HOSPITALITY'S 'ME TOO' MOVEMENT
BY EMMA DARVAS
I started it simple. One question. Nothing else.
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“What have your experiences been of sexual violence?”
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Carol taps the side of her glass. Her eyes glean around the pub's wine room – its dark walls and emerald fixtures, high vaulted ceilings, the delicate golden lamps illuminating each patron with an intimate glow. The wine room, an annex of the pub, was one of those paradoxical spaces where everything boomed but you could still barely eavesdrop on the table next to you.
Except if you were seated next to Carol, of course. Her sharp turns and energetic language caused the occasional darting eye from the patrons on the opposite wall.
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I don’t think I had ever heard her this quiet.
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“How are we going for drinks?”
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The Kiwi waitress hovers, all teeth behind a bob of blonde, her regrowth sneaking through.
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“Fine, thank you.”
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Carol takes a drink, watching the waitress peter off beyond the rim. She places it down, pours another, cups it like a hand and stares at me with a familiar sternness.
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“Well, first we need to discuss where and who I worked for.” It flew from her lips like a burst pipe – the memories flooding back. She chopped and changed. Dated and timed. This manager. That manager. That dirty bastard. This dirty bastard. You see, Carol had been in the business for nearly fifty years. Pubs. Restaurants. Sports clubs. At one time a pokies (she’ll never go back to the pokies). And a very renowned strippers-come-pub turned inner-city family venue that still draws in the occasional bikie from the velvet room and pole days. Carol assures me the clubhouses always respected her, being the older barmaid and all, and would step in if necessary. Sometimes affiliation is key in this business – but it’s not always a bulletproof vest.
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Carol puts down her fork with radicchio, pork and gravy still pronged and shuffles closer to me in the darkness of the booth. That’s when she told me about him. One of her managers. He only ever called her: gorg.
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“Gorg, go and get down to the back office,” his smoke laden, beered voice croaked.
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“Sure, no problem.”
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I could imagine what it felt like. Looked like. Smelt like. The long walk down the pub hallway, manky wooden panels stained from tobacco and the excrement of patrons too drunk to stumble anywhere else. I know how small Carol would have felt. The drilling gaze of an older man with more money than you and a leash around your livelihood.
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We all know how it feels.
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The pressure of the palm – how every crease morphs into you. The padding at the ends of the fingertips pronging you. The sharpness of the nails through your jeans. Through your tights. Through your undies. Underneath. On your bare flesh. How it cups you. Grips you. How no amount of scrubbing in the shower afterwards will get him off you. He’s there. Always.
And so, Carol now knew every time he asked her to the office that that stool would be waiting, ‘Here gorg, I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”
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He sinks in.
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There are mixed reports about exactly how much sexual violence is perpetrated by venue managers and owners. One survey collated by sexologist Jamie Bucirde and the University of Melbourne found that up to 23% of reported incidents were perpetrated by managers; and up to 19% by venue-owners. However, without a formal inquiry or a mandatory reporting body for small businesses like your local, these statistics are skewed and inconclusive. What data we do have from a patchwork of research touted as hospo’s ‘Me Too’ awakening, is that if you're the average hospo worker - young and female - you are almost guaranteed to be sexually violated by a man; and most likely, the very man that employed you.
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“Reports from our Union suggests that hospitality has a culture of sexual violence. Do you agree? Or is it something broader?”
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“Yeah, there’s always been the groping and the comments and the looks. But no one notices unless it's severe. Your generation’s better, though. At least you know your rights.”
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The sharpness of the rosé washes over my tongue. A sobering feeling. Something to distract me from disputing Carol's claim – rights having nothing to do with it.
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In fact, a lack of comprehensive worker rights is one of the major enablers of the continuing culture in hospo. Without formal sexual violence and consent training in workplace inductions or RSA courses, staff are left unequipped to combat assaults towards them or others - a reform being pushed by the United Workers Union. Data indicates young staff are the most vulnerable to workplace sexual violence and more likely to be misinformed or uninformed with their rights. One recent South Australian sample indicates that 94% of victim-survivors are below the age of 21. Nearly half of these workers are between the ages of 16-18, and a third are below the age of 15. Rights can’t build a shark cage, but they do make for good beige tape.
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“One hundred percent it’s a social issue. I’ve seen it my whole career.”
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Without a second thought, Carol's tired and knuckled hands start gliding around the table, stacking the plates gently, the cutlery evenly and balanced. She pushes it far from us in our quaint, dark corner and rests her ringed and calloused hands on the chipped table. Calmly. That same sternness in her pale eyes.
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“But that doesn’t make it right.”
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I can see the blaze ignite. Carol’s pupil’s dilate. She is consumed. Her voice impassioned like she should be placed in front of a roaring crowd rather than an emptying pub on a Sunday night.
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“Say if a girl was wearing a low-cut shirt or skirt – she’s wearing that for her! Because she feels good in it.”
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Her eyes become wider. “It’s not an invitation.”
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She clenches her fists. “It’s not a come-on card for them.”
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She presses down on the table. “They say we have a sign on the top of our head – a come fuck me sign. That’s bullshit. THAT’S BULLSHIT.”
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“Any desserts ladies?”
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The Kiwi waitress makes a quick glance at Carol, nostrils flared. Carol’s body softens, she becomes matronly, “Sticky date pudding, thank you dear.”
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The waitress fumbles the stacked plates, her blonde bob unfurled, dancing in front of her eyes..
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“Will a ‘Me Too’ movement in hospo make a difference?”
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“In the near future, I hope – but it might even make things worse.”
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Carol reaches out and nestles a hand gently on my forearm, “It’ll always be here. Like my Mammy always said: Carol, a standing prick has no conscience. And that’s God’s honest truth.”