A Pyrrhic Victory In Baltimore

When I wrote yesterday's post, all of the information I had about the passage of Baltimore County's new law came from "instant" reports, which weren't very detailed, and I couldn't find a copy of the actual law.  So, naturally, I was happy that it had passed.


However, as the saying goes, the devil is in the details.  As it turns out, there is "fine print" added to Baltimore County Bill 3-12  that essentially caused it to pass.  The irony is that the people who were upset over the bill's passage most likely hadn't read it.

On page 5, lines 8-10 we find this little gem: This subtitle does not apply to the provision of facilities that are distinctly private or personal.


Now, you may have already figured out what "distinctly private or personal" means.  In case you haven't, I'll translate:  bathrooms.  Well, all right, that's just part of the translation, but it's enough to demonstrate how that clause can, in essence, negate much of the protection the bill is supposed to provide.


Most people take access to bathrooms in their workplaces, and in public spaces for granted.  However, if your appearance, mannerisms or other physical or personal qualities don't conform to societal expectations of the gender for whom the bathroom you enter is designated, you can face harassment, arrest and even physical violence.  I'm not being alarmist here: I am speaking from personal experience.


You see, eight years ago, I was harassed by a security guard at a center where I'd gone to take the GRE.  It was early in my transition, and I had just recently changed my name and acquired identification indicating that I am female.  I showed that identification to a security guard when I entered the building and to the test administrators.  


Before starting the test, I'd asked to use a restroom.  The test administrator handed me the key to the women's room, which the test center shared with other offices on the same floor of that building.  I had that restroom all to myself until another woman entered while I was washing my hands.  We said "hello" to each other, and I left.


When I re-entered the test site, the same security guard who checked me into the building waited for me.  "What were you doing in the women's room?," he bellowed.


"What women usually do in a restroom."

"What were you doing in the women's room?"


"Do you want me to go into detail?"


"You're not supposed to be in there!"


"Why not?"  I pulled out my state ID.  


"What's this?"


"I showed it to you when you checked me in."


"Yeah, and..."


"Look under 'sex'."


"What do you mean?"


I pointed to the box.  "What letter is there?"


"What's this?"


"An F."


"Oh, so you had the operation..."


I pulled the ID out of his hand.  "Have a good day."


The test administrator, and other people who were waiting to take the test, complimented me on the way I handled him.  Of course, they didn't know the rage and fear I felt. Addled by those emotions, I took the test.


That night, I called Pauline Park and mentioned the incident.  She had a very similar incident the day before in Manhattan Mall.  As it turned out, the Mall used the same security company that the testing center used.  Together, we filed a complaint that turned into a lawsuit against the company.  


In answer to the question you're probably asking, neither Pauline nor I made any money, nor was it our intention to do so.  Instead, our complaint to the city's Commission on Human Rights resulted in the security company making donations to advocacy organizations Pauline and I chose.  The ruling also mandated that the company had to institute a training program for its employees.  The CHR and the security company consulted Pauline and me on designing the program, and Pauline trained the company's HR people who, in turn, trained the rest of the employees.


I was satisfied with the outcome.  However, I haven't forgotten how I felt that day, when I was about to take the GRE.  More important, I realized how being harassed over fulfilling a basic need--using a bathroom--can render you a second-class citizen, not to mention shake your confidence in yourself and the society in which you live.  


Plus, some organizations and employers may decide that they don't want the "hassle" of providing access to the appropriate bathrooms and may, as a result, not hire transgenders or trump up charges to dismiss the ones in their employ.  In this economy and society, not having fair and equitable access to employment is tantamount to being a non-person.  That is what, in spite of the "victory" of 3-12, is still allowed in Baltimore County.

Can I Stay Out And Move On?

The other night, I was part of a panel discussion that followed a showing of the film Trinidad.  


The other two members of the panel were a trans man and a trans woman, both of whom have much more of a history of activism than I have, and will probably ever have.  The trans woman, Pauline Park, is one of this area's better-known activists and was the Grand Marshal of the New York City Pride March a few years ago.  Jay Kallio, the trans man, has decided that activism and simply speaking up were the best way to "make the most" of the time he has left--which may not be much, given his medical conditions.


I met Pauline during the year when I was going to work as Nick and ducking into the coffee shop bathrooms to make my Clark Kent-to-Lois Lane change before going about the rest of my life.  I met Jay some time after that, when I hadn't been living full-time as Justine for very long.  


When I first met Pauline, I was only a few months away from living full-time as Justine, although I didn't know that.  When I met Jay, I saw the surgery in my future.  But I didn't know how far or near that future would be.


It was odd to realize that the thing to which I was so looking forward--actually, for which I was hoping--when I met Jay is now part of my past.  And the life I'd wanted to have when I first met Pauline is my life now, and when I think of my past, I don't think of Nick as the actor in it; rather, she was and is Justine.


During the discussion, someone in the audience asked us how we define ourselves.  Each of us mentioned an experience that showed us we were not of the sex marked on our birth certificates when we were born.   I said, "But I was a girl, a woman, even before that.  Most people think that I became a woman when I had my surgery and that I became transgendered when I started my process of transition.  But I was always a woman; I just had to live as male for much of my life."


Then, I had a very strange sensation.  On one hand, I was enjoying the talk, and people in the audience were mostly sympathetic.  But, on the other, a part of me was asking myself, "What am I doing here if I am a woman?"  At the same time, I realized that being a woman was the reason why I was there.


This is a dilemma, to say the least.  I can see why some post-op trans women completely leave the world of transgender activism (if they were involved in it) and the other vestiges of the trans community behind them.  Then again, I can see why some remain in a kind of transgender subculture:  We have histories that are different from those of cis-gender women--or men, for that matter.


Marci Bowers didn't approve of the fact that Sabrina Marcus allowed her kids to call her "Dad," even after her transition and surgery.  I can understand that, but at the same time, I wouldn't know what to call a transgendered parent.  As Sabrina's daughter said, she can't call her "Mom" because she already has a mother:  the woman who gave birth to her.  


So, the question is:  How much of a break can or should we make with our pasts?  Marci sees herself as a woman, and that of all the things she is, "transgendered is about eighth."  But everybody knows that she was once a man named Mark.  These days, no matter how much you distance yourself from your past, it's not that difficult for someone else to learn about it.  Even if I'd never written a word about my transition, someone with a little too much time on his or her hands would have  found me out.


Sometimes I am tempted to go to get a new job or to move to some place where nobody knows me.  But, even though I'll probably never be famous, I somehow doubt that I'll be completely anonymous, either:  It's hard to do that when the things you do for a living involve--or are--communication with other people.  And it seems that I'll always be doing that sort of work, whether or not I get paid for it--or whether or not I'm any sort of transgender activist.