1741toilet/ 650 words
The Toilet Police
by
Harley L. Sachs
I’ve always been a guy. Even when I
was only three, people used to call me the little guy. Now with all this
bathroom brouhaha my guyness is in question. It’s all because of that Carolina
law about who gets to use what toilet. The transgender folks, those who can’t
make up their minds if they are a guy or a gal or whatever, have been
persecuted. I can see that if I dressed up as a drag queen for the Moose
Halloween party, it might look a bit peculiar, but even in a wig and lipstick,
there’s no doubt that I would be seen as a guy. Stupid looking, comical, but
still a guy. Now all that’s changed.
Now to use a toilet in some big
stores you have to prove your birth gender. In Saudi
Arabia they have the religious police, in
case a woman shows her ankles, bare wrists, or doesn’t cover her eyes. Here
it’s the toilet cops.
I was standing in line by the men’s
room for my turn when I was stopped by toilet security. This was a tough
looking person in a badge and uniform but of. to my mind, uncertain gender.
“You have to show proof of gender,” the toilet cop said, very stern.
My gender was never questioned
before. I thought it was a joke. “You want to see my circumcision scar?”
I thought it was a joke. Apparently
it wasn’t. People who have undergone a sex change might have operation scars I
don’t want to see under any circumstances. I have trouble enough with people
who pierce their lips and noses. “
“You have to show proof of gender
when you were born.”
“How do I do that?”
“Birth certificate.”
I didn’t have my birth certificate
on me. Who does? If I were an immigrant of questionable legality I’d have to
carry a green card or a proof of citizenship, but not a birth certificate.
Fortunately, that time my visit to
the toilet wasn’t urgent. I went home and searched the file of documents, my
high school diploma, my confirmation diploma from Sunday School, my military
discharge DD214, and found a birth certificate issued by a Chicago
clerk. I decided I’d better carry it with me at all times, just in case I’d
have to pee.
Sure though, I did. This time I was
in a different big box store and approached the public toilet. Again there was
a toilet cop guarding the facility. This time I was ready.
“:Proof of birth gender,” I said,
hoping not to be kept waiting. This time I really had to go. I showed my birth
certificate. There is was: male baby complete with baby footprint.
The toilet cop was skeptical. “This
is a photo copy. We only accept original documents.”
“What are you? Ex IRS?” I once had to re-file my income tax
because I sent a photocopy of the return, not one with the original signature.
The toilet cop wasn’t amused. “Got
to be the original document. How do I know if you aren’t transgender?”
If I waited any longer it would be
too late. I had to go, now. I gave up and hurried out the door. Round the
corner, at the back of the building where there are no windows, I peed against
the wall. I was in Italy
once. Almost everybody pees against a wall in Italy .
Not here.
I was arrested for public
indecency.
Funny thing was, they put me in a
cell with several violators, some of them transgender. They’d been caught by
the toilet cops without the proper birth certificates.
Nobody seemed to care in the jail.
They have unisex cells.
I didn’t have cash for bail money,
so I have to stay in the joint to await
my court date. You know what they have
for toilet facilities in the jail? A stainless steel commode and no privacy.
Everybody uses the same one, with or without a birth certificate.
