Security Guard
Kate Carmody
He rests his hand on the wall behind me. I turn my head and focus on his tattooed arm as he leans in closer. He must have lifted himself on the tippy toes of his black Converse shoes to whisper in my ear. I’ll do the dirtiest—or was it nastiest? I think it was—nastiest things to you with my pants on—or was it—your pants on—or was it—my pants off—or was it—your pants off. I remember staring at the various Jesus statues hanging on the walls in the eclectic bar, praying the moment would pass.
I know him. I work with him. He’s our school security guard. Everyone’s distracted. No one sees. I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I’m still dating—He interrupts me. I know. He knows. He works with us. But I’m just saying . . . He makes wings of his arms, gesturing at his chest, puffing it, waiting for approval. I look over his shoulder at the bathroom door. Still shut. I think you’re very attractive. Minutes or probably seconds later, two giggling coworkers exit the bathroom. Thank you. I flash a nervous smile and dart past the coworkers, locking the door behind me. There isn’t a mirror, just empty white walls. What did he just say? Nastiest? Pants on? What? Did he just? What does that even mean? For a second, I imagine what he was imagining when he said it. I feel sick. I stare at the white wall as past encounters flash by rapidly. I try to find the one that led him to think—Something I wore? Something I said? Something. But nothing. I was just trying to be nice. A knock. I’m in here. I take a deep breath then exit, locking eyes with Jesus to guide me to my friends. I avoid his blue eyes, burning a hole in my sense of sanctuary.
Did I say something to someone? Did I stay at the bar long after? It was our end-of-the-year party celebrating another successful school year. I had a drink or two. I have a high tolerance but a bad memory. I remember chatting with coworkers, subtly keeping track of the security guard’s whereabouts and where I could go if he approached me again.
My body was in the bar, but my mind flashed forward to our next encounter. In one scenario, he mentions how great the party was and laughs. He wishes he remembered more, but he was “overserved,” and I laugh and say we all were. In another scenario, I tell him he was creepy, half-joking, half-serious. In another, I angrily tell him his sexual advances were inappropriate. And in another, I play teacher and tell him that I felt uncomfortable and unsafe and that he needs to respect my boundaries.
I successfully eluded him for the rest of the night.
Summer passed, and we were back to school. And I faced him again, trying not to remember, but he remembered and knew I did, too. The first day of school, the next, and after, I kept conversations short, limited interactions, and maintained a professional demeanor. Any behavior problems I handled on my own instead of calling security. I was determined not to get caught off guard again, determined to just do my job and forget. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Like all women, I was well-versed in acting like everything’s fine until the memory floats away to join the others. At the time, I didn’t know he was determined to make sure I remembered, make sure I paid with an act of contrition.
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At my Catholic elementary school, Confession was the sacrament that caused me the most anxiety. I wondered if the priest on the other side of the divider would be, if I was lucky, the priest I didn’t mind greeting on the steps after Sunday mass—the one who always reminded me that when I was three or four, I answered “God” when he asked me who Jesus was. Or maybe it would be the old geezer who droned his homilies and tempted me to rest my behind ever so slightly on the pew behind me. Or maybe it would be the new priest who, according to rumor, kids at his last parish called, “Chester Chester the Child Molester.” What are you going to say? What should I say? I’d ask a friend.
I’d kneel. He’d greet me. And together, we’d say, In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, while making the sign of the cross. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
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Months later, my principal knocked on my classroom door, wondering if I had a minute to discuss the security guard’s request for a meeting. Sure. What’s the meeting for? She pulled a chair up to my desk and placed her planner on her lap, To discuss some pretty serious allegations: slander and defamation.
My principal spoke softly, grimacing. I couldn’t tell if she was in pain or disappointed. Okay? I paused to let her continue. The principal, a friend, someone I’d advocated for to help her secure her position, but now I couldn’t quite get a reading. There’s a protocol we have to follow. You and I will have a meeting first with a district representative to discuss his allegations against you. Against me? I don’t understand. What do you mean? What allegations?
I clenched my teeth to keep my emotions from spilling out. I can’t tell you much more. He’s accusing you of slander and defamation for things you told students, parents, and other teachers. Past encounters projected rapidly. I sorted through them quickly, trying to find one that may have led him to accuse me of something. Nothing came to mind. I’m so confused right now. Am I in trouble for something? She stood and placed the chair back behind the student desk. I’m sorry. We can discuss everything further in the meeting.
