by Jacob Tobia
I lived in a triple room where all three beds had to be lofted in order for us to have enough space, but it was still the most glamorous housing I’ve had in New York City to date. On the sixth floor of the St. George Hotel in Brooklyn Heights, my room overlooked the Brooklyn Bridge, Lower Manhattan, and, at night, the Empire State Building. In the early morning, if you woke up at the right time, the rising sun would reflect off the metallic paneling on the side of the Frank Gehry tower, lighting it up like fire. Even then, as a twenty-one-year-old, I knew I’d likely never get a view like that again.
In addition to Duke paying for us to see Broadway theater or operas at the Met, each student in the program was required to have a part-time internship. For my three-month placement, I chose to intern at the United Nations, prompting a crisis I wasn’t quite ready to tackle: How was I going to navigate gender in the professional world?
Professionalism is, without a doubt, one of my least favorite words in the English language. The reason I loathe it with such intensity is because, as a word, it’s seriously dishonest. Like three-day-old seafood, it looks fine enough on the surface, but the moment you ingest it and your stomach begins to pull its various components apart, it becomes oh so clear that it’s actually vile. After only a few moments’ digestion, your stomach rumbles, your bowels quiver, and you’d better make it to a gender-neutral bathroom fast.
At first glance, professionalism tries to convince you it’s a neutral word, merely meant to signify a collection of behaviors, clothing, and norms “appropriate” for the workplace. We just ask that everyone be professional, the cis white men will say, smiles on their faces, as if they’re not asking for much. We try to maintain a professional office environment.
But never has a word in the English language been so loaded with racism, sexism, heteronormativity, or trans exclusion. Whenever someone is telling you to “be professional,” they’re really saying, “be more like me.”
If you’re black, “being professional” can often mean speaking differently, avoiding black cultural references, or not wearing natural hair. If you’re not American, “being professional” can mean abandoning your cultural dress for Western business clothes. If you’re not Christian, “being professional” can mean potentially removing your hijab to fit in, sitting by while your officemates ignore your need for kosher or halal food, sucking up the fact that your office puts up a giant Christmas tree every year. If you’re low-income or working class, “being professional” can mean spending money you don’t have on work clothes—“dressing nicely” for a job that may not pay enough for you to really afford to do so. If you’re a woman, “being professional” can mean navigating a veritable minefield of double standards. Show some skin, but don’t be a slut. Wear heels, but not too high, and not too low, either. Wear form-fitting clothes, but not too form-fitting. We offer maternity leave, but don’t “interrupt your career” by taking it.
And if you’re trans like me, “being professional” can mean putting your identity away unless it conforms to dominant gender norms.
To this day, when I walk into an office in lipstick, a bolero jacket, and earrings, people perceive my behavior as unprofessional. My intellect, my competency, and my ability are called into question simply because my gender is different. There are countless geographic areas and professions where I couldn’t even consider having a career because I am perceived to be so unprofessional.
Plainly put, the imperative to “be professional” is the imperative to be whiter, straighter, wealthier, and more masculine. A wolf in sheep’s clothing masquerading as a neutral term, professionalism hangs over the head of anyone who’s different, who deviates from the hegemony of white men.
Needless to say, in the formal, gendered world of professional dress, I was seriously out of my element. Up until that point, my wardrobe had been imminently casual, feminine, and borderline punk. By junior year, a “normal” outfit for me could’ve looked like any of the following:
Jean shorts, a chunky necklace, oversize grandma glasses, and a lacy femme camisole.
Cowgirl boots, dark wash jeans, a cut-up thrift store leather jacket, and silver chrome nails.
A shredded T-shirt, spiky stud necklace, secondhand camouflage army jacket, rhinestone clip-ons, combat boots, and a bold lip.
Or, on occasions when I had to dress fancy:
Six-inch stilettos, a vintage fascinator, and a two-sizes-too-small cocktail dress (probably ripping at the seams).
Knowing both that my present wardrobe wouldn’t work in an office and that my gender identity placed me outside the bounds of “appropriate work clothes,” I approached my job at the United Nations with hesitation. My bosses and coworkers were kind, empathetic people, but no amount of kindness or empathy can shake anxiety about an entire system of power overnight.
So I devised the following strategy: I would begin my time at the UN presenting in a fairly masculine way, then gradually, over time, begin to express my femininity. That way, my colleagues would have the chance to get to know my intellect, my work ethic, and me before they had to contend with my gender (as if they can really be separated). My mind made up, I packed a suit, a few dress shirts, a handful of ties, and my grandmother’s jewelry for work.
