Spooky Stories

As a child, I switched career aspirations as often as the sun rose and set. That is, until I played one game: The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. That game ignited a fire in me. I always enjoyed video games, but Ocarina of Time was a game-changer. I loved the story, the music, the characters, the gameplay—every element that brought me into that world. From then on, I dreamed of working at my DREAM COMPANY. I wanted to be a part of a great purpose: bringing incredible games to people all around the world. Hopefully I could inspire others the same way that I was. 

In 2014, I was happy with my job in Chicago. I converted kids’ print magazine content to digital format and added interactive stories, games, and videos. It was a rewarding job that allowed me to flex my creative muscle. After I graduated college, I always received job alerts from DREAM COMPANY just to keep an eye on my prize. 

In February of 2014 there was an alert for a “Creative Development Specialist.” After reading over the description—describing duties like managing and creating marketing materials including retail pieces, online content, and videos--I decided to throw my hat in the ring. 

[The job description]

A few weeks later I had an interview with a recruiter, then the hiring manager: Greg Everage. Soon I flew out to have an in-person interview with the team. I presented examples of the creative work in my portfolio, we discussed the role, and how it would be a blend of a project manager and creative contributor. We discussed commercials, designs, and all the goals Greg had for the team and how I would help bring them to fruition...if I was chosen for the role. 

Right before the interview

I flew back on what felt like cloud nine, from the high of having interviewed at my DREAM COMPANY (and having a row of seats to myself).

DREAM AIRPLANE SITUATION

(This is a brief account of my first job at Business Leader Media.)

Right out of college, I worked at a publishing company called Business Leader (hereafter BL) in North Carolina as a designer, editor, proofreader, and IT specialist (I was the youngest employee in the office, after all). BL started as a local business magazine focused on all the commercial happenings in the Raleigh area. Shortly before I started, BL was bought out by Eran Salu, a venture capitalist (I think I'm using that term correctly) who sought to expand the business, increase profits, and then sell. Soon, the company had tripled its magazine count into the Charlotte and Greensboro areas. Tripled it's workload, if you will, and yet the headcount remained the same. 

What type of employer is Eran? He was the type of employer who would hire fledgling photographers to shoot cover photos for the magazine, not pay them, and use the fine print in the contract they signed against them. There was always new creatives looking for work, and he was always ready to take advantage. If I recall correctly, we had to keep a list of burned photographers on a "do not employ" list.

Around that time, Annette, the art director, demanded she needed help with the influx of new work, thus my hiring. My main objective was to support her in publishing the increasing amount of magazines each month. Annette, a woman in her late 40s, was fiercely strong and independent. She had golden-blonde highlighted, shoulder-length hair that always had a bit of fuzz to it. You could tell she blow-dried her hair for efficiency, not style. And she would realize the hairy situation about midday with an exasperated comb down. She rode horses as a hobby and had the firm thighs and butt to match. I know this because once I complained about my putty bottom, and she told me to take up horseback riding. We consented to compare backside muscles, and wow, how is that for trust between two employees? Annette listened to the classic rock station on the radio, she brought her Chow Chow, Mooshoo, in every now and then, and we had a great work environment between the two of us (good, because we shared an office).

I also would work with Dave, the Chief Technology Officer (when you work for a company with fewer than 40 people, half of them tend to be vice president or chief officer of something). Dave was a funny, smart guy who didn't take shit from anybody. You could tell he was there for a paycheck, but still, he was good at what he did.

The CEO, Eran, had this habit of not talking to the low-level employees, including myself. He would have back-and-forths with Annette and Dave about work that I did, which I would overhear considering my office shared a wall with Eran's. The usual MO for Dave or Annette upon their return was asking, "Did you get all that?" To which I'd let them know I already started.

Sometimes I created assets for the company website to help Dave, and one task included creating 100 web banners--one for each of the "100 Movers and Shakers of Raleigh!" I overheard Dave talking to Eran about an error I made across all the banners, explaining that it was an easily rectified mistake. "What is she, autistic or something?" Eran said. To which Dave denied, saying that it was likely an exporting error. "OK, so you're saying she's just stupid?" As I mentioned, I could hear everything through the wall and was upset. Dave came in the office, "Did you hear all that? ...Yeah, I know you did. Don't worry about him." Although I wanted to bust in there and tell Eran off, Dave encouraged me to let it go, that confronting Eran would change nothing. Bite your tongue and move on--you're better than him. For the next year, my interactions with Eran were limited to the obligatory hello in passing from the bathroom or kitchen. In a way, it was a gift that he refused to speak with us bottom-feeders.

