* I didn’t start out wanting to be a guy. But in the late 1960s, when I broke into the overwhelmingly male – dominated television news business, all I saw around me was a sea of white men. Bosses, colleagues in the newsroom, competing reporters, and even interview subjects were all the opposite sex. They were tall, wore identical staid suits and ties and wing – tipped shoes, and had deep, stentorian voices. I envied their bravado, their swagger, the way they could walk into a room and command it. When they spoke, it was with confidence and authority. They were entitled to respect because they were men.
[LF: Who else believes that men are entitled to respect because they are men?]
* I was sexually molested by our trusted family doctor, but what made this monster even more reprehensible was that he was the very doctor who had delivered me on August 20, 1946.
I was a cool coed, dating whomever I wanted. I was still a virgin but had advanced to the so – called heavy petting stage, short of intercourse. I assumed I would become sexually active and would need protection from pregnancy, so I went to this doctor for birth control pills, an IUD, or a diaphragm.
…I had never had a gynecological exam before, nor had I seen exam stirrups. It was all new to me, but I followed his instructions. I found it extremely odd to spread my legs and dig my heels into those cold iron stirrups.
Not understanding or knowing what he was doing, I stared at the ceiling. With his right index finger, he massaged my clitoris. Simultaneously he inserted his right middle finger in my vagina. He moved both fingers rhythmically, coaching me verbally in a soft voice, “Just breathe,” he said. He mimicked the sound of soft breathing, “Ah – ah,” and assured me, “You’re doing fine.”
Suddenly, to my shock, for the first time in my life, I had an orgasm. My body jerked several times. Then he leaned over, kissed me, a peck on my lips, and slipped behind the curtain to retreat to his office area.
I did not say a word. I could not even look at him. I quickly dressed and drove home. I may have told one of my sisters. I don’t remember what she said to me. I certainly did not tell my parents, and I did not report him to authorities. It never crossed my mind that reporting him could protect other women.
* In Timothy Crouse’s book about the adventures of the campaign press, The Boys on the Bus , he observed, “Few TV correspondents ever join the wee – hour poker games or drinking. Connie Chung, the pretty Chinese CBS correspondent, occupied the room next to mine… and she was always back by midnight, reciting a final sixty – second radio spot into her Sony or absorbing one last press release before getting a good night’s sleep.” The next morning, Crouse noted, I would be “bright and alert, sticking a mike into McGovern’s face” with pointed questions, while the print reporters, after spending the night drinking, stood bleary eyed, listening, just in case McGovern should say something newsworthy.
Tim was right. I said to myself, “I will not engage in such debauchery.” At the time, I haughtily thought, “Those reporters are just a bunch of drunkards.”
But when I woke up, I’d discover the New York Times or the Washington Post had broken an important story. Someone from the McGovern campaign had leaked an inside story to a boy on the bus! How did one of those drunks get that story? Then it dawned on me. The reporters were drinking with lubricated McGovern aides who then spilled their guts. How stupid could I be?
So much for staying in my room. No more good girl tucked in bed early. I joined the boys in the bar, just as I had in college. Yes, that made it harder to get up bright and early the next day — but I was not going to miss a scoop.
* As I made my way back to the dining room, I encountered [George] McGovern in a dark, narrow hallway. He stopped me and tried to kiss me. I was shocked. I stepped back. He quickly took the cue and stepped back too. It was not an aggressive act. Just a surprising one.
* I was seated at a black – tie dinner next to former President Jimmy Carter. At one point during the dinner, his leg and knee pressed against my leg under the table. I immediately looked at him. He smiled. Oh dear. This incident happened after President Carter had told Playboy magazine he had “looked at a lot of women with lust” and had “committed adultery in [his] heart many times.” I think I saw that look.
* Next scene: the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where I was exiting through a revolving door. Entering through the revolving door: Warren Beatty. We circled around a few times, laughing at the silliness. Remember Beatty? He was the one who chased every skirt on the 1972 McGovern campaign. I was a dedicated reporter who did not want anything to taint my reputation. I resisted his overtures.
Now I was in La – La Land and Warren was relentless. What the heck. He actually lived at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in a small room on a top floor, tucked in the eaves. We went out a couple times and he called often. There were times when he rang me at my apartment when Maury and his daughters were visiting me. One day, either Susan or Amy answered my phone. Her eyes bugged out when she whispered to me that Warren Beatty was on the line. She added, “We won’t tell Dad.” How cute is that? From then on, if Warren called and the girls were at my apartment, they would say, “Connie, it’s Walter!” — their code name for him.
