Autobiography: Hallowe’en 2006, Part 1.

In October of 2006 I was happily ensconced in my job as a legislative editor at the Georgia State Capitol and about a year and a half into my transition. I worked in a faux-wood-paneled, L-shaped room with three other editors: Larry, Eugie (who had been hired over the summer), and another woman. Our office was next door to the office of the senior editor, Beth Yinger.

I was still presenting as male, of course, but my transgender-and-transitioning status was essentially an open secret to my peers. Larry and Eugie had both been my friends for years, since well before any of us worked at the Capitol (Larry began there first, then recommended I apply when there was an opening, and then I got Eugie to apply when there was another opening). I hadn’t officially talked with the other editor about what was going on, but the room wasn’t that large, and I did talk about transition-related stuff with Eugie, within earshot of the that woman, and often at times when one or another of the legal secretaries were passing through. My therapist, Erin, called this deliberate recklessness “systematic desensitization.” I called it “unfurling my freak flag.”

My therapist, Erin, called this deliberate recklessness ‘systematic desensitization.’ I called it ‘unfurling my freak flag.’

Beth, as the senior editor, was our immediate supervisor. Since she sat in a different office from us, I figured I should have a semi-official conversation with her to explain what was going on with me. Naturally, I wanted to fully transition in this workplace someday, and the channel I’d go through would begin with Beth.

I didn’t make up a pseudonym for Beth, because that would have been pointless. Her name’s all over the various briefs and filings that constituted Glenn v. Brumby. Depositions of the parties to the suit all include mention of her, and she was deposed herself. She’s bound up inextricably in the narrative; pretending to preserve her anonymity or indemnify myself by giving her a fake name would be like ignoring an elephant in a room. Or some more flattering metaphor.

But there’s not much to say about her here, anyway. My work relationship with her was pretty straightforward. She was originally from West Virginia, had been at the Capitol as a legislative editor for almost thirty years, and had been senior editor for more than a decade. She’s the person who interviewed and hired me, and over the past year she’d given me mostly complimentary feedback about my work. She was generally easygoing, an avid reader like the rest of us, never got visibly angry, and often wore Crocs to the office.

She was also our sole intercessor with Sewell Brumby. All directives from or feedback to Mr. Brumby went through Beth. We never spoke to him directly unless we edited one of his bills, and then he rarely offered more than a curt “thank you” when we returned it to him. He never entered our office, which was separated from his by a flight of stairs and a long hallway. I don’t think I was formally introduced to him even when I started the job. If he needed something communicated to the editors, he communicated it to Beth.

I decided to have my conversation with Beth on October 11th, which is “National Coming-Out Day” (I’m often motivated by arbitrary symbolism; don’t judge). Also, this was during the nine months of the year when our office wasn’t very busy, so she’d have time for a téte-a-téte without being distracted by work.

I got up from my desk and walked out into the hall. Beth usually left her door open, so I stood in the doorway and lightly rapped on the jamb with my knuckles, just to get her to look up.

Source: sdsmt.collegiatelink.net/organization/lgbtservices

Source: sdsmt.collegiatelink.net/organization/lgbtservices

“Got a minute?” I asked. “I need to talk with you about something.”

“Sure,” she said. “Shut the door.” I closed the door behind me and sat down in the chair in front of her desk.

If I’d hesitated, I would have lost my nerve. I knew this was a ripping off the Band-Aid situation. So I just blurted it out. “I’m transgender,” I told her. I’ve been taking female hormones and doing other related things for some time now, and eventually I’m going to start coming to work as a woman.”

She nodded slowly, not looking very surprised. “All right,” she said. “I think I noticed something was going on.”

“I hope that’s okay,” I said. In hindsight I’m a little angry that our society was in such a place at the time that I felt the need to say something like this. Imagine an employee asking her boss if it was “okay” that she had psoriasis, or diabetes.

“Of course it’s okay,” she said. “I don’t think there will be any problem with that around here. After all, it’s a medical condition, right? I don’t know why anybody would have a problem with that.”

I didn’t hide my sigh of relief. I’d had no reason to doubt she’d be supportive; she was socially progressive, and also kind. But gender stuff is at the edge of the envelope, even now; you can’t always predict how people will react when you come out to them. Not everyone is as broad-minded as they believe themselves to be.

Beth took the news fully in stride, assuring me this was no big deal to her. Not for the first time or the last, I was dealing with someone who went out of her way to assert her hipness bona fides by demonstrating how accepting and well-informed she was about this sort of phenomenon. “I used to live in Midtown,” she said, with a knowing nod.

What "Midtown Atlanta" means to most people. Source: Georgia Voice

What “Midtown Atlanta” means to most people.
Source: Georgia Voice

We talked for another ten minutes or so. We mostly talked about administrative stuff: my legal name change and adjusting various work-related documents.

I told her my rough timetable, which was to begin what’s clinically known as the “real life experience” the following spring, sometime after the General Assembly’s annual legislative session. She was relieved I didn’t intend to do this during the legislative session. I never would have done that; the session was a grueling three- or four-month interval of long, stressful days; transitioning during that season would have been harder on me than on anyone else.

And one more thing. Beth and I both recognized that my coming-out to the rest of our department would be more complicated than coming out to her, and I couldn’t do it one at a time. With Hallowe’en coming soon, I suggested it would be a good opportunity for us to gauge our coworkers’ reactions to the idea of a transgender person working among them. I would come in to the office en femme that day, when many others among us would also be in costume.

She liked this idea, and gave it her blessing. As I got up to leave, she reassured me again that everything was going to be all right.

“Nobody’s going to care, and it’s none of their damn business even if they do.”

At the time I had no reason to doubt her.

Next: a reason to doubt her.


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