by Jacob Tobia
When I walked around on campus, stomping by in five-inch platforms and lipstick, I knew exactly what people were thinking about me.
How does Jacob keep going? They seem like they’re happy all the time, indefatigable. How do they do it?
The recipe for success is simple, I wanted to say in my best Vanna White, saccharine smile plastered on my face. You simply work your ass off, settle for table scraps, and give up on ever truly belonging.
Oh, and try to get the fuck away from campus, if you can.
* * *
—
While I was struggling with my nascent gender identity in my own heart, unsure what it would mean for my future, I never let my peers see it. To my peers, I was a peppy, energetic, confident, and voracious activist who was changing the world, a human rights ass-kicker-slash-names-taker with a bright future in American politics. Like a luxury car, I concealed the effort, the combustion running beneath the hood, purring along quietly so everyone could focus on the smooth ride. I always tried to give a smooth ride in college. Make of that what you will.*
My sophomore year, I came back to campus with not one, not two, but four titles. In keeping with my vision for a career in politics or international relations, I joined the President’s Cabinet as Director of LGBTQ Policy and Affairs for Duke Student Government, was elected outreach chair for Blue Devils United, and founded two new student coalitions in that year alone.
The first was called Duke Students for Gender Neutrality (DSGN, i.e., “Design”—an organization is only as good as its acronym). It was a student coalition that advocated for gender-neutral housing and bathrooms. My best friend Sunny and I worked our asses off on it for the last three years of college, writing proposal after proposal, taking meeting after meeting, but we ultimately achieved little. Sure, gender-neutral housing was technically allowed in certain places on campus, but by no means was it encouraged or made part of the campus culture like we’d hoped. Duke didn’t want to be UC Berkeley: The idea of gender-neutral, universally coed housing was just too much for the university’s straight white billionaire donors to get behind, too much for their heterosexist minds to handle. We had a few victories, sure—we were able to get a coed multistall bathroom in our dorm during our senior year, and a few of our friends were allowed to live together in mixed gender roommate pairs—but that was all we had to show for three years of persistent and diligent activism.
The other coalition I cofounded that year was called Duke Together Against Constitutional Discrimination. It had one goal: to inspire the Duke community to vote against Amendment One, a 2012 state constitutional amendment that sought to prohibit same-sex couples from having legally recognized relationships in North Carolina. While the hateful amendment ultimately passed, Duke Together was instrumental in opposing it and mobilizing voters. Our efforts were so effective that the Duke campus early voting station was the busiest early voting site in the state. We were so effective that national field organizers from the Human Rights Campaign stopped by campus to learn about our strategy and efforts.
We were so effective that toward the end of May, I opened my email to find the presidential seal looking back at me. It was an official invitation from the White House to attend their annual LGBTQ Pride reception that June. I’m not sure if I cried or screamed or gasped or what, but it was, by far, the hottest invite I’d ever received. A few moments later, my friend Elena—the other co-chair of Duke Together—gave me a ring.
“Did you get the same email I just got?”
“YES I AM FREAKING OUT. WHAT IS HAPPENING?”
As plus ones, we agreed to bring our friend Adrienne, another organizer who’d been instrumental, and Janie, my campus mom and the head of our LGBTQ Center.
In order to attend, I had to fly all the way back to DC from Johannesburg, South Africa, where I was doing a summer volunteer program through my scholarship. The consummate hustler, I didn’t let that stop me. I found an absurdly cheap flight and a combination of funds from multiple university and movement sources to cover the ticket.
But when I arrived in DC and unpacked at Adrienne’s apartment, I realized to my horror that I wasn’t at all prepared with the proper fashion for such an occasion. I’d been so worried about the logistics of my trip, about getting my body halfway around the world, that I hadn’t thought through the absolute most important component for any event at the White House: my outfit.
In a panic, I strategized with Adrienne. Should I just wear my suit and tie? It doesn’t fit very well, but it’s all that I really have. Should I wear lipstick? What about earrings? And what shoes should I wear? Can I even find heels in my size at the last minute? It’s notoriously hard to find any size 11 or 12 high heels, let alone ones that are fashionable enough for the motherfucking White House.
At Adrienne’s suggestion, we took the metro to Nordstrom Rack, the only place (other than Payless, another favorite of mine) where you can reliably find cute size 11 or size 12 heels in stock. There wasn’t much to choose from, but after a few minutes of digging, we found a pair of sky-high, matte black faux snakeskin heels designed by none other than Jessica Simpson, the resident favorite of all girls with big feet. God bless you, Jessica. You’re my shero.
They were perfect. They had all the height I wanted to ensure I’d tower over the crowd, but were professional and sleek enough for somewhere as regal as the White House. I dropped fifty bucks on them.
The next morning, after sleeping off the jet lag, I donned my suit and threw my heels in a loaner purse from Adrienne, and we were off. We met at the East Gate of the White House complex, and queued up in the forming line. Perched on the wall that wraps around the South Lawn, I shucked off my flats, which was when it hit me:
Has anyone ever done this before? Has a sissy like me ever worn high heels to a White House reception? If so, I want to be their friend.
