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MY STORY
I waited three
years to get this job. I was so proud to be selected.
This was
all I could think about as I stood in the doorway of my dorm room, tears
streaming down my cheeks, as I watched two supervisors slamming drawers,
grabbing handfuls of my personal belongings and throwing them into my
suitcases. They yanked down armloads of carefully pressed suits, packing
them into overstuffed boxes. One supervisor ripped a poster from my wall,
folded it quickly, threw it into a bag. The other yanked pictures from
the board: my dog, my parents. My life partner, a woman.
And this is why they treat me this way.
"Those boxes are tearing," was one sentence I managed.
"Tape them up at the airport," one of them snapped. "Let’s go!" She grabbed
a box and jerked her head at me to pick up a suitcase. She was so nice
four months ago when I arrived at the school; Amy was a perky blonde who
laughed a lot. I knew instinctively when she found out about my sexual
orientation, because the laughter turned to frowns and her voice always
had an edge when she spoke to me. She would no longer stand close to me
or pat my shoulder; she kept a distance. "She treats you like crap," coworkers
remarked, more than once. I was escorted to the checkout desk, then to
the taxi, one on either side.
"Can I say goodbye to my classmates?" I asked for the fourth time. For
the fourth time I was ignored. People in the lobby merely stared.
"They walked her out like she was a criminal," the clerk later gossiped
to one of my classmates.
"What did she do?" After I signed out, I turned to Amy and the other supervisor,
Jenny. Four months ago I thought Jenny might be gay and felt relief -
I wasn’t alone! I was safe! I was wrong -- in more ways than one.
"What now?" I asked, feeling smaller by the minute. They simultaneously
pointed to the open cab door. No words. They looked like executioners
pointing silently to the guillotine. And they might as well have been.
I arrived in Dallas hours later. My partner found me sitting on my suitcases
and broken boxes, crying uncontrollably. I barely remember arriving home.
The cats and dog fought for my attention, but I had none to give. To anyone,
for months. I ignored my friends. I shelved my art and writing. I could
not bathe, laugh, or talk, preferring to sleep constantly. I lost 25 pounds
and my clothes hung on me like a ghost. I was a ghost -- of my former
self -- all I could do was cry and watch mindless television shows. A
psychiatrist diagnosed I had destroyed my body’s natural chemicals and
I was put on antidepressants and sleep aids. My first visit I burst into
tears when he asked, "what’s wrong?" Between the anguished sobs all I
could manage was, "I was fired ... for being ... g-g-gay!"
The first time I said it.
Friends called but I ignored their messages. I went from a very comfortable
salary to nothing. I depleted my savings accounts, my retirement funds,
I fell behind on every payment, collectors began harassing me. I could
not muster the courage to job hunt. What if they found out? What if they
fired me?
I could not talk about it.
I was destroying myself and I had to stop. I began a long overdue art
project. I cried the entire time, but I finished it. I began going out
in public. I read Col. Margarethe Cammermeyer’s book "Serving In Silence,"
and "Warriors Don’t Cry" by Melba Pattillo - Beals (one of the first black
children to be integrated into an all - white school). One night I went
to a PFLAG meeting (Parents, Families, & Friends of Lesbians & Gays);
The presentation was on the joys of being "out" in the workplace. When
it was my turn to speak, I waited for condemnation. All I received was
a welcome, and the affirmation I wasn’t inept, or "imagining things" about
why I was fired. I became a PFLAG regular when I realized I wasn’t alone.
But I discovered I did not want to talk about it. Three years later, I
could talk about it. And write about it... In January 1995, after three
years of testing, waiting, and numerous, various applications, I was hired
by the US Postal Inspection Service as a Student Postal Inspector. This
required a four month training at the W.F. Bolger Academy in Potomac,
Maryland. Prior to departure, I met with an Inspector who was completing
another background investigation, a smiling woman who jotted notes as
we spoke in preparation for the investigation. I wrestled with the idea
to tell the truth: I am gay; I have been "with" a woman for six years...
what if this surfaced during the investigation, and because I didn’t tell,
it would appear I was dishonest, or deceitful, or not trustworthy? So
I gathered courage and said, "I feel I should tell you... my roommate
is not a roommate. She’s my partner." I should have predicted the future
when the Investigator said nervously, "if you don’t mind me saying, you’re
the, ah, first one we’ve had apply." I asked if "this was a problem, because
I can withdraw - " She interrupted me. "If someone does have a problem
with it, it’s illegal (to discriminate)." I sighed.
