Rain Boots

The rain surrounded me in a gray haze creating an almost solid barrier between the building’s entrance and my car in the parking lot. I was stuck in the no man’s land of the covered entryway of my office, barely protected from the streams pouring down the sides of the roof and splatter from the puddles. Why did I even wear the boots if I was going to get wet anyway?

I tried to will myself forward, to cross the threshold but I stayed rooted in place. My feet, encased in a pair of purple and pink galoshes with a wildflower pattern, slick and shiny, felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. I’d put the boots on without thinking. They’re my only rain boots and today’s forecast was thunderstorms. Why wouldn’t I wear them? I usually loved the rain because it gave me an excuse to wear them. But I’d never brought this part of myself to work and I wasn’t sure if I was ready.

When my wife’s job moved us to West Virginia from New York City, I knew my gender identity was something I would need to manage. I got a sense of false hope when we moved to a hippie enclave called Shepherdstown with storefronts sporting rainbow flags and BLM posters. What they lacked in diversity they made up for in enthusiastic allyship. It hadn’t taken me long to fall in love with its quaint charm and welcoming community, the eclectic restaurants and cute shops down the main street. When I ventured out in a skirt or with a full face of make-up, I got compliments and smiles from the locals. I thought with relief, maybe I can be myself here.

When I got called in for an interview for a social worker position at the Department of Health and Human Resources just one county over, I realized my little town was actually an oasis. The day I got the phone call, my wife made a well-meaning suggestion.

“Maybe, for now, you should present as a man.”

Her words stung. I knew she was watching out for my safety but it still felt like steps backward. I’d come out as non-binary the year before we got married and even as a pansexual cis woman, she’d had some difficulties adjusting to the changes. In those early days, because I was still figuring myself out and because I loved her, I tried to meet her halfway. I transitioned much more gradually than I would’ve liked, indulged in correcting her when she misgendered me or called me by my deadname, and draped myself in capital P Patience to make this process more palatable for her. It was exhausting. But two years later she didn’t bat an eye when I borrowed a dress or lipstick and corrected others when they misgendered me. We were in a good place. But all of this happened in New York, where my androgynous, femme-leaning looks barely caused people to bat an eye.

But I followed her advice. For the interview, I wore slacks, a button-down shirt, and boots, all muted colors and masculine cuts. I straightened my posture, changed my gait and the way I held myself, becoming more rigid. I let a little stubble grow out even though we were required to wear face masks at all times. The survival instinct to pass reawakened in me. When I got hired, I felt obligated to keep it up. I didn’t want them to turn on me, to accuse me of tricking them or of being unsuitable for the job. My compromise was to wear jeans and gender-neutral shirts and jackets, my hair slightly longer than the typical West Virginian male. I assumed they chalked my less than hyper-masculine style to being a New Yorker or at worse a closet case. For some reason, letting them think I was gay and my wife a beard felt more acceptable than the truth.

Until I found myself standing outside my office, the sleeves and back of my jacket slowly getting drenched, while my feet stayed dry and toasty in my girly boots. Scenarios played out in my mind where my usually friendly coworkers with whom I made jokes at lunch and vented to between sessions would suddenly stonewall me, their eyes scanning my appearance in disdain until eventually my stereotypically cishet supervisor (in this fantasy clad in full hunting fatigues for some reason) called me to his office to tell me sternly that this wasn’t going to work and to clear out my desk. I felt the familiar clenching in my chest and throat. A low-grade tension spread through my body, and I couldn’t tell if I was shivering from cold or the anxiety of feeling like my life was about to implode because I wore the wrong boots to work.

“Sup, Hawke,” said a drawling voice behind me.

My coworker Rogers stepped up next to me, late as usual. We all referred to each other by our last names, which was a relief because having to deal with being deadnamed every day would’ve been just a shade too far for me.

Rogers looked down at my feet. I braced myself for the joke or, worse, stony silence.

“Nice boots.” Rogers held the door open for me.

I did a double-take. Then I realized I was taking way too long to do something as basic as walk through a door.

“M-morning, Rogers,” I stammered. “Thanks.”

It felt like going through a portal. As I walked down the hall, I parroted back the “good mornings” from my other coworkers. Aside from a few glances down at my feet, no one said a word, no one made a comment. A raised eyebrow, a hint of a smile. I could deal with those. By the time I reached my office at the end of the hallway, I was cautiously optimistic.

Beep. “Hawke.” My supervisor’s voice came through the telephone intercom system. “Come see me when you have a moment.”

The icy dread came back like a tidal wave. This was it. I was done. My hands were shaking and it took me several minutes to get my jacket off, wet fingers slipping on buttons, my suddenly too-long arms getting caught in the sleeves. Now I was self-conscious about my t-shirt, was it too fitted, the colors too feminine? I took a deep breath, tried to lower the volume of the voices in my head, and headed back down the hall, my wet boots squeaking with every step.

I stepped into my supervisor’s office and stood by the door.

“Hey Hawke,” he said, shuffling some papers on his desk, “I just…” He looked up and his eyes went right to the boots. “Huh, interesting boots. I think my daughter has those.”

“Thanks?” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

He nodded. “Anyway, I need you to do a home visit today, I know it’s not on the schedule but it’s the Mitchell case and it’s time-sensitive.”

He held out a paper to me. Was that it? “Yeah,” I finally said, taking the form. “No problem.”

My supervisor took another uncertain look at my boots, was about to say something then thought better of it. He nodded at me and turned back to his computer.

I walked back to my office, a little dazed, and grabbed the other documents I needed for the home visit. It ended up being fairly routine. The mother could’ve cared less what I was wearing since she was terrified I was going to take her kids away again. Thankfully I didn’t have a reason to. Back at the office, a few people commented on my boots but no one said anything hurtful or derogatory. I had some clients come in during the afternoon. Maybe they stared at my feet a bit too long but they simply shook their heads and went back to talking about themselves. I had lunch with my coworkers and we joked and laughed as usual. Maybe I was a bit more subdued and closed off but no one seemed to notice.

By the time we clocked out, the rain had stopped and the early spring sunshine came out in full force. I waved goodbye to my coworkers as we walked to our cars. I sat in the parking lot for a little while, feeling a headache begin to bloom behind my eyes. 

“What a day,” I muttered, rubbing my eyelids.

I leaned back and took deep breaths, exhaling slowly. Only then did I realize I’d been clenching my arms and shoulders and stomach all day. I wasn’t ready to come out. I’d survived today but having to deal with direct questions or defending the validity of they/them pronouns or asking people to stop calling me mister or dude or man was more emotional labor than I was ready to put in just now. But I’d worn my loudest, most femme boots to work and made it through. Maybe one day this wouldn’t feel like such an event.