Doubts

The following is not story. It is a narrative. It doesn’t start at the beginning, and it is not known where it will end. But it will; everything does. There will be several sequential posts as the author is motivated. Since it is a narrative there is no dialogue and it is always in the present tense. The intent is not to entertain but to inform and to incite understanding, context, perspective. Ideally a reader my gain an appreciation where we are today, and what it will take for a better tomorrow. Enjoy.

I'm sitting in my office with a stack of files I must finish screening before the end of the day. I work for the Federal government just three blocks from the White House, and I'm having trouble concentrating. It's hard to believe it's been exactly a year since I transitioned. A year ago I came to work wearing a patterned skirt, shell, jacket and low heel pumps. For the previous twenty five years with the government I wore suits and ties, except I gave up the ties months before I transitioned.

Even though it's only mid-March it's unseasonably warm today and I'm wearing my Jones of New York peach suit. The skirt comes just above my knees but rides higher when sitting. The matching jacket is form fitting, nicely holding my bust and buttons tight to a collarless neck. It has 20 mother of pearl buttons spanning from neck to mid hips. It flairs slightly below the waist giving my hips a much needed accent. I'm wearing matching two inch pumps. I'm already the second tallest gal in the building and any more heel will make me stand out more. I draw enough attention.

I review three more files but my mind wanders. I'm thinking about the meeting scheduled for later today about my status. No, my job is not in jeopardy; I'm still Deputy Division Chief even if I am no longer consulted about day to day decisions. But it's been a year and for all the hype and fear when I first announced that I could no longer function in my job as a man, bringing my therapist in to brief management, there have been no incidents. My job is safe but as a woman I no longer carry the weight as a manager that I did as a man. I have no path for advancement. I yearn to be in the thick of things again, and briefly question if what I have gained is greater than what I lost.

I check the time. I have to be in the Director's office in an hour and I have a huge run in my pantyhose. I've learned and have a spare pair in my purse. I hate when I have to change pantyhose at work, but I just can't go to this meeting not looking perfect. I know these guys; have been in the men's room with some of them. I'm not going to cross my legs in front of them with a huge run beginning at my foot, moving up over my knee, and disappearing under my skirt. The problem is that I'm not allowed to use the ladies’ room just down the hall from my office but must walk up two floors to the other side of the building and use the little rest room adjacent to the Health Unit. I've been banned from pubic restrooms in our building even though I just got back from a conference the agency sent me to where no one questioned, or even knew, my genital status. It's hard enough living this life without the added burden of being treated so different.

I grab my purse from the bottom drawer of my desk and double check for the pantyhose. I make my way up the stairs and over to the Health Unit. They're used to me now and very accommodating. They seem to understand. I enter the little room with a toilet and a basin. I struggle to take off the ruined pantyhose, but putting the new pair on is impossible in such a tight space. I decide it would be easier to take off my skirt. That helps, and in a few minutes the new pantyhose is in place, the skirt back on and I am presentable. I fix my lipstick, and powder my face from my compact. My hair is still good and only needs a light brushing. It now is just above my shoulders and I'm enjoying the perm I got two weeks ago. I check myself in the mirror. Is this really me?

****

I enter the Group Director's office and stop at his secretary's desk. She is young, no more than thirty, and beautiful. Her dark brown hair cascades over her shoulders. Her make-up is impeccable. She is wearing an elegant but appropriate dress. I'm jealous.

She greets me checking me out as I did her. It's what I've learned women do. It’s what I expect. She smiles and compliments me on my suit and asks. I proudly tell her it is Jones of New York. She approves. She tells me to go on in, that they are waiting for me.

I've been in this office before but never as the woman I am now. The last time I was here was when I informed my manager I was transitioning. It seems so long ago. The office is bigger than I remembered with a large desk and matching credenza, a conference table that accommodates eight and an intimate area with a couch and two high back chairs separated by a coffee table. I want an office like this. I want to be a powerful woman.

Frank is standing with another man I don't know. I recognize the woman seated on the couch. I briefly forget her name but know she is the head of Labor Relations. Frank greets me and shakes my hand, firm but not like he did before, when I was his go to guy for so many projects. I tell him it is good to see him. It is good to see him. He is strikingly good looking with smiling inquisitive blue eyes and curly blond hair. I've always loved and admired Frank. If I was attracted to men I would be putty in his arms.

To the man I do not know Frank introduces me as Ms. Hartman. Frank is gallant and respectful as always. I almost blush. The man he introduces to me is Bob Epps from the General Counsel's office. Mr. Epps shakes my hand warmly and says he is pleased to meet me. He doesn't say he has heard so much about me. He doesn't have to. Everyone in the building has heard so much about me. Franks turns to the woman and reminds me she is Sheila Ward from Labor Relations. She doesn't stand or offer a greeting. I nod to her but we have a past. She was cold when I transitioned and I suspect she argued I was receiving special treatment because I was part of management.