At least I was legally protected! I was so naive!
I was in a class of 20 bright, carefully selected student/coworkers; we
lived dormitory style in a hotel on campus. Our time was filled seven
days a week with gym, shooting range, classes. Social time was nil, but
I managed to take a cab into Washington DC; I found a gay bookstore where
I purchased a poster bearing a message that came to mean more to me than
the first time I saw it, years ago...
One night, I became tired of the horrible things being said about homosexuals
at my dinner table. I pulled a coworker to the side. "Jennifer, I happen
to be gay. You are really offending me. Please stop those kind of remarks
around me. And please keep this information to yourself. " Word travels
fast in a group of 20. Soon I was getting looks and snide comments. Rumors
were rampant: I was "after" a female coworker. I was a "man hater." Eventually
I was alienated, and some refused to speak to me. Only one person, Tisa,
remained my friend. The staff were a different story. My Counselor, Amy,
began treating me differently. I was flunked on writing assignments. "I’ve
have an ‘A’ average in everything I’ve written in school - I am a writer!
Why do I keep flunking?" I asked Tisa. "You don’t know?" She was incredulous.
"Who do you live with?" "It couldn’t be discrimination," I was adamant.
"These are educated people. Why would my sexuality be an issue?" I refused,
for so long, to believe it was discrimination against orientation. Tisa
returned to Chicago midway through the program. A week later she called.
"I had lunch with an Inspector who was just there in Potomac. He told
me, ‘right now they’re having secret meetings, trying to get rid of a
student there. ‘Bates’ or ‘Cates’? I asked him ‘Judith Yates?’ He said,
‘that’s her! Did you know she’s gay?’"
Instructors reported my every discrepancy, recorded my conversations.
Jennifer suddenly became my "buddy," then attempted to get me to cheat
several times. "I don’t cheat," I kept telling her. I had migraines on
a regular basis. I learned of another ‘secret meeting’ on how to oust
me, and told a coworker, "I’m quitting."
"Don’t let them run you out," he said. "Don’t give them the pleasure."
I did everything "wrong." When I demanded an explanation on another failed
paper, I was told, "it’s just wrong. Don’t worry about it." I improved
my weight training and fitness level. "All we ask is you try," they said.
But I saw them watching me in the gym. I damaged both knees during a run,
but Instructors refused to believe me. I ran even when the pain was excruciating.
Coworkers, and a few brave staff, told me how unfair I was being treated.
"Watch your back; they are after you." I reported coworker’s racist and
antigay remarks to Amy, who waved it off; "those things happen." I refused
to believe professional people would behave this way....until the day
Amy pulled me out of class to see the Director, who handed me a list of
excuses of why I was fired. "Some of these are false!" I said in disbelief.
"All I wanted was to be a federal officer!" No one would listen. Amy and
Jenny drove me to my hotel/dorm room. They would not let me pack my own
things nor give me privacy to call home. I have worked in a jail and a
prison; I have never treated inmates this way. And the only "crime" I
committed was loving a woman.
So there I stood, watching them pack my things, thinking, I waited three
years to get this job... They treated me horribly because of my sexual
orientation and there was no legal recourse. It almost destroyed me emotionally,
financially, physically. It was horrible discrimination and there was
nothing I could do about it.
I still have the poster I purchased in the gay bookstore in DC, that was
ripped from the wall in my room.. It was a long time before I could look
at it again.
Now it hangs in my office:
First they came for the Jews and I did not speak out- because I am not
a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists and I did not speak out- because I am
not a Communist. Then they came for the Trade Unionist and I did not speak
out- because I am not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for me- and there
was no one left to speak out for me.
-Pastor Niemoeller (Nazi victim)
And now it is
time to talk about it.
Footnote: I wrote this three years after my dismissal from the U.S. Postal
Inspection Service. Since 1999, many changes have taken place politically
and in business: the gay community is being recognized, laws are slowly
being made to protect our equal rights. But there is still much ignorance
out there -- and probably still exists at W. F. Bolger. I am determined
to tell my story, through tears, through the pain, until no one ever experiences
this kind of treatment in the workplace again, until rules and laws are
created which stop discriminatory behavior. I am a better person because
of my story, but it pains me still to have given up a career where I would
have gladly given my life to protect the innocent.
And now it is time for you to think about it!
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