She walked to the door. I couldn’t contain my emotions anymore. But I didn’t do anything, I said in one quick and desperate burst like a child. He said he had witnesses. Witnesses? Who? To what? I don’t remember what she said while leaving. I had to keep my composure for the students who’d be coming in shortly for my next class.
As soon as class ended, I grabbed my purse from my desk drawer. I pulled my keys out as I pushed open the door to the faculty parking lot. Within a few steps, my car was in sight. I tried to walk with purpose, not panic. I deliberately drove in the opposite direction of the shops and restaurants where students gathered during their lunch hour. At a safe distance, I pulled over and immediately started crying. What the fuck! I slammed my palm into the wheel. I didn’t do anything. Witnesses to what? I began to second-guess my innocence. I pulled into a gas station and tried to pull together a defense. Calm down. Think.
I called my lawyer father. Dad, I immediately started crying again as I attempted to tell him. Calm down, hun. I can’t help you if I can’t understand you. I took a few deep breaths.
Slander for what? I said I didn’t know; I rarely ever saw or talked about the security guard. My father explained that proving slander was difficult, asked me questions to help me recall any instances that may have led to his accusation, clarified the difference between sharing an opinion and slander, and told me to talk to my union representative.
When I got back to school, I found my union rep, a friend and someone I admired.
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Once the priest gave me permission, I’d conjure up my go-to sins. We were always guilty of something, even if we had to make it up to satisfy the shadowy figure behind the screen. I talked back to my mom, I talked back to my dad, I fought with my brother, I fought with my sister, I took the Lord’s name in vain, I said some bad words . I rattled them off as quickly as possible and silently prayed he wouldn’t give me too many penance prayers. I always hoped for more Hail Marys than Our Fathers—I figured Mary was more on my side.
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As I paced in my classroom, waiting to discuss the security guard’s allegations, I focused on my defense, reciting my father’s advice. But I was scared I’d be forced to leave the students that meant so much to me. What had I done? I always listened to the security guard’s stories about rough exchanges with his biker gang or student wannabe gang members. What had I done? Been too provocative picking up papers from the printer in his office? I told myself to calm down.
I remember watching my dad present his closing argument in court as a kid. I noticed the jurors following his every word and gesture carefully as he spoke not emotionally, but logically.
I imagined myself pleading my case. I reminded myself of the countless times I advocated for students at staff meetings, when district administrators visited, and at national conferences.
The school where I’d taught is part of a national network of small, progressive schools and was founded on the idea that students should have more control over what they learned, and teachers should have more control over what they taught and how the school was run. I was hired after the school’s first year of operation. For three and a half years, I was part of every major decision the staff made, including hiring the principal and, before that, hiring her as a teacher.
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I met with the principal and a woman from the district. I’m trying to picture it. I see the three of us sitting in classroom chairs. Perhaps it wasn’t in the principal’s office, but in a classroom. The three of us in a triangular shape—both women facing me. My principal and the district woman are in higher chairs than mine, each holding files or folders or planners, waiting for me to say something incriminating. I’m glad the district representative is the one who actually seems like she means it when she says, Welcome back! Great to see you, instead of the one I have to reintroduce myself to every time she visits. Higher chairs must be a projection of fear rather than an accurate memory—there weren’t any high chairs in that classroom. I see the principal staring at me with the same pained/disappointed grimace and the district woman patiently waiting for my responses.
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I stated my confusion about his slander claims. Is this going to go on my permanent record? A question my union rep told me to ask. They said they needed to talk to him first.
Earlier that year, in a staff meeting, we decided to try restorative justice as a new approach to discipline. We attended two days of training and began implementing restorative practices and school policies to deal with conflict. The basis of restorative justice is to resolve conflict through mediation versus punishment; to focus on repairing the harm and building relationships while maintaining a safe, inclusive environment; and to give all people involved the opportunity to share and discuss their perspectives and make decisions about the next steps collaboratively. The security guard, another teacher, and a small group of students ran the Restorative Justice program at our school. Members of the RJ team attended training to learn how to lead mediation circles. They also met every Friday to discuss ways to improve the school culture and reflect on how they were facilitating RJ.
