A Girl of Proper Grooming
TW: Grooming and sexual harassment. This is my story of being groomed and sexually assaulted when I worked at CBC in my early 20s.
“But I shook it off because this man had been so kind. So open and helpful. He won my trust and made me feel seen in an environment when all I had ever felt was invisible. That is the insidious thing about grooming. It happens when you are at your most vulnerable. You don’t see it coming; you don’t know it’s going on. It escalates slowly. One day, it’s a tour to the secret cafeteria. The next week it’s a few casual questions that go to your relationship status. Then, the touching starts. A brush of your arm here. Tucking your hair behind your ear. Little things that you can easily rationalize away as ‘just how he is.’ But your gut will always tell you.”
When I was nine, I desperately wanted to ride horses. I begged my parents for lessons. Driving to the stable, in the backseat, butterflies were rattling around in my gut must have been making noise. The drive took forever; my head was filled with fantastical images of me, in a deep green wool cloak, riding a chestnut brown steed across the barrens on some mystical quest. For the first time in my tiny life, I felt a sense of freedom, agency and power. I could become one with a magnificent beast. My horse would be my best friend and would answer only to me. I would be calling the shots atop a creature that could easily crush me with one flick of it’s hindquarters.
Through my first few lessons, I learned how to build a bond with horses. You cultivate trust, first. Then, you develop the relationship with the animal. Riding becomes more fluid and seamless when there is a trust-bond between the rider and the horse. I practiced brushing, braiding and cleaning techniques called grooming. Speaking softly to the horse while running a rough curry-comb through the short fur on his neck and body, I learned that the more time you spend investing in the trust-bond, the deeper the connection between you and your horse. The limpid pools of Czar’s eyes were skeptical at first. A little wary. He would snort and shuffle as I walked round back of him, keeping my little hand on his haunches so he didn’t get spooked. He resisted me when I leaned my nine-year old body against his leg and pulled up on his hoof so I could clean the dirt and manure out of the grooves. But, after about four-weeks of time and attention, Czar’s eyes changed. He started to come to meet me as soon as he heard my family’s car pull up. We were connected. He knew me and trusted me.
Maybe for the first time in my young life, I felt a sense of control over a relationship. This bond was mine, for I had cultivated it and no one understood it but me and my horse. The notion of grooming took on a very positive meaning for me. It meant the loving attention and care you dedicate to creating trust and connection.
That’s called childhood innocence.
A decade later, I had manic butterflies in my stomach again. This time, I had landed a prestigious internship at a local radio station. The CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) was the biggest and most reputable broadcaster in my town. That meant, I would spend a whole summer working in radio, trying out different areas and learning what I liked the best. I was twenty-years old and fresh out of an undergraduate degree in English. I was sick to death of the jibes about how spending four years studying literature and writing was a dead-end degree. Anxious to emerge from academia and establish myself, I knew journalism was my path.
When I was twelve, I had written into a CBC program for youth journalists and did a story about my hometown. I had spent three years of my undergrad as the News Editor for The Muse, the university paper, and had earned a reputation for being ‘ballsy’; writing expose-type pieces on the mismanagement of funds in our student union and abuse of power in the residence administration. I had even conducted an interview with the Premier of our province at the time, focused on sustainable energy initiatives. I knew journalism to be a ‘dues-paying’ industry so I was determined to show that I had the grit to persevere. I romanticized it, fantasizing about late nights with a team of seasoned journalists, ordering Chinese takeout together and working scoop earth-shattering stories, just like in the movies. This internship was the next step in my trajectory.
I thought about the people I would interview, the stories I would tell. I still didn’t know much about the practice of journalism. I’d had no formal training, just on-the-job experience from a student paper, no less. But, I knew I could work hard enough to make up for that. I promised myself that I would squeeze every drop out of this experience. I felt so lucky to be chosen.
