No Do-Overs, Just Do-Betters
There are a handful of moments in my life that I’d like an opportunity to do over with the advantage of maturity and a broader world view. One such moment is the interview I conducted with Sarah 25 years ago.
In the late 1990’s I was a relatively new college graduate working as a recruiting manager in a staffing firm. Our company placed hundreds of employees in a variety of organizations around the region. Interviewing and hiring candidates for projects and long-term roles was a daily responsibility.
Sarah was one of multiple candidates I was scheduled to interview on what seemed like an ordinary day. When she arrived, I could tell from the receptionist’s body language I was in for something unique. The receptionist plopped Sarah’s paperwork on my desk and told me my next interview should be interesting. Not knowing what to make of the vague remark, I fretted as I made my way to the interview room where Sarah was waiting for me. Was she another candidate who decided to bring a pet with her? Was there a family member in tow — a husband, child or parent? Perhaps Sarah was raging about injustices by past employers and taking it out on anyone in range or maybe she’d brought a portfolio in a 3" binder documenting the entirety of her life for me to peruse at my leisure.
Opening the door to the interview room, no obvious oddities stood out. I sat down at the desk and shuffled through the paperwork to determine my best interview approach. When I looked up at Sarah, now directly in front of me, I saw evidence of what inspired the receptionist’s prediction. Sarah wore heavy makeup and a wig of long walnut locks. She was dressed in a pale pink tweed suit with a sheer white blouse. The sheerness of the blouse was insufficient to hide a crop of black chest hair straining against the delicate fabric. Sarah, by my observation at the time, was a man dressed as a woman.
My mind went completely blank for a time. What was going on? Was this a joke my colleagues were playing to see how I would handle the situation? They were a jokey bunch. I decided to roll with it and see where the conversation went. The perfunctory interview questions rolled off my tongue as my scrambled brain continued its attempt to sort out the situation. Sarah began answering them, though it was obvious she, too, was processing the interaction. Her eyes had widened and nerves had triggered a tremor in her voice and in her hands.
Sarah was interested in a data entry or customer service role. Entry level work was fine. She stated she needed to build new skills and was okay with whatever we had to give her a shot. As the interview went on, it was clear Sarah was a genuine candidate. This was no joke. I wasn’t being tested.
I took a breath and weighed my options. Thumbing through her paperwork, I noticed a big problem. Sarah’s name on her I9 — the name on her legally required identification — didn’t match what she was using for her application. I pointed out the discrepancy to Sarah and asked if she had identification matching the name on her application and resume. No she didn’t. I asked her if her references would recognize the name on her application or if they would be more familiar with the name on her driver’s license. Head down, she indicated the latter.
Feeling like we’d hit a wall, I cut the interview short, thanked Sarah for her time and wished her good luck with her efforts. As she exited our suite, I exhaled and mentally patted myself on the back for getting through the experience with a straight face. When I returned to the area of the office where my colleagues awaited, giggles broke out across the room. The receptionist asked when I figured out what was going on and I noted the visible chest hair below Sarah’s blouse. After a few minutes of entertainment at the departed Sarah’s expense and me giving my personal account of how professional and openminded I had been, we all went back to work.
In the years that followed my interaction with Sarah, she came up in stories I’d tell when people would press me about unusual experiences I encountered while working in the staffing industry. I’d talk about the man who showed up dressed as a woman and me sitting through the experience with a straight face. After a time, especially once I no longer worked as a recruiter, those questions ceased and I had no cause to think or talk about Sarah.
About five years ago, my world shifted in a way that invited the memory of my moment with Sarah back for inspection. Someone close to me was revealed to be transgender — a good friend of my son. As I watched this young soul embrace his truth, I was struck by the courage and vulnerability it required, not just in a singular moment, but in every moment of his life.
Assumed by visual inspection to be a girl at birth, he came into his true identity quite early in life with the help of his loving and realistic parents. For as long as I’d known him, he had been a he. I was initially confused by the boy with the feminine name, thinking it must have family significance. When it struck me he might be a she, I had my own awkward missteps trying to make ‘her’ comfortable — including nudging my daughter to play with ‘her’ so ‘she’ wouldn’t be stuck with just the boys at my son’s birthday party. I cringe thinking about it because, duh, playing with the boys was exactly what made him comfortable and what felt right. He was one of them. When he and his family publicly shared his truth and announced a new name of his choosing, everything slid into place. It was the natural next step to navigating the endless landmines humans have laid as a society so obsessed with the performance of identity. He could be himself. He’d never have to pretend.
Sarah was on a journey to claim her identity two decades prior to my experience with this child. If I’m being honest, I don’t really recall the climate for exploring truths of this nature back then. The internet wasn’t much of a thing at that point. I was comfortable and acquainted with the gay community and gay friends, but had no real awareness of what it meant to be transgender. I knew about transvestites and assumed that’s what Sarah was, not connecting the name change to a deeper reality. I spent a good portion of my college years watching the Rocky Horror Picture Show in Frandor. That and Klinger on M.A.S.H. were, embarrassingly and erroneously, my points of reference on the matter. Men dressing like women, in my mind, was an act of some sort. It was pretend, a sexual fetish or a mental illness. Sarah was probably mentally ill, I’d surmised, and the least I could do was be kind. How great of me, right? You can roll your eyes. I just did.
Thinking back to my moment with Sarah, though I was kind in her presence, I wasn’t comprehending the significance of what was unfolding and fell short of honoring her incredibly brave act. Initially, the chest hair pressing against her sheer blouse dominated my memories of Sarah. More recently, Sarah’s wide eyes and trembling voice and hands are at the forefront. What was she thinking that day? What happened after she left? Did someone give her a chance? Did she find a way forward? What have I ever done that required that level of courage?
Most people who have worked for or with me for a span of time know how I feel about truth and courage. Both are a big deal to me. Bravely confronting and demanding truth is one of the most powerful ways to impress me and earn my trust. With a more mature perspective, I see in Sarah the qualities I claim to value. She was taking a huge risk to live her truth — her fear was palpable — and I was a character in the moment with the potential to help or hurt her. Though I hope I didn’t hurt her, I certainly didn’t help her. I didn’t know I could. I didn’t know how. The 49 year old me would have sized up the wall we hit when her ID didn’t match the name she was using on her resume and dared to talk about receiving a pay check with her legal name while we referred to her by her chosen name. The 49 year old me would have told her I’m ready to give her a chance if we can get the legal requirements worked out. The 49 year old me would have walked back into the area where my colleagues were ready to barrage me with questions and comments and simply remarked on her good data entry keying speed and Word Perfect / LOTUS abilities.
There are no do-overs in life, so here I sit wondering about Sarah and forever reminded of the opportunities life gives us to continue to grow. We must seize them so we are ready for those moments in the future that test what we’ve learned. I’d like to think that every year that passes results in a better version of myself in terms of my heart and mind. My physical body is a different story, but you can’t win them all. That belief comes with a silent understanding that there is always more growing to do. There are things I’m patting myself on the back for now that my future self will see as a moment I grew from.
