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Low-wage workers have been fighting sexual harassment for years. The national conversation is finally catching up with them.
Nov. 18, 2017, 08:01 AM EST | Updated Nov. 20, 2017
Simon Dawson/Bloomberg via Getty Images
- Nereyda Soto, restaurant worker in Long Beach, Calif., who was harassed by a guest
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Cecilia was working as a minibar attendant at a Chicago hotel when she knocked on the guest’s door and announced herself. The man’s response was quick and unequivocal: “You can come in.”
When she opened the door, “He was at the computer, masturbating,” Cecilia recalled. She was overcome with shock and embarrassment. Judging from the satisfied look on the man’s face, that was the whole idea.
“I felt nasty,” recalled Cecilia, who asked that her last name and the hotel not be identified. “You’d expect that to happen to people in a jail but not in regular work. I felt like crying.”
It wasn’t the only time Cecilia had dealt with extreme forms of sexual harassment in her three decades working in downtown hotels. A male guest once answered her knock by opening the door naked. Just a month and a half ago, a younger colleague confided to Cecilia that a male guest had tried to embrace her while she was in his room. Cecilia escorted the shaken housekeeper to the hotel’s security team to report the incident.
Since the allegations against movie producer Harvey Weinstein were first revealed last month, more and more women have stepped forward with stories of sexual harassment and assault at work. Their bravery in speaking out has toppled powerful men’s careers in Hollywood, Silicon Valley and Washington. But much less attention has been paid to the rampant harassment in blue-collar workplaces, particularly the hotel industry.
Many of the stories that have hit front pages ― Weinstein, journalist Mark Halperin , comedian Louis C.K. ― center on powerful men who preyed on underlings or colleagues in hotel rooms ― a trend that would surprise no woman who’s ever worked as a housekeeper. If famous A-list actresses must deal with unwanted advances in the privacy of a hotel suite, imagine the vulnerability of an immigrant woman cleaning the room alone, for close to minimum wage, plus tips.
“Frankly, I don’t think much of the public understands what housekeepers go through just to clean these rooms and carry out the work,” said Maria Elena Durazo, a labor leader with the hospitality union Unite Here.
For several years Durazo’s union has advocated for housekeepers to be given handheld, wireless panic buttons that can alert hotel security when a worker feels threatened ― a sign of how dire it views the problem of sexual predation in the hotel industry. After working to negotiate the use of panic buttons in their employer contracts, the union is now lobbying city councils to mandate them through legislation so that all workers have access to them, union and non-union alike.
“The customer is always right in this industry... I just let it go.”
But, according to Durazo, the panic buttons only go so far in addressing the more fundamental problem: an imbalance of economic power between perpetrators and their victims, especially when the victims are working in or near poverty. “We have to do something to equalize the power so that women really have the ability to speak up, without having to risk their livelihood,” she said. “That goes for whether you’re a housekeeper or a food server or a big-time actor.”
Last year, Unite Here surveyed roughly 500 of its Chicago area members who work in hotels and casinos as housekeepers and servers, many of them Latino and Asian immigrants. The results were disturbing:
58 percent of hotel workers and 77 percent of casino workers said they had been sexually harassed by a guest.
49 percent of hotel workers said they had experienced a guest answering the door naked or otherwise exposing himself.
56 percent of hotel workers who’d reported harassment said they didn’t feel safe on the job afterward.
65 percent of casino cocktail servers said a guest had touched or tried to touch them without permission.
Nearly 40 percent of casino workers said they’d been pressured for a date or a sexual favor.
Nereyda Soto, 25, was working in a hotel restaurant in Long Beach, Calif., two years ago when a guest’s attention over several days started to feel like stalking. The man repeatedly called Soto over to his table whenever he dined in the restaurant, asking her personal questions, such as whether she had a boyfriend. Relatively new to the job at the time, Soto didn’t feel comfortable telling a paying guest to buzz off.
When Soto came by his table to collect the man’s check one night, she found a hotel key card along with his payment. “He said, ‘I’d love to see how you look outside this uniform. You should meet me in my room.’”