But that still left the problem of shoes. I knew I wanted to wear heels to work, but from my cursory observations, work heels and party heels were very different. Because you only wear them for a few hours at a time, party heels can be as bright and as tall as you’d like. But office heels are different. They are shorter—their heels maybe an inch or two—and generally more conservative in terms of cut, shape, and material. When I looked through my closet, I realized, to my dismay, that as a college kid and full-time gender weirdo, all I had were party heels. I didn’t own a single heel that was under four and a half inches.
Realizing I needed to spend good money on a new pair of shoes, I set off to find what I deemed my “Hillary Clinton heels.” I found them at the Union Square Nordstrom Rack. A $50 pair of simple blue leather pumps, they had a two-inch heel and were wide enough for my caveman feet, but still narrowed to a severe, powerfemme point in the front.
Most important, they were loud.
Every fantasy I’d ever had about being a powerfemme involved wearing the high-heeled equivalent of tap shoes.
Click, clack, click, clack. It’s time for your three p.m. briefing, Madame President.
Click, clack, click, clack. Do you have the projections for next quarter, Sarah?
Click, clack, click, clack. The negligence of the Saudis cannot be overlooked in this case, Your Excellency.
Click, clack, click, clack. I said I needed that report on my desk at four, Charles. It’s four fifteen and my desk is currently empty. Don’t give me excuses. Just fix it.
In my fantasy world, the loud shoes were equally important, if not more important, than what I actually had to say.
Which is why I decided that loud shoes were a must for the United Nations. It makes sense. Working at the UN, you spend an inordinate amount of time stomping across gargantuan lobbies, marching through marble corridors, and surging up and down open stairways. For this reason, the women who wore loud shoes struck me as particularly intimidating. You could hear them coming for miles. They commanded attention wherever they went, their footsteps demanding respect and admiration. I wanted to be like them.
So before I bought the shoes, I took them for a sound test, finding a long strip of tile flooring in the store. After stomping around for a minute or two, I’d made up my mind. These shoes were perfect. They were so loud, other customers turned to see who was wearing them. They were so loud, I inadvertently startled someone’s child. I’d found my Hillary Clinton heels.
Finding the audacity to wear them to work was another story.
Even bringing them into the office in a bag, I felt hesitant. What if my colleagues weren’t as progressive as I’d thought? What if
they didn’t think my shoes were appropriate? Or worse, what if they thought my shoes weren’t that cute? Clandestinely, I put the shoes in my desk drawer and tried to calm down.
I decided that wearing heels was too big of a first step. So I resolved on a few baby steps to take first. I started wearing my grandmother’s old brooches on my lapel. Then I started wearing earrings sometimes. So far, so good.
Six weeks into the internship, I decided that it was my moment: my main boss, Minh-Thu, was out of the country for a conference, leaving only my junior supervisor, Ryan. Ryan and I were going to a stakeholder meeting at UNHQ where I could give my new shoes a low-stakes test run.
Things went as smoothly as could be expected. The shoes click-clacked like a dream on the marble floor. A few people at the UN were caught off guard at the sight of a person with a five o’clock shadow wearing kitten heels, but I received nothing worse than quizzical looks. As I went clip-clopping around the institution Eleanor Roosevelt had worked so tirelessly to create, I imagined that she would’ve been proud.
It was only back at the office that I began to worry. The day had been quiet. Too quiet. No one, not one person at the UN Headquarters building or at my office, had said a word about my shoes. I didn’t hear anything bad about them, but I didn’t hear anything good, either. The response had simply been silence. Not a peep. What did that mean?
I found out two days later when Minh-Thu was back. Apparently, people had been talking about my shoes, just not to me. After lunch, Minh-Thu breezed by my desk (and in this instance, “breezed” is literal. She’s the type of powerful woman who creates her own wind when she struts down the hall. I admire her for that).
“Do you have a second to chat? Let’s go to my office.”
I settled in, notepad prepped, ready to give her an update on the research I’d been doing about the formation of the Sustainable Development Goals. It wasn’t until she paused for a moment to collect her thoughts before speaking that I became worried—one of the most brilliant people I have ever had the pleasure of working for, Minh-Thu never paused to think. She was the type of powerhouse boss who was jumping into her ideas before you’d even had the chance to close the door, let alone sit down.
So the fact that she hadn’t spoken for three seconds was alarming. A moment later, the silence broke.
“I heard that you were wearing heels around the office one day while I was out, and I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“Yeah, I was,” I said, dissolving into the floor.
Realizing that I thought I was being reprimanded, Minh-Thu course corrected, clarifying, “Oh gosh, no, you are not in trouble, Jacob! Sorry, I realize how that must’ve sounded. You aren’t in trouble for wearing heels! I want to be very clear that we all support you wearing whatever you want around the office within appropriate boundaries. I just wanted to talk about everything, to help you think things through.”