The first couple of weeks were a lesson in humility. I was in an adult environment and was being held to those professional standards for the first time. The learning curve was steep and I cried in the bathroom a few times after the copy I wrote just didn’t cut it and I got some tough feedback. I quickly realized, no one was here to teach me anything. My internship supervisor was absent. As the executive producer of the station at the time she seemed to spend most days fighting with senior reporters over things like potential libel suits and other deep, important matters that meant a twenty-year old intern should probably just keep quiet, say yes and figure things out later. I was intimidated all the time; my stomach quivered constantly and it was hard to catch my breath. The women I worked with seemed so formidable, and were very distant with me. One thing I discovered early was that journalists need to be fearless in pitching their ideas. Much of my day was spent scouring local sources and brainstorming ideas for a ‘youth angle’ that I could bring to the hosts and producers of the local shows like “Weekend Arts Magazine” so I could hone my reporting and producing chops. Most of the time, I was sent to local political scrums or to do man-on-the-street reporting for small fluff pieces. I spent a humid morning traipsing around the backwoods to try and find trout fisherman to interview. None of them wanted to be approached and all of them seemed irritated to have their 6:00 AM peace interrupted. The really good stories I found were taken on by established radio hosts. I knew these were the dues I had to pay, so I never spoke up when I heard more senior reporters were being assigned to stories I researched and found. I wanted to be indispensable, so I kept quiet and kept working.
Over the course of the first month, however, I found some footing and gained some confidence. I had some little wins — like when one of the news producers tested my knowledge in setting a ‘story lineup’ for the 5 o’clock news and I got it, first try! I was starting to develop a style and a set of interests. I was already feeling confident that the producer role was more for me. My heart sang every time I heard a host reading copy I wrote on-air. That’s my story, I thought. I did that. It didn’t take long for me to start to feel I wanted more of a challenge. I wanted to be part of making the news.
I made the rounds quite quickly. About 6-weeks in to the internship, I met with Supervisor.
“You’re becoming a bit of a problem,” she said without looking up from a file of notes.
“What? How? I’m sorry!” I was panicked, instantly.
“No, no,” she chuckled drily, “You’re a problem because you are sailing through everything so quickly. I haven’t planned your next assignment yet.”
Thankfully for her, my work had caught the eye of the most senior news reader. He was a well-known presence at the station, having read the news for some twenty years. When she brought up that I was wanted on the news station, I could barely contain my excitement. I knew this News Reader — he was one of the first and only journalists at the station who had made an effort to get to know me. Because he seemed to be invested in my success, even though I had never worked directly with him, I believed I might be about to get the mentorship and support I was seeking.
During my first week, News Reader (NR, from here on out in this story) made a point to visit my desk and invite me on an informal tour. I had been sitting idle for a few days, as Supervisor struggled to cobble together some assignments for me. I hadn’t been shown around yet so of course I said yes. He took me to each area of the station and introduced me to everyone, cracking jokes and taking care to shoot me little knowing looks and winks that said, “You’re in on this joke too, now.” He took me down to the ‘secret’ cafeteria, where you could grab a quiet bowl of soup and cup of tea on slow (or busy!) days. He would pop by my desk at least once a day to check in and see how I was doing. I remember his kind face, so attentive and interested.
I was alone in the city and had been for some years. I lived by myself in a one-bedroom attic-style apartment and I didn’t have many friends. My plan was to finish this internship and move to Ottawa or Toronto. My friendship with NR was one of the few consistent things about my job (and, to be fair, my life). The daily visits had continued, and had now progressed into quick, conspiratorial chats in the hall, out of earshot of the other staff. He was frustrated with a lot of aspects of the station, and he confided in me about his various gripes. He started asking about my personal life and we swapped jokes and stories. NR admired my fashion choices — something I was very self-conscious about. So many times I arrived at work in an outfit I had picked, hoping to convey “intrepid-yet-stylish-and-oh-so-mature” but next to the grown women I was working alongside, my ballet flats and belted t-shirt dresses looked ridiculous, childish and tacky. NR complimented me at least a few times a week on my style.
There’s a key moment that sticks out to me, so very viscerally.