To be clear, I wholeheartedly believed in restorative justice and still do. But, while I pleaded my case to the principal and district representative, I saw that my case was about retribution, not restoration. In that meeting, I wasn’t the twenty-eight-year-old teacher who used restorative practices to resolve conflict. In that meeting, I was the sixteen-year-old student sitting on the couch in the principal’s office, staring at my uniform skirt as two women, the principal and dean of students, wait for me to confess.
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A couple of friends and I had decided to surprise another friend on her sixteenth birthday. We showed up at her house before school, gave her goofy clothes to wear, and took her to breakfast. At breakfast, we threw a bunch of condoms on the table and dared her to pass them out at the boys’ school. We laughed from the car as we watched the boys’ reactions to her casually passing out condoms.
Do you have any idea how bad this is?! As my principal yelled at me, I picked at a loose thread in my hem. I’d thought the gag was hilarious and harmless until my idiot friend backed into a teacher’s car when we were pulling away. My friend got out of her car, had a brief conversation with the teacher she hit, got back in, and drove us to school. He was cool, she said. I think everything’s okay.
We hadn’t realized the implications of wearing our uniforms until we got called to the office. You oughta be ashamed of yourself, my principal said. On campus or off, you represent our school and The Society of the Sacred Heart. I apologized.
The following week, we had to apologize to the boys’ school principal, were suspended from all sports and after-school activities, and did ten hours of community service. Typically, I resisted authority figures trying to coerce me into apologizing for something I didn’t think was wrong. Still, I knew that resistance also meant harsher punishment, and playing in my next field hockey game meant more to me than pleading my case.
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In my meeting with the principal and woman from the district, I intended to remain focused on proving my innocence, yet sixteen-year-old me had sixteen-year-old one- or two-word responses to their questions. I don’t remember what was discussed. My memory often fails me. What I do remember is after the meeting, I decided I wanted to have my union rep at the second meeting with the principal and the security guard.
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I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Go in peace. I always felt more relief in ending my awkward exchange with the man behind the opaque screen in the confessional than I did for the pardoning of my sins. After carefully closing the wooden door, I’d bow my head as I walked to the altar, dreading the penance I’d have to perform, which, without a doubt, my teacher would be critiquing for form from her pew as she shooed one kid after another into the tiny wooden box.
Kneeling at the cold marble altar at Mary Queen of Peace church, I’d stare at the giant statue of Jesus on the crucifix with, I assumed, Mary kneeling on the ground below him, covering her face, and, I imagined, crying. Or at least that’s what the sculptor wanted me to imagine. I’d lose track of whether I was on the fourth or fifth Hail Mary and Our Father, wondering why I was up there in the first place and what sin called for five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers and what would have called for ten.
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Upon entering the conference room, when the principal saw the union rep with me, she seemed to mirror my feeling of betrayal and abruptly called to get the meeting started.
The four of us sat in rolling office chairs around two rectangular tables pushed together. My principal sat at the head of one side and my union rep and I sat on the longer side to her left. Across from me was the security guard, next to him an empty chair, which he rested his feet on while the principal shuffled papers.
She addressed the security guard, Why don’t we start with you? He began to list each charge, his black Suicidal Tendencies trucker hat bobbing and thrusting toward me as he pushed each finger with an accusation.
I don’t remember everything he said. I remember that he never mentioned any specific instances. I remember he shifted from vengeance to victimhood, noting how I often talked down to him and the damage I’ve done to him, his family, his reputation in the community.
The person he described—who purposely harmed him, his family, and the community—was not me. I would never do that. I tried to think of anything I’d said that could have gotten twisted. And still, no memory of the incident at the bar came to mind. That night was buried too deep. I would never say anything bad about you to the students or parents. I appreciate what you do for the teachers and kids. Unfortunately, that I do remember saying, and I remember him snapping back, I know what you said. I know what slander is. I have witnesses.
Minutes into the confrontation, he was on his feet, gesturing at me. Or maybe he wasn’t standing. Or maybe he wasn’t pointing but pounding the table. Sitting or standing, pointing or pounding, I felt his rage raining down on me.
Often, when someone yells at me, I yell back. I’m not afraid to match their rage. Mine is just as powerful, just as scary, just as much on the line between words and outburst. Still, I’m never proud of moments when anger takes control, giving my opponent another reason not to listen.
