I Spoke Up Against My Harasser — and Paid a Steep Price

In the past two months many women have come forward to complain of sexual harassment by men in power. Some of the stories are decades old. “Why did she wait until now to come forward?” is a powerful talking point to discredit a woman, but it is also a question worth answering. The longer harassment goes unchecked in academia, the more we lose the scholarly contributions of the victims.

More than 20 years ago, when I suffered sexual harassment, I came forward immediately. In retrospect, keeping quiet about it might have been the wiser choice.

In my first job after earning my Ph.D., I made a formal complaint against a senior member of the math department of Haverford College. The department was small — six permanent faculty — and he was the only person whose research interests were close to mine. He had been on campus for decades, and it seemed every woman on the faculty had a creepy story to tell.

“He showed up on the doorstep of my apartment late at night and just stood there,” said one professor, recalling an incident from many years before. “He came by my office every day, even though we weren’t even in the same building,” another, more recently arrived woman told me. But none of these stories was in his file. I was astonished to find that I was the first to speak up.

In many ways I was luckier than most victims of sexual harassment. The man was roundly disliked, even despised. Although his work was respected in the wider mathematical community, he had few friends on campus. The investigation following my complaint discovered a 10-year-old restraining order a student had requested, barring the man from harassing her at the restaurant where she worked. I was lucky also that my loving family provided a safety net, so I could afford to risk my career without fear of abject poverty.

Still, I wasn’t sure what to do. Complaining seemed selfish, histrionic, a distraction from the mathematical work I should have been doing. My family, my teachers, and the American taxpayers had invested so much in my education, and I owed it to them to do a good job. I was busy proving theorems, writing and teaching, already more than a full-time occupation. Fending off unwanted advances from the one person in the department who might understand my research, and whose support would be crucial for my tenure decision, was an unappealing prospect, but it would be less trouble than lodging a formal complaint. Maybe, I thought, I should let the incident go unremarked.

Then a student told me her story of harassment by the same man. I heard firsthand stories from college employees. I saw him flirting with a different student. He was a repeat offender. He was nowhere near retirement age, so stopping his behavior might benefit dozens of women. Speaking up might save students from experiences that could color or even ruin their mathematical careers, might be an act for the good of the community, even an act for the good of mathematics itself. In that light, coming forward no longer seemed selfish, and speaking up was the right thing to do.

So it makes sense to me that women stay silent for years, even decades. I might easily have done the same if I had thought that I was the only person affected. And it makes sense to me that when an outside event — a newspaper exposé, a senate campaign, or another woman’s story — reframes a single disgusting personal experience into part of a pattern that promises continued harm to others, women will come forward, as I did, out of a sense of obligation.

Over the next several years the man cut me off from professional opportunities and damaged my reputation. The administration told me little about the progress of my case and surprised me with observers at meetings I expected to be one on one. Without on-campus colleagues who shared my mathematical interests, I fought to stave off intellectual isolation. I earned tenure, but I never felt comfortable at work.

Then one day, about seven years after the original incident, the college announced that the man would give up his regular faculty position, though no reason was given. A burden on the math department was lifted, and we hired an energetic, talented and kind assistant professor to fill the vacancy. A happy ending to the story, except that my relationship with the college remained deeply damaged. Seven long years of uncertainty and alienation had taken their toll.

Physical illness, born of stress but taking on a life of its own, made it harder and harder for me to continue. Only after I tendered my resignation did I dare ask the administration whether my complaint had anything to do with the man’s departure. And only then did they show me the final report recommending his early retirement and commending me for my courage and professionalism in coming forward.

In many ways, leaving Haverford was a blessing. I had time to spend with my growing daughter. I found worthwhile projects, some of which earned money. But all these years later my résumé is a patchwork that doesn’t generate job interviews. I’m ashamed, at my age, to depend on my parents’ generosity. And that third book I wanted to write, the one about the elegant 20th-century resolution of a problem that obsessed Johannes Kepler in the 1600s, will probably remain unwritten. There is no way to know how much speaking up influenced my career and my finances, but it’s not hard to read my story as a cautionary tale.

What might be done to encourage more timely reporting of sexual harassment? I would have appreciated a more expeditious process, and fuller and more frequent information about the consequences of my complaint. Other victims of harassment, both those who waited and those who didn’t, will have other ideas. The academic literature on sexual harassment also can suggest other interventions. Any institution committed to a respectful environment for all scholars should take a hard look at all the options.

Stephanie Singer is a consultant who specializes in government data and election technology.