Those thoughts felt too grandiose, too self-aggrandizing, to say out loud. I took a cursory look at the rest of the crowd to check. Surely I couldn’t be the only one.
It seemed that there were plenty of gender nonconforming women and masculine-of-center female-assigned folks, but the more I looked, the more I began to realize, There’s not really anyone else quite like me. Other than a guy who was wearing a kilt (whom I of course befriended), all the other male-assigned people were so—boring. Typical. Conforming, other than perhaps wearing a brightly colored suit or a flamboyant tie. Why do I feel like I’m the only person with facial hair and high heels here? I pondered. How is that possible? I mean, there are definitely trans people here, but where are the other nonbinary/genderqueer/gender nonconforming femmes like me? Where are all the other sissies?
Before I could dwell on the matter any further, the line was moving and we were passing through security.
The reception was more lavish and beautiful than I could’ve possibly imagined. To this day, it’s the only truly elegant queer event I’ve ever been to. At most gay events, you’re confronted with photos of corporate logos or mostly naked men. If you’re lucky, you might even get corporate logos on mostly naked men. Most elite gay events just sorta scream, “We know you love MUSCLES! We know you love LUXURY BRANDS! And we know you have the disposable income to BUY BOTH!”
But not this party. This party was an affair properly befitting a princess like me. An elegant party that felt like a state dinner, it was glorious. It had it all: a beautiful spread, a state band playing, an open bar. But what really stuck with me were the napkins. They were thick, beautiful, expensive napkins embossed with a gold-printed White House seal. I took twelve and stashed them in my bag as souvenirs.
And, perhaps most important, you could sit on the furniture! In the East Room! And in all the other rooms that were normally roped off! In fact, nothing was roped off. You could walk right up to the art; you could sit on the chairs; you could even fiddle with the curtains if you wanted to (and I did). On some level, I knew that a lot of
it was just Washington posturing, a way to thank major campaign donors and supporters who happened to be queer. But on another level, it transcended all that. It was deeply meaningful; a far cry from my tokenized existence on campus; unlike anything from my wildest imaginings.
Swirling among the finery and the party guests and the champagne, you can’t help but feel the weight of history. It’s the portraits that do it, really. You’re just minding your business when wham! There’s JFK gazing out at you from across the hallway. The significance of the moment wasn’t lost on anyone, and certainly not on yours truly, a wistful queen of nostalgia who is so delusionally reflexive that she started writing a book about her life at the age of twenty-five.
Under the gaze of people I’d only read about in history books, it was hard not to wonder what they’d think of me.
For obvious reasons, it was the First Ladies who were most memorable. When you initially walk in, Nancy Reagan greets you by the stairs. I think hers is the most glamorous portrait in the White House, no matter what anyone says.* In a floor-length draping red dress with a multitiered pearl collar, she looks like an evil empress from Star Wars. And rightfully so: She and her husband would’ve hated what was happening under their roof. While they were in the White House, they did their very best to ensure that people like me simply died. Their inaction in the face of the 1980s AIDS epidemic was nothing short of genocidal. It’s fitting that she’ll spend posterity draped in red, the color of blood, a color that has become the symbol of the disease she and her husband let run wild. I relished that she had to gaze out as a twenty-year-old queen like me strutted by in five-inch heels. I blew her a kiss as I passed.
Then I walked into the Vermeil Room, a first-floor room that is my favorite in the entire White House. When I entered, I found none other than Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis gazing obliquely back out at me. In a ruffled, high-collar floor-length gown, she presided over the room in solemnity, in reverence, in what struck me almost as hesitation. Far from the glamorous vision I usually associated with her, the contemplative nature of the portrait was striking. I perched on the couch in front of her to pose for a photo, blessed to simply be in her regal presence. I like to think that, while she would find most of my present fashion choices tacky, she would’ve given her blessing to at least a few of them.
It wasn’t until I turned around that my breath was really taken away. On the far wall was none other than the bisexual/lesbian human rights goddess herself, Eleanor Roosevelt. Sporting a fleur de lis brooch, a gray suit, and pearls, she rested one pink-manicured hand on a book and cradled a yellow no. 2 pencil in the other. A woman of words, sophistication, brilliance, and diplomatic power, Eleanor Roosevelt is the closest thing we’ve had to a woman president. I stared at her: a symbol of queer power and brilliance, of human rights and diplomacy, of women’s authority and dominion. She looked back at me with a gentle, knowing glance. As if to say, You were meant to be here. As if to say, You belong here. As if to say, You should know your power.
Just when I thought her portrait couldn’t get any more fabulous, I took a look at the additional grayscale portraits of her sprinkled at the bottom of the frame. There’s one of her laughing, head tilted to the side. There’s another of her fiddling with her wedding ring. And there’s yet another of her thinking, chin perched in her hand. Then, inexplicably, alongside the selfies are two pairs of hands floating in space. One pair of hands is holding a pair of glasses. The other is knitting.
Can you imagine the conversation that must’ve led to that portrait? When Eleanor Roosevelt, a hipster meme icon way ahead of her time, must’ve looked to her portraitist and said, “Hey, I don’t want them thinking I’m just a brilliant politician. Let’s make sure they know I’m a nerdy lesbian/bisexual, okay? What could we include in the portrait to be sure they know?”