But with my principal seemingly on his side and my job on the line, I sat in silence, watching the volcano erupt.
I tried to keep from getting emotional. I failed. The fear of losing my job for something I didn’t do overwhelmed me. Excuse me. Two steps away from the conference room table, I started crying. I wanted to leave, walk away from the situation, collect myself, and return ready to defend myself. But I didn’t want to go into the hall where students would see me. Trapped, I went into the adjoining office and sat down, wiping tears with my shirt.
I was pissed at myself for crying. And even more pissed that the wall separating the two rooms was glass, so I hadn’t excused myself from anything. Minutes later, my principal and union representative walked in. I don’t know what he’s talking about. My principal handed me a tissue. Please, you have to believe me. I don’t want to lose my job.
My principal decided not to take the matter any further. I was forced to say I was sorry. Forced to shake his hand. Forced to vow to treat him better. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I did these things willingly.
I don’t remember what my principal or union rep said after that. Nor do I want to. All I cared about was keeping my job, which I did. His allegations didn’t go on my record. We agreed it was all just a big misunderstanding. And I convinced myself it was. I felt ashamed that the person who takes pride in standing up for herself and for what’s right, didn’t.
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Years later, at one of our Ladies’ Night bi-weekly dinners, we swapped stories of creepy coworkers. Every other Wednesday, we took turns hosting Ladies’ Night. The host prepared the food, and each guest brought a bottle of wine. We sat and stood around the kitchen island drinking wine and eating appetizers as guests trickled in—some came straight from work or after working out or putting kids to bed or walking dogs around their neighborhoods. After a few minutes of small talk, one woman told a story of her coworker crawling on all fours beneath her cubicle barking at a female colleague because he was angry about her outperforming him.
As we sat down for dinner, another friend explained that while she was presenting a new company process to the entire organization, two women in the back of the room kept talking. She calmly walked over to them, asked if they were going to pay attention, and then continued with the presentation. When she finished, the chief operating officer asked to see her and her boss. In his office, he began berating my friend.“I thought he was going to congratulate me on my presentation. Instead, he looked right at me and said, ‘You think you’re God. You think you’re king. You walk in here and act like you own the place.’ And went on and on about how I shouldn’t be so confident.”
I heard the rage in the COO’s words, almost as if I were there. I knew that rage.
We asked her what her boss said. She told us that her boss didn’t say anything and just sat quietly next to the COO. We asked our friend if she was angry with her boss for not standing up for her.
“I wasn’t mad. It wasn’t her personality to stand up to him,” she paused and took a sip of her wine. “She made a comment after about how impressed she was with my composure because all I said back to him was that he’d gotten me wrong, that I don’t think I am a king, and that I was just looking for respect.”
My friend’s boss reminded me of my principal. I thought about my principal sitting silently by the security guard, I thought about his rage, and, for the first time, what had caused it.
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I pictured his black Suicidal Tendencies trucker hat, hiding his bald head, the front bill flipped up. I pictured his thick, blond beard and his bottom teeth jutting out as he spoke to me. I pictured his blue eyes staring at my hair or perhaps following the line of my neck below my ear as he whispered, I’ll do the nastiest things to you . . .
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Just as my friend doesn’t blame her boss, I hold no grudge against my principal. I would be lying if I said I never let self-preservation get the best of me. She bears some responsibility, but I understand that she too was manipulated; she was also a victim of the misogynistic systems we live in that pit women against each other. Still, silence silences.
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I think of the Hail Mary prayer.
Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with you.
Blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.
To these men in our stories, we are supposed to be, like Virgin Mary, full of grace. We are the fruits of Eve’s labor, responsible for their sins of hubris.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
How dare we reject them. How dare we succeed in a world not meant for us to do so. How dare we refuse to be characters in their creation myths.
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Blessed are we who defy their dogma.
Wave after wave, even the most robust foundations erode. Our stories aren’t an act of contrition but an act of communion. Our communion is our rage.
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The recipient of a CINTAS Foundation grant supporting artists of Cuban descent, KATE CARMODY has attended the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop and residency at Ragdale. Find her work in Fence, Electric Literature, Porter House Review, The Rumpus, Potomac Review, Essay Daily, No Contact, and Los Angeles Review, among others.