the school as possible. The only specific academic requirement for seniors was twelfth grade English. Still the students were required to fill their days with classes for their remaining graduation credits. The seniors were offered an alternative to spending the entire day at school with a program called D.O., or Diversified Occupation. Enrolling in that program meant taking English and a D.O. class every morning, then working at a paying job outside of the school for the remainder of the day. Enough credits were earned through that program to graduate at the end of the year. Perfect!

At the beginning of the school year I was assigned a job at the office of a company that billed patients for their doctor visits. The three men that owned the company were all part of the same family. Two of the partners were Filipino brothers, both married, and the third one was their sister’s American husband. I worked in the downstairs office with another lady, and the partners had a separate office upstairs. The brothers were crude and unscrupulous men. I knew for a fact that one of them had a separate apartment from the one he shared with his pregnant wife; a place that he used to have an affair with another woman. As far as I could see there was nothing wrong with their brother-in-law; he seemed well-mannered and quiet. The brothers came up with a nickname for me. They never called me by my real name; they just called me “Boobs.” With their accents it sounded more like Bull-bs (pronounced like a male cow with a BS). I guess at the time I thought my pet-name was humorous and certainly harmless, but I was very wrong.

One afternoon, after having worked in the office for about six months, the brothers called downstairs and asked me to come upstairs to their private office. I’d never gone up there before; I had no idea what they needed me to do. I took the building elevator to the second floor, searched for their suite number, then knocked on their office door. I heard a friendly voice with a recognizable Filipino accent respond, “Come on in, Boobs. The door is unlocked.” I opened the door and saw the two brothers casually swiveling back and forth in their desk chairs, looking at me with stupid smiles on their faces. “Come in, don’t be shy,” they said, practically in unison. I walked in and closed the door behind me. They both stood up and guided me through a wide, opened doorway to an adjacent room. The first thing I noticed in that room was the long, yellow upholstered bench that was positioned against the back wall. A large chrome and glass étagère, neatly stacked with a massive collection of magazines, stood against the wall on the left side of the room. One of them patted his hand on the cushioned bench and said, “Sit here, Boobs.”

As I reluctantly lowered myself onto the seat I noticed the other brother removing a magazine from one of the many piles on the étagère. He brought it over to me, opened it to a specific page, and laid it on my lap. The picture he was showing me was of a nude young girl, seductively posed inside a pornographic magazine. “That girl is seventeen just like you. Is that what you look like, Boobs?”  Alarmed but not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing me squirm, I nonchalantly responded, “I don’t think so.” “We think so,” one of them quickly retorted.  With a cheesy smile on his face he asked, “Why don’t you take off your shirt and show us your boobs?” “Are you kidding?  I’m not taking off my shirt for you!” I stated with resolve. But they had isolated me and I was concerned. I didn’t know what sinister intentions they had planned for me. Trying to coerce and intimidate me he said, “Are you too modest? Come on Boobs, don’t be a chicken!” “I’m not modest at all but I’m not going to take off my shirt,” I asserted. Clearly enjoying the game, they kept the pressure on me for a few minutes longer. Then to my great relief, one of them finally said to the other, “She’s too chicken.” He turned toward me showing deliberately exaggerated disgust and said, “We’re done with you. You can go back downstairs now, Boobs.”

I didn’t have to be told twice. I hurried back downstairs, finished out the day, and then went home.

When I showed up for work the next morning I was immediately fired. Though I’d been caught off guard, I have to admit that their despicable behavior did not surprise me. I had come to expect that kind of behavior from grown men. It never occurred to me to report those men for “sexual harassment.” In fact the term had yet to be originated. Ironically, the very first sexual harassment court decision in America was actually made that same year, 1976. It wasn’t until 1991 that the label “sexual harassment” had become a household expression.

I didn’t want to share the details of that degrading experience with anyone. I don’t know why, but I somehow felt responsible for their actions. Maybe I’d unintentionally sent out a signal that they decided to act on. Embarrassed, I concocted a story to explain the loss of my job to my teacher and my mother. What was the harm? I knew no one would ever find out the truth.

I took my lumps and added the experience to my internal emotional crap pile.

Fine…ly: My  Story of Hope, Love, and Destiny is available at  Amazon.com in paperback or as an ebook. for Kindle, etc.  (direct link to Amazon.com) > http://miniurls.it/tQff