I remember I was busy that day. I had been conducting research to support a piece I was working on for a show called “On the Go”. It wasn’t news, but it was news-adjacent, meaning that it was about an important local matter. I hadn’t had time for a little chat with him yet that day, and I was feeling a little bad because I had noticed him trying to catch my eye. I smiled, gave my best “sorry, busy day!” expression and rushed on. That afternoon, in the narrow hallway that connected the ‘arts department’ with the ‘news department’ he caught up with me. We were standing less than a foot apart.
“Hey, you. How are things going? You look like a busy bee,” his body was slightly blocking my way forward.
“God, yes. A bit crazy today!” I shifted and angled my body slightly to show him I needed to get by.
“Wow. That is a really beautiful colour on you, Chelsea.”
Time slowed. I swear, when I conjure the memory I can see the specs of dry dust hovering in the air around us. He reached out his hand, his fingers gently pinched the fabric of my royal blue t-shirt dress, pulling it away from my body and holding it for a second too long.
Physical contact. It was a fleeting moment in time and back then, I just smiled and said thank you. Looking back, I know my gut was singing out to me. His touch felt intimate. Too familiar. I didn’t know it then but I had already been groomed. There was a quick pinch in my chest, a momentary fleeting thought,
‘Wait, was that OK?’
But I shook it off because this man had been so kind. So open and helpful. He won my trust and made me feel seen in an environment when all I had ever felt was invisible. That is the insidious thing about grooming. It happens when you are at your most vulnerable. You don’t see it coming; you don’t know it’s going on. It escalates slowly. One day, it’s a tour to the secret cafeteria. The next week it’s a few casual questions that go to your relationship status. Then, the touching starts. A brush of your arm here. Tucking your hair behind your ear. Little things that you can easily rationalize away as ‘just how he is.’ But your gut will always tell you.
I, like so many before me, had been properly trained to ignore my gut in favour of politeness and etiquette. When I was little, I wasn’t allowed to refuse a hug from a relative because it would be rude. If a teacher or a coach was pushing me to participate in something I didn’t want to do, I wasn’t permitted to say no. I couldn’t have privacy as a child, because children don’t need or deserve privacy. I was indoctrinated to push down that voice in order to not offend. Many times in my life, suppressing my instincts led me to pain and trauma. This was one of those times.
A couple of days after NR delicately caressed my dress, he had taken to gently resting his hand of my forearm as we talked, or putting it on the small of my back as he guided me through a door. I told myself it’s because we were close now. He felt more comfortable with me to show a little affection. Nothing sinister. That inward reassurance didn’t stop the cringe in my stomach at his touch or the involuntary way I would chuckled and shuffle sideways to avoid it lasting too long. My internship was close to ending soon. I had about a week to go when my supervisor stopped by my desk to tell me, good news! NR has requested that I come in and work with him on the 6:00 AM news broadcast — the first of the day! I would be doing everything: selecting and ordering the stories, writing the copy and I might even get a chance to read the news, live!
I couldn’t believe it. This was high-stakes stuff! I had only had one chance to go on air since I started and I kind of messed up. I flubbed a couple of lines because I was so nervous and when I came out of the booth, the producer I was working with that day was looking at me with a tight, unimpressed smile. “Well, that could have gone worse, I guess,” was all he said. Needless to say, I was eager to prove myself.
I pulled into the parking lot of the CBC radio station at about 4:00 AM. It was pitch dark and even though it was August, I could see my breath as I struggled with the door of my beat-up, second-hand maroon ’91 Corolla. The butterflies were back and I was feeling anxious. My stomach was really churning as I walked up to the front doors. I wrote it off as nerves for the morning ahead. NR greeted me warmly as I approached the big, circular news desk that was at the front of the production office. It was an imposing place to be. The design and layout of the office left no room for guessing about where the influence was. He was sitting behind the desk, the reflection of some of the news copy reflected in his small wireframes. I took a seat at my regular desk and he protested.
‘You’re a News Girl this morning! Come on up here!’
I took my seat next to him and immediately began working. We needed to scour the newswire, determine the most important five or six stories of the morning, create a couple of lines of copy per story to encapsulate everything, order the stories according to their relevance and impact and finally, read them on the live broadcast. Most people in the province would hear them on their morning commute. I focused in and put everything I had into finding the right stories and proactively creating copy for everything I thought was interesting, just in case it made it into the lineup.