Soto was mortified, but she didn’t tell her boss at the time.
“I didn’t tell management, and I didn’t tell security, because he didn’t technically touch me and the customer is always right in this industry,” Soto explained. Even if she did report it, she didn’t expect her company would do anything about it, and she didn’t want to come off as a troublemaker: “I didn’t want my name to be out there. So I just let it go.”
The experience got Soto involved in a campaign in Long Beach to bring panic buttons to the city’s hotel workers. Led by labor groups, the idea of outfitting housekeepers with a way to alert hotel security started to catch on in 2011, after French politician Dominique Strauss-Kahn was accused of assaulting a housekeeper at a New York hotel. The following year, the New York Hotel Trades Council won a contract for 30,000 workers that guaranteed the use of panic buttons for housekeepers covered under the agreement.
“I don’t think much of the public understands what housekeepers go through just to clean these rooms.”
In Long Beach, Soto’s union took a different tack: They tried to win the panic buttons through legislation so that the protections would be extended to all of the city’s hotel workers, not just those covered by a union contract. The local chamber of commerce campaigned against the regulation, estimating that compliance would collectively cost affected hotels about $3 million. After a yearlong effort, the Long Beach City Council narrowly rejected the panic button proposal in a 5-4 vote in September.
A similar panic button measure Unite Here pushed in Chicago recently fared much better. The City Council passed a “Hands Off, Pants On” ordinance last month, which requires hotels to outfit housekeepers and others who work alone in guest rooms or bathrooms with panic buttons by July 1, 2018. It also requires hotels to develop sexual harassment policies that show workers how to report incidents and provide them with time to file complaints with the police.
Unlike the union contract workers secured in New York, the Chicago ordinance will apply to hotels citywide, regardless of whether workers are in a union. A similar ordinance was passed last year in Seattle.
The Chicago campaign probably got a boost from the findings of its member survey on harassment, which Jorge Ramirez, president of the Chicago Federation of Labor, said he found “astonishing.” Ramirez said the city’s hotel lobby didn’t actively fight the measure. The new national conversation about sexual harassment at work will make it harder to do so, he predicted.
“We didn’t see them out there with pompoms, but they didn’t speak out against it, either,” Ramirez said. “I think the industry would have a hard time opposing this, especially with everything that’s come to light in the last few months.”
The housekeepers wore “No Harveys in Chicago” T-shirts to mark the ordinance’s passage. Among those celebrating was Cecilia, who had spent months rallying her colleagues around the cause. She hopes the new panic buttons will bring a sense of safety to workers like the young housekeeper she helped not even two months ago.
“It’s more security, and more support,” Cecilia said. “Trust me. You shouldn’t be scared to work.”
CORRECTION: A previous version of this story said Chicago was the first city to pass panic button legislation. In fact, Seattle was.
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Miss Hamilton put an unwrapped condom onto a large banana in front of the entire class, explaining the facts of the animal kingdom. I could never tell my parents what had actually happened in the classroom. They would have beaten me with the banana and forced me to eat it, as I begged forgiveness for my sins.
Aug. 27, 2014, 12:30 PM EDT | Updated Jun. 5, 2016
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I lied to the English because I wanted to be like them.
I was in unstable territory, swinging between two different worldviews.
My Pakistani parents came to the West for its degrees, democratic institutions and dentists who wore shiny leather shoes.
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If there's one thing I'm an expert in, it's lying. Growing up in the U.K., in a conservative Pakistani Muslim family, I got plenty of practice.
I told my first lie when I was seven. The beneficiary of this lie was Mrs. Longmeure, the white mother I wished was mine. She smelt of Chanel and intimidated me with her long red fingernails.
"For Christmas, Mama and Papa took my brother, Kevin and I, to Los Angueleez, and it was just lovely." In actuality, my brother's name was Khurram, and we had spent our holidays in the putrid heat of Karachi with my 70 cousins, on rooftops, where we flew kites and drank Lassi out of tin cups.
