Options for ‘Gals’ in the Corridors of Power

Years ago, I worked one summer as an intern on Capitol Hill. That was in the early 1970s, when feminism was not part of the national consciousness yet. Most of the elected officials were men. Most of their top staffers were men. And the women who made the offices run were referred to as “gals,” as in, “She’s a very smart gal; we couldn’t get along without her.” Or “See if Senator X’s gal can get him over here a little early so we can talk before the committee convenes.”

When I arrived, a few “gals” who had interned before me were generous in giving me information on which men were sexual predators, which were randy old goats and which were gentlemen. Stories were swapped over hurried lunches or Cokes after work and anyone with even half an ear open knew what was what pretty quickly. One sophisticate from a Seven Sisters college deadpanned: “Men are dogs. Congressmen are men. Any questions?” We had been warned. (To be fair, there also was a smattering of “gals” who’d decided that the quickest route to power was by dispensing favors to the men they worked for. Nice girls looked on them with disapproval.)

In the 20-odd years since then, a lot has changed. Women now hold a significant number of seats in Congress. The kind of sexual overtures that were common in congressional offices when I was there have toned down considerably--or at least they seem to have. There’s still a lot of sexual curiosity bubbling beneath all those pinstriped suits. Modern Capitol Hill is somewhat like Victorian England: Just because it looks (comparatively) sedate doesn’t mean nothing’s happening.

Watching Kathleen Willey’s interview on “60 Minutes,” I found myself thinking about my Washington experiences and the concept of options. The few times I’d been blatantly propositioned, both on Capitol Hill and in the private sector, I was young and pretty much on my own. My reactions to such overtures were twofold. First there was shock (I can’t believe he did that!) swiftly followed by the more lasting reaction, the one I acted on, which was indignation (Don’t you ever do that again). I had the option of acting on my indignation: I was single, in charge of the income I earned and confident that I could find another job if I needed to. In other words, I didn’t feel trapped.

Kathleen Willey may have. She was a mother, a woman without a college degree in a city that values credentials. She was married to an extremely depressed man who was accused of embezzling hundreds of thousands of dollars, money for which she might also be held accountable. And she saw the day fast approaching where the volunteer job she so loved at the White House would have to be replaced with a paying one, so she looked to the one person who she thought could do something about it. According to her, when she went in to ask the president to help her out, she got groped. That same afternoon, her husband committed suicide, guaranteeing that she’d have to find paying work fast.

I can’t blame her for keeping quiet; I don’t know what I would have done in her place. I was able to firmly tell the middle-aged man who thought he could take liberties with me, “If you ever try that again, I quit. And you’ll lose a valuable staff member because of your own stupidity.” Like a lot of men in similar circumstances, when confronted, he feigned amnesia. He didn’t apologize, but it didn’t happen again. But what if I’d been a single mother with a small child to support? Or someone who was helping to put a younger sibling through school or to support an elderly parent? What if I was less worldly or more in awe of Men in Important Places? What then?

I’m glad I didn’t have to make that decision, and I’m sorry that Kathleen Willey felt she did.