To do that, though, I first had to accomplish my day-to-day responsibilities and do them well. I was assigned to the office I was hoping for, Public Engagement, and with the staffer I had interviewed with, Gautam Raghavan, the LGBTQ liaison for the White House at the time. Gautam, an openly gay thirty-one-year-old man, had worked within the administration on the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, the military’s ban on openly gay, lesbian, and bisexual troops, and moved over to the position within the White House about a year before. A passionate LGBTQ advocate, he had read my public coming-out note just two days before interviewing me for the internship and was clearly interested in expanding even further the administration’s work on trans equality.
In addition to working with Gautam, I was also placed under a whip-smart twenty-six-year-old woman named Monique Dorsainvil, who, among other portfolios, managed all of the events for the Office of Public Engagement that included the president and first lady.
Helen had warned me that the hours in the Office of Public Engagement were severe. There were days when I had to be in at six a.m. and would not leave any earlier than nine p.m. But she also told me it would be well worth it.
The Office of Public Engagement was located toward the front of the EEOB, which helped spur its nickname, “The Front Door of the White House.” The office, tasked with coordinating and communicating with various identity-based communities across the country, was filled with motivated and friendly young staffers, former organizers, and advocates. Many had been with the president since the election, some even earlier than that.
There was Darienne Rakestraw, who managed outreach to veterans. Darienne had previously served as the front desk receptionist in the West Wing, welcoming members of Congress, foreign heads of state, leading advocates, and celebrities for their meetings with President Obama. Her role led the president to nickname her ROTUS (Reception of the United States), a play on the nickname staffers use when referring to the president: POTUS.
There was Julia Chavez Rodriguez, who managed outreach to Latino communities. Julia was the granddaughter of the noted civil rights and workers’ rights activist Cesar Chavez and a powerhouse advocate in her own right.
Nate Tamarin oversaw outreach to labor. Nate had been with the president since he was a little-known Illinois state senator running in a seven-way primary for the U.S. Senate. Nate would recount stories from the old days, like his first day working for then–state senator Barack Obama in 2003. They were placed last in the Chicago St. Patrick’s Day Parade, forced to dodge poop from the horses that had marched ahead of them. They were so far back in the parade program, he told us, that the visibly inebriated spectators hurled and mocked this new candidate, disgustingly shouting crude comments and comparing Obama’s name to Osama bin Laden.
Five years later, rising from complete obscurity, Barack Obama had ascended to the highest office in the world. Change is possible, I thought.
The Office of Public Engagement was headed at the time by Jon Carson, who had managed the field operation for the 2008 presidential campaign. Jon reported directly to Valerie Jarrett, senior adviser and assistant to the president for public engagement and intergovernmental affairs.
No one in the White House was closer to the president and first lady than Jarrett; their relationship dates back two decades to when she hired Michelle Obama for a job in the Chicago mayor’s office. Ms. Jarrett, or VJ, as she was called throughout the office, would end up sticking by the president’s side through all eight years of the administration.
The office combined the excitement and breakneck pace of a campaign with the seriousness of cause of government work, and the staff treated the interns like full partners in the effort to, as President Obama often said, “build a more perfect union.” And we all became close, working late nights practically every day.
As an intern, my responsibilities did not include the stereotypical fetching of coffee and making copies. I worked with Gautam on LGBTQ engagement and Monique on major events with the president, from meetings with progressive leaders to a welcome ceremony for the returning U.S. Olympians and Paralympians. While the hours were long, each day went by in the blink of any eye, filled with meetings, incredible events, and the occasional sighting of the president or first lady.
There was a constant buzz and energy that permeated the halls connecting the various offices. It became clear very quickly that the Office of Public Engagement was a family atmosphere filled with “true believers”: people who not only believed in President Obama but also the mission of the administration.
It was hard not to be inspired by the work. Each day we invited in members of mostly marginalized communities so they could hear a little bit about what the administration was doing to help and we could hear from them about what more should be done. And it wasn’t just advocates living and working in D.C., but leaders from across the country. Activists from South Carolina and Michigan, Kansas and Alaska.
If you ever—even for a moment—forgot where you were, you were snapped out of your jaded spell by the awe-inspiring comments from people who may have never dreamed of coming to the People’s House. There was a reason that the saying in the office was “You can’t spell hope without OPE.”
For the first few weeks, I had worked and engaged with my fellow interns with the presumption that they automatically knew I was transgender. I had lived the last four months figuring that everyone could tell, either because of how I looked or how I talked. But one afternoon, riding down the elevator with a fellow intern, Sonia, it became clear that not everyone realized my background.
Still I was wearing that long brown wig. As I scratched an itch, I commented, “I can’t wait to get rid of this thing.”
“What do you mean?” Sonia responded curiously.
“This wig. I can’t wait to get rid of it,” I said, figuring that it was clear what was on top of my head.