“I dunno, maybe a pair of reading glasses?”
“Sure, but it needs more.”
“What about a cat?”
“Too on the nose.”
“What about some—um—knitting?”
“Perfect,” she must’ve exclaimed. “That’ll show ’em. That way they’ll never forget I was crafty and wrote love letters to ladies.”
Bidding Eleanor adieu, drunk with history, I teetered upstairs, the marble floors already making my feet sore.
When I entered the East Room and saw the presidential podium all set up for President Obama’s speech, it started to sink in. All of a sudden, like a punch in the gut, my gender felt historic for the first time, visionary, simultaneously ancient and ahead of its time, indelibly sewn into the fabric of the American story.
I mused, Am I among the first generation of sissies in American history who can dream of being here? Of flouncing about, openly gender nonconforming, in the highest office in the land?
My historical romanticism soaring, my self-aggrandizement at a fever pitch, I did the only natural thing for a twenty-year-old at a reception at the White House to do: I went to the open bar for a drink.
I wasn’t sure if they would card me, so I watched the bar for a moment. After seeing two twinks, both with far less facial hair than I had, get drinks without so much as a look of hesitation, I decided they must not be carding. I mean how tacky would that be? To ask for ID at a White House bar after each guest has been personally cleared by the Secret Service? Très gauche, mademoiselle.
I waltzed up to the bar, ordered a gin and tonic—with Hendrick’s, I believe—and proceeded to underage drink in the White House, two months shy of my twenty-first birthday. I hope that this singular fact, above all others, is what you remember me for. I don’t need to be a hero. I don’t need to be canonized. I don’t need to meet the queen. I simply need to be remembered as the type of queer punk who drank underage in five-inch heels in front of the president. It is honestly the most important identity I have.
Badass epitaph secured, no longer afraid of death, I grabbed Adrienne and strutted to the front of the East Room where the president was to speak. On the guidance of a friend who’d been to the reception the year before, I knew that if you just stood there early, you’d be guaranteed a front-row spot. Adrienne and I stood there for an hour or so as the crowd slowly filled in.
When President Obama finally did come out to give his speech, the cheers were deafening. He spoke eloquently and with poise. But honestly, I can’t say that I was altogether focused on what he was saying. If we are keeping it one hundred here, my brain kept playing one thought over and over again:
If that isn’t one of the sexiest men I have ever seen.
I mean, can we talk about this? Can we? That smile? Those eyes? Those dimples? And not to mention that he is tall. Like, almost the same height that I was in five inch heels, and I’m six feet without heels on. You do the math. By the time he came around to shake hands at the conclusion of his speech, I’d been reduced to a twelve-year-old girl at a One Direction concert. I was shaking and nervous and sweating and seriously crushing. If it had been socially acceptable, I would’ve started screaming at the top of my lungs like the fangirl that I am.
I tried to hold on to my politics.
But Jacob, you have to remain critical. He still hasn’t issued an executive order banning workplace discrimination against LGBTQ Americans. Statistically, he hasn’t slowed deportations. You still disagree with some of this man’s foreign policy decisions. And you don’t like drone warfare. You must remain critical, my brain said. It is important.
NAH FUCK THAT! screamed my heart and girlish libido, gossiping back and forth like stylists at a hair salon. Can you even believe how handsome he is? He is sooooo cute! Oh my God, is he looking at you right now? OH MY GOD JACOB HE’S LOOKING AT YOU!
And he was. Before I knew what was happening, it was my turn to shake his hand and say hello. And in my panic, in my giddy schoolgirl glee, all I could muster, all I could manage to say at a gay party at the White House, was:
�
�We’re from Duke, Mr. President! You like Duke Basketball don’t you?”
“The Blue Devils are a great team!” he said back, smiling and shaking my hand before moving on.
WHAT.
Jacob. jacob jacob jacob. JACOB. You had ONE CHANCE to say something to the leader of the free world and all you could talk about was Duke Basketball, something you don’t even really like? I mean, you’ve barely gone to one basketball game, and even then it was only to sing the national anthem with your a cappella group. Why couldn’t you think of something better? How about, “Do you like my shoes, Mr. President?” Or maybe “Tell Michelle I’m her number one fan!” Literally anything would’ve been better than that.
Bemoaning the fact that I’d bungled my words, wishing I could’ve remembered how to form coherent thoughts, I consoled myself with an underage flute of champagne and sat on a fancy, historic couch in the Blue Room to rest my sore feet.
* * *
—
After the reception, I traveled back to Johannesburg and then to Cape Town to finish out my sophomore summer as planned.
When I returned to the US that fall, I didn’t return to campus. Returning to campus would’ve meant confronting my demons—the tokenization, the sense of political frustration, the feeling of gender impossibility—head on, and I wanted to put that off as long as I could.
Instead, I spent my semester living in none other than New York City. I was enrolled in the Duke in New York program, so it was technically still Duke, but in name only. The flagship study-away program for students who were interested in media or the arts, it was self-selective in the best way, in that mostly artists, dancers, stage queens, and weirdos like me signed up.