I lied to the English, because I wanted to be like them. But it didn't stop there. I also lied to my family.
"Abbu (Urdu for "father"), I'm staying late after school for a debate -- it's on the objectification of women in media. I'm arguing on the side of modesty." There was no debate. It was my first secret date. With a boy. I knew if I told my father the truth, there would be no date, no high school and no life. In fact, they'd probably drug me up with some aspirin, throw me in a black bin liner and scoot me off to the airport, gagged and delusional. "One way ticket to Pakistan please!" -- followed by me waking up mid-coitus to some Pakistani dude named Mr. Khan, who is conveniently now my husband.
You see, as a Pakistani Muslim girl, I wasn't allowed to talk to boys, let alone go on dates. I couldn't show the contours of my body or the contours of my mind. I wanted to be an astronaut but was informed that girls didn't fly around in space. They stood neatly wrapped, like Christmas presents preparing delicately seasoned biryanis for their husbands. I only liked eating biryani, but the more I ate, the bigger my buttocks grew, and the more I was told that no one would marry a "Fatty Fatty Fatso." After all, marriage is the reason why Pakistani women exist.
When the host culture encourages individuality and independence, and your native culture reinforces conformity and tradition, one is left trapped in a ravine between liberty and limitation. I was in unstable territory, swinging between two different worldviews. My lies kept me safe.
I was sent to an English school for my academic education, but my cultural rooting came from the home. When Ammi (Urdu for "mother") told me that I would start bleeding at 12, she never explained why; just that this was something else a female had to endure, on the path to making a man very, very happy. Of course, my British education taught me otherwise. Miss Hamilton put an unwrapped condom onto a large banana in front of the entire class, explaining the facts of the animal kingdom. I could never tell my parents what had actually happened in the classroom. They would have beaten me with the banana and forced me to eat it, as I begged forgiveness for my sins.
My Pakistani parents came to the West for its degrees, democratic institutions and dentists who wore shiny leather shoes. What they didn't anticipate were the drugs, dancing and drunk girls teaching their darling daughter the difference between a hand job and a blow job. I wanted my family, but I also wanted my freedom.
When my white friends came back from discos reporting their successful snogging marathons and their forgoing of Mrs. Hamilton's advice for what to use on a banana, I was concerned. This wasn't the kind of freedom I had envisioned.
I needed distance from it all. So, I applied to a university as far away from home as possible. Then I met Brendan, an Irish Catholic bartender, the first love of my life. I no longer had to lie about who I was. Brendan's love was unconditional.
For my family, love came with condition. When Abbu discovered photos of me in a bikini wrapped in the arms of my Irish lover, his heart flopped out of his mouth and smacked the kitchen floor, squirming like a machli (Urdu for "fish"). "My daughter is a playboy cover!" he said, tears streaming down his face. "Nadia, marriage is not about two people coming together. It is about two families coming together." Brendan was ripped out of the photo, and also out of my life, and Abbu started making arrangements for my marriage.
"Nadia, I have bought you a golden clock," Abbu's accountant said, as he asked me to pull over mid-driving lesson. "This clock is ticking, and so is your female radiance. Now, which one of my sons would you like to marry? I have three." He proceeded to describe the attributes of his wonder boys. But I couldn't spend my life married to any of them. I couldn't spend my life being a wife to someone who had a predetermined mold of who I was supposed to be: a dainty, obedient woman, who made perfectly round chapatis. I knew I would never be that, but I also didn't know who I really wanted to be.
It wasn't until I started writing about my life that I found the deepest contradictions lived within me. Enmeshed in a web of my own lies, I started to unravel on the page.
I lied because I couldn't trust -- my home, my environment but mostly, myself. It was exhausting and lonely, and I spent so much time pretending to be free and pretending to conserve the honor of my family. I had no honor or freedom left for myself.
I had spent most of my life "performing." Sometimes behind a burqa, sometimes behind a bikini, I had been trying simultaneously to find and conceal myself. It wasn't until I stood on stage and told my story, that my "performance" became authentic. In sharing the truth of my past, I became free from the need to lie.
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