In the wake of the Harvey Weinstein scandal, I remember my own office harassment that occurred almost three decades ago. As a 22-year-old technical writer for a government contractor, I was working in my first job — nothing exciting, but it came with good benefits and a decent salary. Mine was a more or less male-dominated office and field, but everyone seemed to get along. The atmosphere was more nerdy than alpha male.

As the youngest employee, I ran errands, answered the phones, and decorated for office parties on top of my regular duties. During one office Christmas party one of my coworkers, a man a good decade and a half older than I was, grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me on the mouth. This was during the day, there was no alcohol served, and everyone was pretty much milling around awkwardly waiting to be let go early. He was not my boss and had no authority over me or my position other than he was male and a manager. The kiss caught me completely off guard.

Flustered I quickly exited the party and hurried down the hall to the office of a female coworker who happened to be working at her desk. Beth was a feminist child of the ’60s. I figured if there was anyone I could vent to, and possibly ask for help, it would be her. Beth’s response, which I remember to this day, was jarring.

“You’re young. You wear nice clothes. You’re pretty,” she said smiling, and patting my arm.

Blame the victim because she was asking for it? Granted I wasn’t raped, but hers was not the answer, let alone comfort, I was expecting. I left her office in somewhat of a daze, and returned to the party as if nothing happened. I didn’t tell anyone, my parents, my friends. I was embarrassed more than anything. Embarrassed because I thought I let it happen. But I didn’t. He was a jerk, who took a major liberty.

Realizing I was on my own in this, I decided to do something about it on my own. The next morning I went to his office, closed the door behind me, and, with hands balled into fists to keep from shaking, told him in a firm voice that if he ever touched me again — or even looked at me — I would have him fired. Of course I had no power to do that, I was barely more than an intern. I don’t think we even had a proper HR office, hence my talking to Beth. It was the late ’80s, women were harassed, outrageously insensitive things were said on a daily basis, and a girl like me — Catholic school-educated and very compliant, especially to adults in positions of authority — was not as assertive as what I see in my millennial friends today. I envy them. Of course, the women I talked to back then, those who were older and lived through the workplace politics of the ’60s and ’70s, envied my friends and me. According to them, we didn’t have to struggle like they did.

As for Randy, the creep who kissed me and who, come to think of it, bore a slight resemblance to Mr. Weinstein, he got the message.

“Are we understood?” I asked when I finished my one sentence speech. He nodded his head like a child who’d been scolded.

I left his office, feeling not quite vindicated but stronger. I had taken matters into my own hands, and I learned a valuable lesson. I had to rely on myself, use my own judgment. It wasn’t long after that I got another job, and thankfully never saw Randy again. I’d like to think stories like mine are part of an outmoded past. Sadly they’re not, as proved by Harvey Weinstein and the culture of Hollywood.

Maybe all the accusations by celebrities as well as little stories like mine will resonate, and add something to the conversation. We all know what’s inappropriate — it seems so obvious, and yet these assaults still occur. Enough is enough.

Kristina Henry is a writer in Easton; her email is kristina9henry@gmail.com.