John Henley is transsexual and wants to transition at work. His workplace is not TG-friendly.

This was the first story that I wrote and dates from the early 1980’s. Those whose computing careers began in the early 1970’s or before might recognise the paragraph headings. These were the processes by which data was entered and/or updated onto the computer, which usually occupied a large air-conditioned room and drew enough power to run a small village. It had the memory capacity of the first mobile phones - the ones that resembled a house brick, both in size and weight - and required a team of nearly 50 people to run and program it and key the data into punched cards. I was an operator in 1973 and a programmer in 1976. These processes usually took about three weeks. Now if information input, process and output take more than three seconds, we complain. That’s progress, folks!

INPUT

My name is, or was, John Henley. When I received my monthly TAXATION STATEMENT I initially smiled to myself. Then I went completely and utterly wild! I was deliriously happy. All my spare time over the past year, all the anguish and effort had paid off. Nineteen laborious weeks of programming had come to fruition. Nineteen weeks preceded, of course, by months and months of detailed planning, desk-checking and dummy runs. You name it: I checked it. Not just once but time after time and time again until I almost made myself sick of the whole thing.

Almost, but not quite. The penalty for failure would, at best, have been imprisonment, at worst torture and death. It was rumoured that the former led to the latter anyway: no one had ever returned to tell the tale.

What had led to this state of euphoria? What caused the demented dancing; the joyful jumping? What was this amazing event that meant a life-changing plan was nearing completion? Simply this: the taxation statement bore the name ‘JOANNE HENLEY’.

Calming down a little, I went to the closet and took out one of several new uniforms for a female Data Entry Clerk (3rd grade) of the National Data Bank. This consisted of a light grey single-breasted, long-line jacket, mid-calf length straight skirt and cerise short-sleeved top. With this outfit was teamed grey court shoes with two-inch heels. Girls were expected to buy their own tan hosiery, for which an allowance was made.

The uniform itself bore many secrets. The material, weave and style would be electronically read within yards of the main entrance and the guards alerted to the presence of an intruder. Any slight discrepancy would result in immediate detection. I understood that no one had ever tried to crash the main door so my knowledge of the repercussions was an educated guess. The guards were armed and looked very intimidating. That, I thought, should be quite enough to deter almost everyone.

I had just started two weeks holiday, a carefully planned break which allowed me time to gather together all the necessities of life that a female member of staff would require. The uniform was only one item on a long list of essentials.

Although well practised in the arts of make-up, deportment, vocabulary, mannerisms and so on, the catalogue of detail, which had to be one hundred per cent correct, was mind boggling in its size and scope. Any self respecting transgendered person would deem it worth the study in order to be accepted into society in their new gender role: for me it really was a matter of life and death.

Swapping the uniform had been one of the most hair-raising parts of the whole project. Uniforms, issued by the Bank, were very strictly controlled. Much ingenuity had gone into the programming and production of the appropriate documents, without which the uniform could not be issued. Without the uniform there was no way that the task could have been completed.

An identity card - bearing the appropriate photograph and my new identity ‘Joanne 1241216’ - had been produced. This, like all the other items, took several weeks to process and acquire and would allow access to the bewildering maze of corridors and airlocks with which the Bank - always abbreviated, but always pronounced reverently and spelt with a capital ‘B’ - was richly endowed. It would also unlock the data entry computer connected to the high-speed networks, which were the very arteries through which the lifeblood of the information gathering organisation flowed into the vast data storage units buried, for safe keeping, far beneath the earth’s surface.

I, of course, was a computer whiz kid — which was highly illegal - and had a private link - equally highly illegal - into the main computer system. I’d hacked my way in totally by accident one day and immediately saw the potential to solving one of the most difficult of all my puzzles, namely that of successfully transitioning at work. There was no employment protection within those labyrinthine cellars and the slightest sniff of any deviation from the standard pattern would have seen those disabling bracelets applied and me whisked into oblivion faster than you could say “blink”.