NR surprised me that morning by handing me the reins. He barely gave me any feedback, instead showering me with praise. Your journalistic instincts are on-point, he said. Your copywriting has come so far, he gushed. He could see me as sought-after news talent in just a couple of years, he beamed. Any gut instincts I may have had about the lingering vision of his fingers gently pinching the fabric of my blue dress, or feeling the warmth of his palm lingering on my lower back for just a titch too long were quieted. I truly felt this was my chance. Now, if I could just stick the landing, because he had informed me earlier that morning that I would, indeed, be going live for the first broadcast of the morning. This was not a rehearsal, this was real life. I tried to breathe, to imagine I was an established news reporter, not some 20-year old nobody with no experience who had messed up her only other live read.
5:45 AM. Sweating. I kept my arms tight to my sides so he didn’t see the dark crescents forming under my armpits. My hands were cold and clammy. I was so nervous. 5:52 AM. I took another read through the five stories we were doing that morning. I remembered what he told me. When the clock strikes 6:00 AM, press the button for the intro music. Then, press the button to go live. Read the stories. Sign off and press the button to turn off the live broadcast. How hard could it be? Going into the news studio was like venturing into the crawlspace of my family home. It was tiny, padded and unnaturally dark and humid. With the complicated recording equipment, buttons and massive microphones, it felt like I was about to captain a submarine, not read twenty lines of copy to a few thousand listeners. My stomach felt sick and my heart rattled.
‘What if they all hear my heart?’ I thought.
5:58 AM. NR opened the door to the news booth and gave me a jaunty head gesture that said, “You’re on, kid.” I took a deep breath and walked in. I shut the door tight behind me, sat in the big, cushioned chair at the desk, donned my headphones and positioned the mic. I watched the clock tick down the seconds. Finally, 6:00 AM! My moment! I flicked on the music, waited for the jingle to play and out on my best, authoritative voice. I started to read.
Five seconds into the first story, I looked at the controls and realized, I had forgotten to turn on the live broadcast. Panic flooded me — there was dead air right now and it was my fault! Ten seconds, fifteen seconds! What was I doing! I fumbled around, my hands shaking so hard I almost pressed three wrong buttons. I got the live broadcast going and I started to read. But, it was over. I had botched it… again. I struggled to keep my voice steady and just get through the rest of the stories.
I was embarrassed; a failure. An amateur. A little girl without a clue. The whole experience lasted all of three minutes, but it felt like a terrible, never-ending nightmare. I wondered if I would every get an opportunity like this again and cursed my nerves. I cursed myself.
6:05 AM. The broadcast was over and I pushed the button to stop the live recording. Hot tears welled in my eyes and I exhaled shakily and slowly as I prepared to face the music. I stood up to open the news booth door. I was claustrophobic. NR was already standing in the doorway when I swung it open. I instinctively took a step back and he stepped forward, coming inside and almost shutting the door behind him. Immediately, something other than embarrassment took over and I started to talk, “I’m so sorry , I panicked and messed it all up…”
He stopped me by stepping closer, wordlessly. My back was against the padded wall of the news booth; I had nowhere to go. He whispered softly, intimately, “Shhhhh it’s ok. It’s ok.”
I realized his had was on my waist this time, but he was grasping harder. I could feel each of his fingertips pressing into my flesh as he leaned in closer. I tried to say something — I don’t know what — but my voice was muted with fear. He leaned into me and my spirit floated out of my body and hovered above us as I watched him lean in and brush my neck, just under my ear with his lips. Once. Twice. My body responded involuntarily with a rash of goosebumps that sprang up like tiny little traitors. I was frozen in place and silent. I don’t know why, but he pulled back for a second to take a look into my eyes. His face changed when he saw my disgust. I managed to croak out a single word -
“Don’t.”
He stepped back quickly and it was as if the humid warmth of the booth instantly chilled. The quiet was thunderous. I could hear a high pitched tone in both my ears. I didn’t know what was about to happen but a dark knowledge had come over me.