“I didn’t realize you were wearing a wig,” she exclaimed, genuinely surprised. She paused for a moment and considered her next question. “Can I ask why you’re wearing a wig?”
“Because my hair is still too short for my liking,” I responded.
She looked confused. I stared at her for a few more seconds, not getting the obvious.
“Wait,” I hesitantly responded. “You know I’m transgender, right?”
“You are?” Her eyes widened. “No, I didn’t! But I guess that explains some things!”
I had come out only four months before and was surprisingly jarred by the exchange with Sonia. A few months earlier, I had upended my life and jumped into a new world, operating under the assumption that my trans identity was self-evident. Every decision I made was influenced by that fact. And if strangers on the street didn’t know, sure enough everyone with whom I had an extended conversation would come to the conclusion one way or another, I thought.
Somewhat dazed, I walked back to the office I shared with my boss, Monique, and a gregarious, tall New Yorker named Jarrod, who managed Jewish outreach for the White House. Next to Jarrod and Monique were two large desks, one for Gautam and another for our intern coordinator, Quinn.
It was a small room, made even smaller by our four and a half desks and the piles of papers scattered everywhere. Hovering just over my computer screen was a large print—a jumbo, as they are called in the White House—depicting President Obama eating an apple at a grocery store.
I sat down at my desk and turned toward Quinn and Gautam. “I just had a really surprising interaction with Sonia. She didn’t realize I was trans.”
A smile spread across Quinn’s face. “Oh, yeah, Akshar”—another intern in our office—“didn’t realize that, either. I was talking about your coming out and he had no idea.”
My heart sank. Quinn had said nothing wrong, but for some reason this news hit me like a ton of bricks. And I didn’t know why.
“Do you think the others know? Should I tel
l them?” I asked Gautam.
“I don’t know if they do, but how are you feeling? You seem a bit…shaken,” he responded in a soft, paternal voice.
On the one hand, I thought I would be happy that they didn’t know. I’d wanted to blend in for months. But something just felt off.
I was confused and didn’t fully understand my reaction. There had been several times, from the waitress on my date with Andy to strangers on the street, when I had been hurt by the fact that I figured someone could tell I was trans. There were few things I thought I had wanted more than to “pass,” a term frequently used to describe when someone is not read as transgender.
I also hated myself for that reaction. There is nothing wrong with being trans. I knew that. But in a society filled with messages that to be read as trans is to be perceived as “ugly,” it becomes hard not to internalize that observation. I shouldn’t want to “pass,” but I did. Or at least I thought I did.
There is no question that a trans person being able to blend in comes with a great deal of privilege. At the most base level, blending in becomes a source of physical security for many transgender people. If people cannot tell you are transgender, the risk of facing antitransgender violence or discrimination decreases dramatically. I recognize that the mere ability to feel uneasy about passing is a privilege in and of itself; nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the odd feeling.
Sitting at home that night, it finally began to make more sense. Was I disappointed because, as someone said, I wasn’t “being honest with people”? No. No one is entitled to any information about me or who I am. These folks were seeing me as a woman, which I am. They just didn’t know that I was also transgender. Seeing me as a woman isn’t a deception.
Was I disappointed because I was nervous how people would react when they did find out?
No. I knew, by now, that my colleagues would greet my news with support.
I realized that I was disappointed because I want people to know who I am because I’m proud of who I am.
I’m proud to be transgender.
Our identities matter. They help make us who we are and shape our outlook. Existing in them is a radical act, one that requires, in many instances, courage, hard work, and determination. I am a better person because of the experiences and insights that I’ve had because I’m transgender. I’m a more compassionate person than I was before I accepted that part of my identity.
I’ve joined a community of people who have made the empowering decision to live whole, complete lives. We have stood up to a society that tells us that we are wrong to live our lives to the fullest. It’s a daring act of authenticity. There is no doubt that society places unfair and unjust barriers in front of transgender people, but that is a flaw in society, not a problem with being transgender.
Still, for many, being publicly out and proud is not an option, even for those who have transitioned. Too often we universalize the need for LGBTQ people to be out in order to move equality forward. This is an unfair burden to bear for an already marginalized community. Some of us may decide to be out—and there’s no question that that is a good thing—but we shouldn’t force anyone to live their gender or sexuality in a particular way, even if we feel that there may be long-term benefits for the movement.
Every person’s life is their own. Their experience is too precious for others to require them to betray their own security or well-being to make a point. This is particularly true for transgender people, for whom being out about that identity may significantly inhibit their ability to be seen, totally, as their own gender. This is, no doubt, a direct result of a world that often denies our gender identity when people find out we are trans, and it can cause real pain that no one should have to go through.
I’ve been blessed with a community that does not see my womanhood and “transness” as mutually exclusive. I won’t lose my job or my friends. I’m less likely to face violence. These realities allow me to be public, and in my mind, those privileges call on me to utilize whatever platform I have to try to open hearts and change minds. Being student body president allowed me to do that, and now, being at the White House gave me that opportunity with some of the most powerful people in the country.
