I’m being harsh…psyche. Between the serious PTSD I have from not only moving back to America (post-Brexit) but the now constant post-Weinstein sexual harassment stories floating about. I grew up in production, literally.

I got my first job at 20 years old picking up trash from a tarmac after seeing Biggie step out of a plane with a set of twins. That was the first day I was aware that how I looked was how I kept working. I’m a hard worker and dressed mostly in baggy everything so I wouldn’t have to repel the comments, but none of that saved me. None of us. And we’re below the line. I’ve had directors stare at my boobs through entire meetings, props hug me too tight while asking if this was sexual harassment. I even had an AD on a long running tv show ask me to run so he could see my titties shake. When I didn’t (because I didn’t have to) I wasn’t hired on that show again. It had been a lifeline in a young freelance career. Many crew went on to higher positions behind the camera. That opportunity was cut off from me because I didn’t throw my boobs around.

Then I watch this administration do everything in it’s power to demolish poor and working class people, and I’m about to look for a job…again. Freelance life is boring and I just want a full time gig without the sexual harassment.

I want to go to work, collaborate with talented sane people, make something beautiful, come home too tired, hang out with my husband then count my money as I fall into a deep secure sleep.

That doesn’t seem like too much to ask.