VALIDATION

My first day dawned bright and sunny, with just a gentle breeze. I read that as an omen and, after a light breakfast, took extra care with my face and nails to try and eliminate as much as possible of the risk. I had been wearing the uniform at home - with care, lest it become damaged or stained - in order to familiarise myself with the feel of it.

With immense relief, I passed through the main airlock and smiled within myself at the sound of my heels tapping on the passage floor. Approaching the work area I trembled slightly as I came face to face with the supervisor of the team to which I had been assigned. John had previously met Karen but I, as Joanne, had to remember that, fresh from training school, I would initially be unknown to anyone with whom I would be working.

“Good Morning, Joanne, welcome to the Bank”, said Karen brightly, reading the ID card displayed on my lapel. “I do hope that you will enjoy working with us”.
“Thank you, Supervisor”, I replied and allowed myself to be guided to my workstation. I quickly and surreptitiously glancing around, spotted a few familiar faces, then immediately turned back to my computer, identified myself and began work. After a while I forgot about my surroundings and was able to immerse myself in both my new role and the job at hand, to a degree that I had not been able as John. Always the longing had been there: the gnawing away by my female self; the gradual assertion of supremacy that had led to the events of the past year, and culminated in a climax of joy as I at last embraced the life to which I had surely been born.

Break time seemed to come around all too soon and I made my way to the rest area. I again had to remember that no one knew me even though in my previous life I was, like the others, an irregular worker.

Perhaps a word or two about the shift arrangements would not be amiss at this point in the tale. It would also go some way to explaining the philosophy behind the organisation and the paranoia with security that beset it.

Shift patterns were variable and the normal practice was to tell the clerk, at the end of the shift, the required next attendance time. An example would be that I worked from 8:00 until 17:00 on Monday but was then asked to attend next at 15:00 on Tuesday. My finish time would not be notified until two hours before I should stop work. Neither was the date and time of my next attendance. Indeed there could be several days’ break between the end of one shift and the beginning of the next. As always, notice was not received until two hours before shift end. This clearly played havoc with any form of social life and some clerks suffered mental health problems as a result. It was, however, a fact of life and a pre-condition of the job. You didn’t take the job if you didn’t like the wildly erratic hours. The pay was very good, though, and most people could cope with the social hardship for a few years in the interests of financial security. They then inevitably found other work — after they had been through the “washer”, the system which very effectively erased all memory of what they had been doing.

The reason behind all these complex procedures was, of course, an obsession with security. The possibility of collusion between two clerks was minimised and social interaction was, in any case, actively discouraged - although in certain circumstances, some socialising was inevitable. Members of staff were known only by their forename and, as required, by an identity number. Somewhere in the bowels of the organisation, someone must have a record of the comings and goings and who did what but, unless those mysterious white-clad figures from the Internal Affairs Police arrived on the scene, none of the staff was any the wiser.

I of course, being the new girl, had no previous experience of this system!

To continue with our narrative…
I followed several other girls to the rest area. Collecting my coffee from the vendor, I settled into one of the comfy chairs. Not wishing to be over-confident on what purported to be my first day, I made sure that I avoided sitting next to anyone that John had known in the past. And so I joined Helen, a tall, strikingly beautiful girl with long blonde hair and a face that lit up with a smile when she saw me approaching. During the usual introductions I learned that Helen was also a recent recruit and had started with the Bank two weeks earlier. The break-time conversation tended to be carefully regulated so as to avoid the unwanted attention of surveillance equipment and so was very tame indeed. I dutifully, but sincerely, admired Helen’s tanned features and impeccable makeup whilst Helen complimented me on my slim figure and medium length auburn hair.

When time was called, I returned to my workstation, confident in the knowledge that I had passed another hurdle; the coffee break.

I constantly had at the back of my mind, however, the need to make sure that I did not let slip any facts from the past that might cause suspicion. For the first few days after transition I studiously avoided contact with colleagues whom John had met and concentrated extra hard on my work. This had an additional, unexpected, benefit but one which was ultimately to give me the shock of my life.

