Ten years ago, I wandered into my first military spouse hiring fair. My resume read Honors College, summa cum laude and included a section at the bottom that read recently passed a secret-level background check, but my lack of work experience left me feeling vulnerable. There wasn’t room to fully explain how I, newly graduated and even more freshly married, had just turned down a job working for Homeland Security in order to accompany my favorite second lieutenant on our three-year California adventure, so I left off the details to keep it down to one page.
I had soon acquired a stack of applications from booths like GameStop and T-Mobile that wasn’t quite tall enough to meet my level of optimism. I refused to be brought down to reality and, deciding that I just needed more options, eagerly accepted the flier that a retired lieutenant colonel was handing out to other young spouses as he breezed through the room.
Marine Corps University was looking for a new administration assistant. A job in academia for 15 whole dollars an hour? Sign me up!
I called the next day and, to my surprise, the retired officer did remember me from the hiring fair! He invited me to come in for an interview. It went so well that soon after, he offered to meet me at the on-base doughnut shop to “coach me up” on salary negotiation with the hiring company. During our conversation, I asked if he had any reservations about hiring me, or if there was anything I needed to work on.
Why yes, he said. There was one issue, but it was his own personal matter. My heart plummeted, my type A brain immediately turning over instances of where I could have screwed this up. I straightened up tall, trying to look professional and steeling myself for his response. He then confessed that he told his other administrative assistant that he would never hire anyone more attractive than her.
What?
I should have asked him how his wife felt about that little “personal matter.” Thirty-four-year-old me would have snapped back at him, then walked out. Instead, 24-year-old me had to chuckle awkwardly into the face of this 60ish-year-old man who probably knew the colonel my husband worked for on a first-name basis. Then I changed the subject.
Taylor greets her husband, Conor Hobbs, a first lieutenant at the time, at Camp Pendleton in California when he returned in 2015 from his first deployment. (Photo courtesy of the author)
A lifetime of people-pleasing and oldest-daughter syndrome had apparently prepared me perfectly for this position. Add in a dose of good ol’ boys’ club culture and, of course, I tried to do everything I was asked to fit in a work environment filled almost entirely with retired and active-duty Marines. This included accompanying my boss to an empty classroom to discuss the flexible Friday schedule option. During this meeting, he said he would want someone looking out for his daughters if they were in my position, and he reached over and put his hand on the top of my knee. How fatherly.
I looked down at his wrinkled hand, resting far too close to the hem of my skirt, and froze. He withdrew it after a beat that seemed to last forever. Hustling out of the room a little while later, I had serious doubts that the perks of “flexible Friday” while working here would make up for any of this.
Another leg touch happened again soon enough, during a carpool to a work event. As if in slow motion, his hand stretched across from the driver’s side, reaching over the console, to where I was pinned against the passenger’s side door. He kept it there longer that time. If only there had been some way to safely jump out of a car going 50 mph.
Apparently, my willingness to stay in a moving car instead of escape could be taken as a sign of encouragement to find excuses to touch me as the weeks went on. I was standing at the copy machine when he walked up and made some humorous comment I didn’t listen to, distracted instead by the ringing in my ears as he ran his hand over the full span of my back—shoulder to shoulder—and then all the way up and down from my neck to my lower back. My full-body freeze thawed just enough that I jumped away, but I didn’t have the breath to say anything.
Naively, I thought that might be the worst of it, but then came the university’s spring graduation. This event required the staff to dress up, which perfectly coincided with my husband’s promotion ceremony that day. I planned to just pop up the road during my lunch break to support him, but I had to get through the morning at work first.
Amid the bustle of packing up the supplies and diplomas at the office before we headed to the auditorium, my boss approached where I was standing, put his hand on my shoulder, leaned in inches from my ear and whispered, “I just wanted to let you know that you look absolutely fabulous today.”
When the graduation ceremony ended, I tried to hightail it out of there. My hands were full, carrying a heavy box across the parking lot, when I realized he was right behind me. He said, “There’s something on the back of your dress,” and I looked over my shoulder to find him lunging toward my lower half. In what I still consider to be an impressive feat of athleticism in heels, I leaped and spun away before he made contact, and yelled, “No!” Facing him, something in my horrified expression prompted him to give me the rest of the afternoon off to “celebrate your husband’s promotion.” I drove there holding back tears.
Despite all of this, I still wavered on whether or not to speak up. Because objectively, did he do anything worth telling on? I settled on confiding in one of my coworkers, who was both very kind and very out of his depth when faced with the crying admin assistant across the table.
A decade later, as a mom—pictured above with her two children in Washington’s Hoh rainforest—the 34-year-old Taylor writes she would have snapped back at her boss, then walked out. “Instead, 24-year-old me had to chuckle awkwardly into the face of this 60ish-year-old man who probably knew the colonel my husband worked for on a first-name basis.” (Photo courtesy of author)
We decided, as per the employee handbook, I should approach the situation with the informal harassment resolution process. These steps advised me that I should use the following procedure:
“If you are comfortable speaking to the offending employee, you are encouraged to speak to that individual about his or her conduct and explain that you do not like it. The offensive conduct may have been thoughtless or based on a mistaken belief that it was welcome.”
With all the instances laid out, did it seem thoughtless? And what belief system was he operating under that made my reactions seem like his advances were welcome? But this course of action would make the least number of waves, so I picked it. After all, my husband would have to take Marine Corps University classes within the next year or so, and I didn’t want him affected by potential fallout.
Deciding it was better to quickly rip off the Band-Aid, that next week I turned from my desk right next to his and told my boss there was something we needed to discuss privately. I took a deep breath, then told him I highly value my personal space, and I don’t like it when people other than my family or close friends touch me. I also said I prefer to have at least a foot of space between myself and another person.
He said he would remember that.
And I couldn’t forget how on edge I felt around him. After nine months on the job, I’d had enough.
Mere months after I quit, my administrative assistant successor chose the other option in the handbook when her turn came—“If for any reason you are uncomfortable approaching your supervisor (for example, if your supervisor is the person you feel is engaging in illegal harassment or discrimination), or you feel that the matter is not being adequately addressed, you should bring the matter to the attention of the CEO or President of the Company or HR as soon as possible, preferably within forty-eight hours.”
A colonel called to inform me about my successor’s complaint and asked me to share my own experience for an official investigation. He did not follow up with the results, and evidently, my old boss remained on the job at Marine Corps University for at least another five years.
But I wasn’t there for that. My last interaction with him happened at the company holiday party, just before I quit and months before I was informed about that investigation. I had lagged behind at the restaurant, wondering where my bill was so I could go home like everybody else. It was then revealed that he paid for my dinner.
And what did I do? I forced a smile and said thank you.
This War Horse reflection was written by Taylor Hobbs, edited by Mike Frankel, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Abbie Bennett wrote the headlines.
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