After 15 months of working at BL, I talked to Annette about my performance. She agreed that I was going above and beyond my original job duties and deserved to be compensated as such. I made $24,000/year. Luckily, rent in Raleigh was dirt-cheap at the time, and I was paying about $300/month for a shared living space. Much to our chagrin, Annette wasn't in charge of giving merit raises, only my performance review. Annette provided her evaluation of my work to Eran, with the recommendation to give me a 10% raise ($2,400 more a year), and she never heard back. She followed up with him during their next meeting, and he dismissed the idea of giving me more money since I was still entry-level. Annette suggested it may be more effective for me to appeal to him. I asked for a meeting a couple days later, and he agreed.

As I entered his office, Eran presented his usual one-ply friendliness--his words didn't match his tone. You can smile and speak cheerfully all you want, but disdain is hard for the unpracticed to hide. He understood I wanted more money, and I requested the discussed merit increase. Eran focused on the money I wanted, expressing how despite my great work, he wondered if it was worth the investment. It was at this point, that the conversation turned in a way that I didn't expect:

• What I expected: an outright refusal, postponement to year's end, or a smaller percentage. 
• What I got: I think it's time we part ways and terminate your employment.

I was visiting my friends at the University of Illinois during my sophomore year of college. My friend, Lisa, lived in a four-bedroom house with her brother, her friend Lizzie, and a friend that I can’t remember the name of. Let's call him Steve. Lisa's brother was out of town for the weekend, so I bunked up in his room. 

That Saturday, all the housemates and a few other friends hung out in the evening. Later on, mostly everyone including Steve decided to go out to the bars. Lisa and I opted to stay in, and Lizzie went to stay at her boyfriend's apartment.  

What must’ve been a few hours later, I was asleep in bed and felt someone climb on top of me. I woke up to heavy pressure on my hips, blinking my eyes open to the darkness. I made out that Steve was on top of me. He pulled me up to sitting position and urged me to come out to the hallway. I pushed his chest, saying to leave me alone. I turned around and lifted the covers over my head. This pissed him off. He remarked, in a drunken slur, that this was his home and he could do what he wanted. He ripped the covers off the bed, the cold air reminding me I was wearing only my underwear and a cami. He pulled my arm so forcefully that I nearly fell out of the bed. I continued to resist until I had no choice but to stand, as it felt like my arm was being pulled from its socket. I kept mumbling, "What are you doing...stop...leave me alone...where's lisa..." Deaf ears.

Steve dragged me outside into the dimly-lit hallway where several other people stood, drinks and cigarettes in hand. He positioned me next to him, his arm firmly around my waist. I didn't recognize the people--these were not the friends from earlier in the evening. They seemed older. They laughed and chatted, seemingly ignoring what was going on. Still confused from sleep, I muttered to Steve, "Let me go." He laughed, mocking my timid voice. "What was that? Can't you speak up?" He refused saying he was stronger than me, and I couldn’t do anything since I was weak. He continued to grope me: my stomach, my breasts, my butt. Anytime I pulled away or told him to stop, he gripped harder, enjoying my weakness. 

I don't know why no one helped me. I remember staring at the individuals in the hallway, pleading with tears in my eyes for them to say something, do something. I don't know why I didn't scream. I suppose--at the time--the embarrassment of being fondled and toyed with was easier to stomach than putting up a fight in my friend's home. Was I disturbing the peace? Would I cause a fight among the roommates? Whatever logic I had, my feeble attempts to stop him went nowhere. I felt defeated.

At one point, he let down his guard to get a drink. I jerked away and ran into Lisa's brother's room, locking the door. As I pulled my hand away from the door, I saw it vibrate from knocking. Steve yelled, demanding I let him in. I said nothing. I stared at the doorknob. I stared until his footsteps returned to the group of drunk friends. I pushed the desk in the room up against the door as safety. I climbed back into bed, staring at the ceiling until the halls went quiet, my mind dozing off as daylight crept into the room. 