* All night, I kept getting glimpses of Ryan O’Neal, who was looking very Love Story – ish. Our eyes met several times during the night, but I never seemed to be able to gracefully weave through the stars to talk to him. Before I knew it, the night was over, and everyone was heading to the door to give hunky wannabe actors our valet tickets so they could run and get our cars. I found myself at the door just in front of Ryan O’Neal. I looked at him and a line from old black – and – white movies emerged from my lips: “Your place or mine?” O’Neal replied, “Up to you.” With a subtle and casual glance back at him, I said, “Follow me.” I hopped in my black Jensen – Healey convertible, gunned my motor, and scooted down the hill — waiting for him down the road. Feel free to use your imagination.
One night a girlfriend of mine and I decided to go to dinner at Musso & Frank, a small, funky restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard. We settled into a booth, just the two of us. Not far away, at another booth, were four guys. They asked if we wanted to join them. “Sure.” We nodded, squeezing into their booth.
They seemed nice, smart, fun. I asked the guy I found most appealing what he did for a living. “I play in a band.” At the end of the dinner, he asked me if I wanted to go to his house. “Sure.”
In his cluttered living room, an upright piano took a prominent spot. “Would you play something you perform with your band?” I asked innocently. “Sure.” He launched into “Hotel California.” Gulp.
By this time, Maury, who had gotten an anchor job in San Francisco, had already moved on to the NBC affiliate in Philadelphia, where he was a news anchor, reporter, and talk show host. We were still a two – city couple, but the long travel time between LA and Philly slowed our romance. Still, we talked frequently. I called to tweak him: “I went out with an Eagle.” Maury replied, “You mean the Philadelphia Eagles?” How I groaned.
Even though we both knew we did not have an exclusive relationship, Maury felt compelled to remark: “You are star – f*cking!”
I retorted, “YOU can’t even remember the FIRST names of the women you are dating — let alone the LAST names.”
* Jane Pauley’s coanchor, Bryant Gumbel, set the macho tone. Steve Friedman, Today executive producer, was the cocaptain of the male brigade. Before the program started, the guys joked and talked among themselves. Even though I was sitting right next to Bryant, I was invisible. Quietly reviewing my material, I went about my business. Bryant would not talk to me until the red light went on and we were on the air.
* Since NBC had a history of fourteen failed magazine programs, the news division created a documentary unit instead. Happy to be assigned to that staff, I thought I would be creating solid hours of serious journalism, but Executive Producer Paul Greenberg and Senior Producer Sid Feders had other ideas for me.
I wanted to do a documentary about security breaches at the US embassy in the Soviet Union. Greenberg adamantly refused, knocking down the idea despite a well – researched pitch from a female producer and me. Nothing she or I said would convince him.
Instead, Feders suggested doing what I would not call a documentary. It was called Scared Sexless and was about sex and AIDS, a blatant ratings grabber. I vehemently resisted. I tried to fight in a civilized manner, but I could not find a way to buck the system. I lost, and it was a significant loss.
Just as I had known all those years before that the miniskirt special I’d been assigned at Channel 5 was not dignified, serious journalism, I knew this kind of tawdry play for ratings would hurt my career. My inability to extricate myself from the sex blather set in motion a perception that tarnished my reputation for all the years that followed. Much to my dismay, the curse was that it was a ratings hit — garnering the highest ratings for an NBC News documentary documentary in ten years.
Another Sid Feders extravaganza followed, called Life in the Fat Lane , about weight loss. Yet again, I succumbed to the wishes of the men in charge, even though I was embarrassed by this hour of infotainment. Again, the ratings came in just short of the top ten of the week — it ended up eleventh. After each of those hours, I was skewered by media critics, especially the Washington Post ’s Tom Shales, who called me “Connie Funn” and the programs “popumentaries.” The insults were awful to read, yet frankly, I agreed with Shales. I earnestly traveled to do all the interviews, but it was my worst series of programs ever.
Later Shales, in a column about other documentaries by NBC women, called Real Life with Jane Pauley “superficial friffle” and Cutting Edge with Maria Shriver “another exercise in thumb – twiddling anti – journalism from a news division that seems to be steadily losing interest in the news.” Shales went on, “ Cutting Edge was produced by Sid Feders, the man who perpetrated many of the mockumentaries and schlockumentaries that starred Connie Chung.”
That story by Shales highlighted what I already knew. The men in the documentary unit, such as Tom Brokaw, would never touch the schlock and were never put in a position where they had to refuse to do celebrity – tainted superficial subjects. Three women were. We did not wiggle out of it. Why? I don’t think it ruined Jane Pauley and Maria Shriver’s reputations, yet I know it ruined mine. Unfortunately, I did not know how to fight it.