FEASIBILITY

The supervisors, all long-term employees of the Bank, were encouraged to meet and discuss any developments. Thus it was that, one Monday morning, Karen and her colleagues were having one of these regular meetings. Karen, a very astute lady in her early 40’s, and with over 20 years’ service with the Bank, voiced a comment that drew all eyes to her.

“Has anyone else noticed,” she asked, tentatively,”that the training school has recently been turning out recruits to the Bank that have an extraordinary range of abilities. Whilst nearly all seem to follow the standard capability pattern expected of a 3rd Grade, a few appear to have an experience level over and above that which could be expected. It’s as though the training programme is inconsistent, which we all know to be impossible.”

Several of her colleagues had, indeed, noticed that some of the new staff appeared to need little or no supervision. The supervisors then debated the subject for a while but came to no conclusion except to maintain the vigilance customary when something out of the ordinary occurred.

PROCESS

For me, day followed irregular day and, on my days off, I would indulge my new-found passion for tennis - in a dress, of course - with some other girls in my accommodation block, none of whom worked for the Bank. Then, as like as not, I would go shopping for food and, occasionally, more clothes and make-up. Shopping was naturally more fulfilling than before my transition and I very quickly built my wardrobe into a varied and versatile collection of clothing for all occasions.

Few details of the job, and the office, are included in this account as they are largely superfluous to the story. Suffice it to say that I was quickly able to build a reputation as a capable, industrious and popular member of the staff. Both colleagues and supervisors spoke highly of me and within only a few months I was called into the department leader’s office where I delightedly received the news of my promotion to 2nd grade.

Life went on in a relatively uneventful manner until, one day, my whole world looked as though it would collapse around me.

REJECTION

One Tuesday morning, in early April, I had reported to work at ten o’clock as requested. Taking my seat at the workstation, I identified myself as usual and busied myself with the opening tasks of the day. Glancing across the office I smiled at a few of the girls that I’d met in my short time at the Bank. Carole, who had recently received her promotion to 1st grade and whose workstation was near the corner by the rest area; Gemma, who said little and merely smiled shyly whenever anyone spoke to her; Helen, with whom I had shared my first coffee break; Lizzie, short, dark and quiet but apparently an absolute demon on the tennis court.

Just before ten thirty there was an interruption.
“ATTENTION! SECURITY ALERT! ALL STOP!” The dreaded tones of the public address system rang out and repeated the eerie message until all was quiet. I was frightened almost to hysteria. John had experienced such an interruption on a previous occasion: I knew the significance. This could mean only one thing: Internal Affairs Police were on the prowl.

I, and all my colleagues, sat motionless. To move a muscle would draw unwanted attention and, anyway, who knows what occupied the minds of the inscrutable IAP officers?

All the doors closed with an ominous clang and the one remaining opening in the walls of the room, the service ramp, suddenly became filled with the white land-hopper and white-uniformed figures of Internal Affairs Police. Four officers marched into the room and their marching feet echoed ominously as they proceeded towards me.
I felt my heart race and was sure that something had gone wrong with my meticulous planning. I was going to be arrested and my mind started to flash back over all the events leading to the present day. In just a few moments, however, the terror of impending doom, as those guards were just a few yards from me, caused all conscious thought to be suspended and I fainted over my workstation. I was therefore not aware that the officers had continued past my desk and stopped a few yards from the far end of the office.

ACCEPTANCE

I regained consciousness in the medical suite and, beside the resident first-aid officer and the duty doctor, Karen was gazing down at me with concern all over her face.
“Wh…where am I?” I stammered.
“The shock troops certainly terrified you, my dear!” laughed Karen, and then went on, “We had a little emergency, but it’s all over now. Just rest a few minutes, there’s no lasting damage, according to the doctor.”
“What happened?” I asked, timidly.
“We are short of one of the data entry clerks. Helen has gone.”
“Helen? But why?”
“Oh I wouldn’t waste time worrying about HIM, “said Karen, smugly, “HE FORGOT TO CHANGE HIS TAXATION STATEMENT.”