When I woke up, I texted Lisa, asking her to come to my room. She was there shortly thereafter. I told her everything. Having fallen asleep drunk, she didn't hear anything that transpired; however, she assured me she and Lizzie would talk to Steve about what happened. While he was nowhere to be found that day, I told them I didn't feel safe there, and they agreed. I was heading back to my school that day, anyway, so we went out to breakfast, and I left shortly thereafter.

That evening, Lisa told me they had a hard conversation with Steve about what happened. He claimed he didn't remember any of it. Division among them reached a boiling point--because of this matter and others--and they soon severed ties, both as friends and as roommates. 

I look back at that night as a time where I felt helpless. Were something like that to happen to me today, I surely would act differently, knowing I'm stronger now both physically and mentally. I wish present me could go back and kick Steve's ass and lambast those people for doing nothing. Thing is, I'm sure they never again thought about that whimpering girl in her underwear.

When I was 18, I worked at Home Depot. Yep, orange apron and all. There was a locker room where you placed your personal effects before your shift. 

One morning, I approached my locker, bending over to pick up something off the ground. I could feel eyes on me. I turned around and an older man that worked in the carpeting department (let's call him Carpet Don) stood in the doorway staring at me--well, at my butt. I was more reserved back then, and girls are taught to be polite and kind, even in the face of indecency. I asked if he needed something. "No," Carpet Don said, "not when you wear a nice pair of jeans like that." He continued to stare, smirking, holding his position in the doorway. I squeezed past him, pacing toward my register to start my shift.

I later told my supervisor, Nathan, what happened. He insisted I inform HR with haste, going so far as to  offer to go with me if I wanted; and if I was scared, he would report it on my behalf. (Leaders: take note on how to support those under you). 

A formal complaint was put forth and HR let me know that Carpet Don (I really can't remember his name, nor does it matter) was reprimanded and disciplined. HR told me to let them know if anything like this ever happens again. As much as I disliked my job at Home Depot, I commend the company's urgency in addressing the harassment.

I don’t remember if Carpet Don was later fired or quit. In the weeks and months he remained employed, whenever we crossed paths, he gave me this look of disdain which spoke "you did this to me." I would feel that so many more times in my life--that feeling victims are meant to feel by there attackers: this is my fault.

This memory is bit hazy. 

When I was about 16 years old, I walked to the street where my car was parked to visit my dad. There was an SUV parked about 100 feet behind my car with an older man wearing sunglasses inside. I didn’t think much of it and proceeded to get in my car. 

• I drove toward the entrance of the neighborhood, noticing the SUV was behind me. 
• As I took a left, he took a left; as I took a right on the first main road, he took a right on the first main road. 
• He followed so closely that I decided to take a right into a McDonald’s. So did he. 
• I began to feel suspicious and promptly exited back to the main road. So did he. 
• I then took the next right and then a left into the larger neighborhood my dad's home was in. So did he.
• At this point, there was no doubt he was following me, and I started to pick up the dangerous speeds upwards of 50 mph in the neighborhood. So did he.
• He kept up behind me. I kept driving faster and taking random turns. So did he. 
• I remember sweating. I remember knowing there was an alley behind a strip mall near my dad's house. I picked up speed again and quickly parked in between two cars. 
• I slouched in the seat looking toward the alley. The SUV slowly crawled by. It stopped. I slouched even lower. 
• I remember my heart racing, my hands scrambling for my phone. I called my dad and let him know what was going on. 
• A couple minutes later, I saw my Dad running toward my car. I got out and demanded we go inside his home. I told him everything.
• I didn't get the plate numbers, so there was nothing to report of substance. My dad scolded me for not knowing to go straight to the police department. I retorted saying I NOW knew and would do that if it happened in the future. 

This is a series of stories I've wanted to tell for sometime now. While I prefer to write stories that make people laugh, there are few moments of levity in these. My focus will be the treatment I received by certain men in my life including previous workplaces and one specific relationship that I only remember as convincingly sweet until it became poisonous. As I was told so many times in my younger years--and even in many of my writing classes--I will try not to be emotional and stick to the facts. 

In my teens and 20s (and perhaps a li'l now, too), I wanted to be treated normally. My hobbies, my words, my actions, my ambitions--often because I am a woman were these things judged differently. There was a time, no longer, that I thought "if I were just born a boy, things would be better...easier for me." And it's true.