I lost something that day. As the dawn broke over my city, it also broke on a tragic understanding deep within me.
He didn’t care about my potential.
He didn’t want to mentor me.
He wasn’t a safe person.
He stayed still for a second, waiting for what I would do next. I averted my eyes and looked down. “I think I should head home, now.” Cold indifference cast his eyes and face. He backed away out of the door and let me exit. He didn’t say anything. Not a word. I clumsily gathered my things and choked out a ‘see you tomorrow’ as I ran for the front doors. My shift wasn’t supposed to end for several hours but by extremities felt like rubber and I needed to get out of there. I got to my car and sat, with my hands on the wheel, for a couple of minutes. I didn’t start the car and I waited for what was about to come. Sobs wracked me. I couldn’t tell what was making me more devastated: that I was a failure at journalism, or that someone I had respected and trusted saw me as some floozy, a romp in the newsroom. What had I done to give him that impression? Each moment from the summer flashed through my head.
Had I flirted?
Had I encouraged this?
I waiting for the sobs to pass and composed myself. Drying my tears in the rearview, I finally started the car.
By the time I got home, I was numb and a voice inside me said, firmly and confidently,“You will never be a journalist. You’re just a slut.”
A year later, I was sitting in a local pub, two-weeks away from my flight to Toronto. I had been accepted to a Masters of Media program and I was anxious to leave this town behind. I had spent the year working in various jobs, from bussing tables at a supper club to writing press releases for a local community channel. I tried for a few months after my internship to continue with the station, pitching a few story ideas and taking a few freelance gigs. But, my heart wasn’t in it anymore. I told myself it was because journalism was a dying industry and I needed something where more immediate success was attainable. But, in reality, it was because I felt disgusted with myself. I couldn’t bear to go into that news room again, feeling like everyone could see right through me. They were laughing at me. They thought I was joke.
At the pub, I met up with a colleague from my days at CBC. She was just a few years older than me. We caught up about everything life had served us in the past 12-months. Then, suddenly, the conversation took a turn.
“Hey, do you remember NR?” She asked. “Did you ever have to work with him.”
“Uh, yeah,” I was taken aback at the mention of his name. “Why?”
“Ugh, what a creep that guy was. He wouldn’t leave me alone and started spreading rumours about me dating and sleeping around the office!”
I sat there in stunned silence. Then, I told her he made me feel uneasy and I didn’t like working with him. I didn’t share my whole story. I couldn’t quite make sense of what was happening. So, I wasn’t alone? It wasn’t just me who he targeted? I felt like I was falling off a cliff.
We finished our conversation, paid for our beers and headed our separate ways.
I would love to say that I called up the executive producer of the station and reported him, or tweeted something incriminating, or did literally anything to out this guy for what was clearly a pattern of behaviour. But, I didn’t. I compartmentalized my experience into the black box of my trauma and I went about my life. For years, I struggled with my self-worth and self-image at work. I developed a knee-jerk reaction of disgust and suspicious for men who were more senior to me that I overcompensated for my being extra agreeable and acquiescing. I continued to deny what had happened to me meant anything and inwardly place blame on myself for not being more professional. It wasn’t until I was 27 that I discovered therapy. After a few sessions the whole story finally came pouring out and I heard the words that would begin my healing -
“Chelsea, it wasn’t your fault.”
Now, some 15-years later, I have finally stopped blaming myself for the encounter, for not reporting… for not being a journalist. I see that twenty-year old girl and I want to hold her. Protect her. Advocate for her. I want her to know that she had everything it takes to be amazing, all on her own. I can’t go back in time. But, I can show her the love now that she deserved back then.
To talk to a Sexual Violence Helpline counsellor, you can call 1–888–933–9007 at any time of the day or night, or chat with a counsellor between noon and midnight. She will welcome you without judgement, and tell you what resources in your region can give you the help you need in your specific situation. It doesn’t matter if your experience of sexual violence occurred very recently or a long time ago, you are entitled to help.