Frank motions for us to sit but he and Bob Epps take the chairs. Sheila is already positioned on the couch. I must perform a sitting-down-in-short-skirt-from-a-standing-position-to-a-low-couch-while-being-observed-by-two-men maneuver. The degree of difficulty is exceedingly high but my execution is good if not perfect avoiding any score reduction for flashing the judges. But my skirt is now dangerously high on my thigh and my knees angle up. I place my purse on the floor beside me and cross my legs at the ankle. I can't cross one leg over the other knee without being terribly indiscreet. Frank and Bob wait for me to get settled. I think they are staring and I'm tempted to embarrass them.

Frank leads the meeting. I feel strong and empowered. As I expected he brings up my request; the one I made last week to be relieved from our agreement. When I transitioned I anticipated resistance and unilaterally offered not to use any public restroom in the building until I completed reassignment surgery, or for one year. I worded it poorly only intending to endure one year of segregation, but the agency was holding me to the 'no penis in the women's room' policy. I now petitioned to be relieved of that citing my good faith effort, the hardship on me and that I had represented the agency at conferences and events at other agencies under no such restriction and without incident.

Frank is nice and diplomatic. He commends me for what I have done for the agency singling out the presentation I made at the conference. He said he heard from several attendees how well received it was. He acknowledges our long working relationship. I thank him.

He now says before we discuss my request there is another matter he has to address. He looks at me and tells me there has been a complaint. He pauses, watching my reaction. Frank and I have done this dance before, when I was his lead on so many projects. Something wouldn't go as planned and he needed an explanation, a way to avoid blame. I knew if I said anything at all I would be on the defensive. I wait.

Frank looks at Sheila and I notice her eyes smiling. It's her cue. Sheila turns to me and tells me someone claims to have seen me entering and then leaving the women's room on the ground floor adjacent to the cafeteria. She's vague about the details and doesn't cite the date or time. I remain silent. Frank rescues me. He uses my first name, Becky, and quickly says it is just one complaint and that it is uncorraborated.
Without hesitating Frank defends me saying he knows I am a person of my word and wouldn't break an agreement unless it was critical. He goes on to say he is not accusing me and doesn't believe it. I sit in silence listening, my confidence evaporating. Frank goes hypothetical. He posits that it would be understandable if someone restricted to the use of a rest room several floors away with urgent need and pressure, might well risk a quick stop for relief.

Now he turns to the lawyer, Mr. Epps. This feels rehearsed. I feel like the couch is swallowing me. Bob begins a long speech. He says the problem is that the complaint came through the union, the one they have a contract with, the same one who lodged a formal complaint when I transitioned claiming I was mentally unstable and dangerous. Their evidence, I was transitioning from male to female, ipso facto, I'm unstable. Who can argue with pure logic?

I want to stand up and run but can't move. Mr. Epps continues. He talks directly at me and explains that because the union formally complained, the agency Director, the "top guy", was briefed. And, Epps continues, the top guy was so concerned that "he" informed the head of OMB. I'm in the twilight zone.

Frank jumps back in. He starts explaining their dilemma, their problem. He suggests I look at the big picture. I’ve seen the big picture before and I’m never it it. It's an election year, he says, and President Clinton just pushed through Don't Ask, Don't Tell. I can barely listen. I know what is coming. Frank is saying the Union will go public with a claim that the agency is letting men dress as women and go into public rest rooms reserved for women, real ones. His words echo loudly inside my head: THE PRESIDENT DOESN'T NEED HEADLINES LIKE THAT. Frank quickly adds how wrong and obscene it would be if the union did that, but he has been ordered to not let that happen. He speculates he can get them to drop the complaint if he personally assures them I've been warned. Do they not understand how convoluted that is. Warned for what?

I feel tears and reach for my purse. I need a tissue; I can't leave with mascara running down my face. I dab my eyes and compose myself. Frank comforts me, verbally, and I feel he is sincere. He doesn't like this any more than I do. I want him to hug me.

He's now telling me that the person making the complaint has issues. She's fragile; has made other complaints, her supervisor propositioned her, a coworker constantly makes suggestive remarks and has suggestive pictures in his office, a man rubbed against her in an elevator. Franks divulges she was raped in college in a women's room in the student union.

My heart aches for her. I too was raped, when I was fourteen by a man in his twenties. I'm emotionally drained. I can't talk about my past. I capitulate but don't confess. I did break the agreement; it was me the complainer saw. It was necessity. I tell Frank, Bob and Sheila how bad I feel for the complainer and promise no one will see me in a public rest room in the building. I want to add 'until after surgery' but cannot deal with questions about when that will be. For several reasons surgery has been postponed. I graciously withdraw my request to be relieved from restroom restrictions.

We all stand. Bob and Sheila wish me good luck. I think they are sincere. Frank surprises me. He hugs me, warmly. It's reassuring and affirming.

I'm walking back to my office feeling defeated and alone, listening to the rhythmic sound my heels make on the terrazzo floor and the echo racing ahead of me signaling a woman is coming. They can't take that joy from me.