I don't know what the schedule will be or how many I will tell at a time. I do know that I have a lot to tell, and although I hate staring at the past, perhaps this history lesson in bullying, harassment, belittling...perhaps it's worth telling to help put an end to this sort of treatment. I will change details as to not specifically identify individuals or workplaces; however, perhaps one individual who was particularly malicious doesn't deserve to be shielded by anonymity.

The scary thing about posting these stories is thinking how they will make ME look bad. I suppose that is normal. In most of these instances, I'm the unwilling participant. I don't want these stories to be part of my life, but they were.

P.S. There are many, many good men in my life, past and present. And there are bad women, too, of course. 

I wrote this...review of sorts for Tokyo Mirage Sessions #FE back in February and unearthed it today...in September. It's a bit late--but hoping this will be the precursor to more of my unconventional game reviews. And since it's been so long, let's just cut the small talk and get to it.

Sound
Lots of catchy tunes ranging from your typical JRPG dungeon-crawling beats to some awesome J-POP tracks (case in point: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHiMuBWuELA).

Censorship

I didn’t look into this until after I played the game. After seeing the comparison, I can’t say any of the changes made me think twice. I don't believe the the US should censor female boobs so strongly, but it’s often out of control for the creator and at the whim of regulating entities (ahem, ESRB). You get rated based on your game’s most offensive possible content, and if you hit a Teen or Mature rating, that’s going to limit how you advertise and who has access to purchase your game, among many other things. Sometimes games may be censored if only to open them up to a broader audience. This is all my conjecture, of course. Look: If you need to see unobscured boobies, might I interest you in a series of tubes?

Graphics

I don’t get into frame drops and hotboxing or whatever it’s called when things don’t form quickly enough from far away. TMS looks fine. Great art style and nothing that detracted from the gameplay or story. Smooth animations and fun flourishes during battle. 

Complaints (Good lord why do I play games if I have so many things I hate about them?)

• What the heck are my party members saying during battle? They’re conversing with each other and their Mirages in Japanese, and I’m this English-speaking tactician commanding them. (I need to know what Tharja is saying that makes Kiria’s eyes bulge out every other battle.) That said, the rest of the game is translated excellently. I feel I’m missing out on a bit of the game’s charm by not understanding their battle banter.
• Itsuki—LET ME SWITCH HIM OUT of my team in my first playthrough. I don’t like when game designers lock options like this behind a second playthrough. I get requiring him for certain battles, but let me choose my artists.
• Notifications—LET ME TURN THEM OFF. It’s the in-game equivalent to your phone dinging you every time your friend Brett sends 20 one-word texts within a minute. This became especially bothersome when I focused on leveling up all my weapons. Each weapon has four skills and around every three battles you get a new one. You get an upper-left hand corner graphic and the exclamation point on your in-game phone won’t go away until you scroll through your new skill list. I get it--lots of skills!
• Barry. I get that his relationship with Mamori is silly; however, it came off as obsessive for a 35-year-old man to fawn over an 11-year-old girl to me. (He prefers anime girls in his bio.) Maybe this stems from me being chased by an older man across my hometown as a young teenage girl. I dunno, just came off as creepy to me. I did not like that sort of attention as a young girl from adult men--innocent or not.

Playtime

Took me a little bit over 50 hours to play through the main story, all character side stories, and maybe half of the other side quests. I ended at level 71 for all my characters for the final boss.

Should you play Tokyo Mirage Sessions? 

• Do you like JPRGs? Then yes.
• Are you craving more Fire Emblem in any way possible? Then yes. Lots of great references throughout if you’ve played Shadow Dragon and Awakening.
• Do you like Atlus games? Then yes.
• Are you interested in playing Atlus games like Persona 5 but don’t have a PS4? Then yes.
• Did you like P5 but think the story took itself a bit too seriously? Then yes. TMS has a good story, which doesn’t try to preach, all the while cleverly inserting the pop culture elements.
• Did you want FFX-2 to have a better story and still bask in the fluff (both verbally and physically)? Then yes.
• Do you like games that are kinda grueling in regards to leveling up and character customization, yet you can’t help but revel in the constant grind? Then yesss.
• Do you like games with side quests that don’t feel like filler? Then yes.
• Do you openly or secretly like J-pop? Then yes and 100% your housemates will judge you. But who cares? A lot of the songs are cool, MOM.