All in a Day's Work

I suppose that in some occupations or circumstances, one has the occasion to interact with many transvestite or transsexual individuals. Where I work, to make money for gas and college text books, I rarely see anyone non-normative. You see, I work high-end retail, selling over-priced silk blouses, coordinating mules and handbags, and other non-essential articles to women who can’t be bothered with price tags or last month’s “must haves”. I do it for the flexible schedule and the fat monthly commission checks I receive: crumbs from the company as a thank-you for peddling their wares.

In this place, I am like a chameleon: safely camouflaged behind my nametag and professionalism. In an environment where appearance is everything, I’ve learned the skill of announcing balances equal to a quarter’s tuition without even batting an eye. I smile and nod when clients (not customers) ask me to call their drivers. Behind my poise, the “ladies who lunch” would never know I sometimes talk about them at dinner, rolling my eyes at the ridiculous amounts of money they spend on things they’ll shortly forget they own or wear once and then discard. They would not care that I sometimes curse them under my breath, especially the rude ones who destroy the piles of meticulously folded cashmere sweaters, or leave mounds of clothes in crumpled heaps in the corners of the wardrobing rooms.

It was gearing up to be just like any other Sunday until one of my coworkers came up to me, with an awful look in her eye, and stated with urgency, “I don’t know what to do! There’s someone over in Feature Area Two and I don’t know if it’s a man or a woman!” The social conundrum was clearly causing her distress. She had only recently joined our team from the hosiery department of Nordstrom, where transvestites must not shop either. A buzz traveled quickly through our staff as the client’s sex/gender was evaluated. Evidence was complied on both sides as s/he was “read.” High voice = female. Clearly distinguishable four o’clock shadow = male. Make-up = female. Horrible make-up application = male. Breast buds = ??? What about the long, loose skirt? Was there a penis under there? “Should we allow it to go into the fitting rooms?” someone asked.

I hate to disappoint the reader who expects this to be a “Melissa is a hero for being more open than everyone else” story. It isn’t. We were busy and short-staffed. I didn’t ask why it mattered whether our client was a man or a woman. I didn’t call a team huddle to explain how the dichotomies of sexual identity oppress us all. Instead, my game face disguised something completely different: my anger and frustration over a different kind of hierarchy. You see, I’d grown numb to the classism that plagues my employment. But this was the first time, at work, that my sexual politics had been challenged. I’m still feeling disequilibria.

I waited on our client. I set up a wardrobing room, and ended up selling him (or her) a beautiful silk blouse and some knee highs. I feel good about the customer service I provided and the example I set on the sales floor. However, my actions still seem irrelevant.

“A ship in a harbor is safe, but that’s not what ships are built for,” said John A. Shields. My hope is for all of us, including myself, to find the conviction to leave our harbors and follow the direction of Mahata Ghandi. Let’s be the change we want to see in the world.