A week after the exchange with Sonia, I was sitting at my tiny desk working on a memo outlining all the outstanding policy goals of the transgender community, from inclusive health coverage to an executive order banning discrimination by companies that do business with the federal government, when the door opened. I swiveled around in my chair to see Michael Strautmanis.
Strautmanis, affectionately called “Straut” in the White House and well liked within OPE, is part of the original Chicago “Obamaworld.” He first met Michelle Obama when he was a paralegal for her at Sidley Austin, the law firm where Michelle first met and fell in love with Barack. Straut had moved to Washington when Obama was elected to the Senate, serving as his chief counsel. After serving in senior roles in the presidential transition, he joined the White House staff and, when I interned in 2012, was a deputy assistant to the president and senior counselor to Valerie Jarrett.
A few days before Straut walked into my office, I had run into him in the hallway. As I was making my way through the bright corridors of the EEOB, he motioned for me to walk with him to his next meeting. He was likely trying to get to know the different interns and asked me about my background. I told him where I was from, where I went to school, my different interests; I didn’t mention my trans identity.
Now peeking into my office, he again motioned for me to join him in the hallway. I popped up from my desk and joined him in the hallway where we had talked three days before.
“I hope this isn’t inappropriate,” he started, “but I didn’t realize you were transgender when we were talking last. Yesterday I was in a meeting with Valerie and trans issues came up. I mentioned that I didn’t know any transgender people and there were none in the White House, when she stopped me and said, ‘We have a transgender intern. You need to be more aware of your surroundings.’ ”
He continued, “I was really hoping we could maybe get lunch and you could tell me a little more about your story, if you’re comfortable?”
I could tell that he was worried about making me feel tokenized, but I had told my bosses that I was more than willing to talk with anyone about trans rights. When I later mentioned the conversation to Monique and Gautam, they made clear that he had talked to them before approaching me.
“I would absolutely love that,” I told Straut eagerly.
A week later, we met for our lunch. We sat down over sandwiches at a lunch shop located catty-corner to the White House complex. Over our meals, I recounted my journey. He occasionally interjected with questions but mostly listened.
After I finished telling him my story, Straut reflected on his own background as a Black man from Chicago. He then told me about the attitudes toward LGBTQ people in his neighborhood growing up: “We never talked about this when I was a kid.” Though, looking back, he said there was someone who lived down the street from him when he was growing up who may have been transgender.
We sat for an hour, a significant amount of time for someone in a senior leadership position at the White House. I had the opportunity to humanize an issue—a group of people—for an old friend of the president and a senior staffer at the White House. No more could Straut say he didn’t know anyone who was transgender.
At the time, the percentage of Americans who said they knew someone who was transgender was still in the single digits. As trans activist Faye Seidler quipped, more Americans said they had seen a ghost than knew a transgender person, according to some polls. For much of the first term of the president’s administration, a similar percentage of White House staffers would likely have said the same thing. Increasingly, though, that was changing. Not just because of my presence but because, more and more, transgender people were coming to the White House for e
vents and meetings. Increasingly that included a prominent trans health advocate, my friend Andy.
Since our date in August, just a few months earlier, I’d thought about Andy a lot. Almost every morning on my way to the White House, I’d listen to the song that he had played for me in his car on our first date. But our communication also grew infrequent. He’d text me to let me know he was thinking about me, to share a funny experience, or to see if maybe I would be free to have dinner with him. I was, unfortunately, running around so much—and working such late hours—that we managed to meet up only twice for dinner, and I rarely texted him back.
Nevertheless, he persisted. Time and again, he could have given up. He could have thought, This isn’t fair and this isn’t worth it. But he didn’t. He was patient and gave me the space I needed, all the while, I found out later, forwarding my admittedly infrequent texts to his friends and asking for their interpretation.
“What do you think this means?” he’d ask them. “Should I take this as a good sign?”
I worried about giving Andy the wrong impression. I wasn’t sure if I was really ready for a relationship. The White House was consuming my time and I was still settling into my new life. I don’t know if I have room for someone else, I thought.
In November, three months into my internship and just after the president’s reelection, my boss Gautam was scheduled to have a meeting with LGBTQ activists to discuss priorities in the new term. I wasn’t planning on attending Gautam’s meeting, as I had to help my other boss, Monique, with a meeting that the president was hosting in the West Wing.
Across the alley from the EEOB, Monique and I walked through the double doors to the West Wing and down a narrow hallway to the Roosevelt Room, a large conference room across the hall from the Oval Office. A portrait of Theodore Roosevelt riding a horse hangs over a large fireplace at one end of the room. His Nobel Peace Prize hangs just to the left of the mantel and a large oak table fills the space. Surrounding the table are sixteen seats, including one that rises about two inches above the rest. That seat is reserved for the president.
Tomorrow Will Be Different Page 8