Picking myself up off the floor, the molecules of my body rearranged into human form, I started to calm down. “Yeah, I was actually hoping we could talk about it, because I really value your guidance.”
“Okay, so what I’m about to say may sound harsh and it may scare you a little bit, but that is not my intention. I just—as a woman who has worked at the United Nations in one capacity or another basically since you were born, I want to give you a little perspective. It doesn’t serve anybody, especially you, if you don’t have context for what you’re getting into.”
I froze. I was already scared, but did my best to gently smile, eager to hear what she had to say.
“I know you may think the United Nations is supposed to be progressive, and some parts of it are, but by and large it’s still a very conservative institution, especially when it comes to gender. I mean, we can’t even get every country to agree that women deserve equal rights yet. So, in some ways, it’s no surprise that gender politics at UN HQ can be backward. When I first started working here in the nineties, it was still fairly edgy for a woman like me to wear pants to the office. In my early career here, I couldn’t wear pants, let alone be a powerful woman, without stirring up trouble.”
My mind reeling, she continued, “So I guess what I’m saying is this: Walking around at the United Nations in high heels will probably be really hard for you. And whether you realize it or not, some people will discriminate against you because you are different. You may not be invited to observe sessions or take part in meetings that you deserve to participate in. You may not be given a seat at the table, even when you should have one. You may be unknowingly giving up a lot by flexing with gender like that.”
“Oh, okay,” I mumbled, going into shock.
“Obviously, none of this is true for our office. You should feel one hundred percent comfortable wearing whatever you want at our office. Know that we all respect and value you already, and that will never change, no matter what shoes you wear. Know that I respect you. But externally, in the broader UN system, expressing this side of yourself may come with serious consequences for your career advancement.”
She could tell I was scared, but she needed to continue. I needed to hear it. It was important medicine to swallow, sugar be damned.
“What I’m trying to do is give you all the information I can. I want you to understand the landscape so that you can make intentional, deliberate choices about how you’d like to navigate it. If expressing your full gender at work is the most important thing right now, then you should absolutely do that. But I don’t want you to make that decision in a vacuum. Does that make sense? I can’t tell you how badly I wish, for my sake and for yours, that the world wasn’t this way. But given the fact that, at present, this is what it’s like, I wouldn’t be a good mentor if I didn’t share what I know.”
I nodded, words evading me.
“Remember, you’re not in trouble. I will back you no matter what. I will support you to the absolute ends of my ability. I will do my damnedest to protect you and help you further your career, but there are certain things that are out of my control. And I just need to be honest about that, okay?”
“Okay.” I gulped, fumbling over what to say next. “Let me think about things? This is a lot of information for me to process.”
“Of course, Jacob,” she responded, radiating a combination of kindness, pain, and frustration. “Take all of the time you need. I’m always here to talk and strategize.”
And did I ever take time to think about what she’d said.
At the time, it felt like she was punishing me, despite her assertions to the contrary. I was furious at her for saying those things to me—How dare she suggest I not be myself? How dare she tell me the UN system wouldn’t be receptive to someone like me? How dare she imply it might be better for me to hide my gender?
But today, as I look back, I am able to appreciate what she was doing: She was loving, mentoring, and protecting me. The fact of the matter is that I needed to hear every single thing she had to say. I needed someone to respect me enough to shake me out of the fantasy that life as a gender nonconforming person was going to be easy. I needed someone to have the courage to tell me the inconvenient truth. In a world where people try to be polite by not talking about how cruel the world can be to gender nonconforming people, Minh-Thu did me the radical kindness of sharing something real. She wasn’t the disease; on the contrary, she was the first person who’d respected me enough to tell me that battling this cancer was going to be a motherfucker.
Like the fabled emperor, I was running around town naked, convinced that my new gender nonconforming outfit made me special. Everyone told me so. But when it came down to it, I wasn’t clothed at all; I was buck-naked, vulnerable, and unprotected. I was about to strut all over town wearing nothing. Minh-Thu simply had the courage to tell me that I was, in fact, naked; that the world wasn’t going to protect me by default. That discrimination was going to be part of my reality, and I’d be better off if I could pl
an for it and make my own decision about how to maneuver.
I did not take the news of my own nakedness well. I left the office that day hurt, broken, and terrified. Clawing at my clothes, gnashing my teeth, tears burning down my cheeks, I stormed past Grand Central Terminal, past Times Square, all the way to the West Side, Gaga’s “Judas” blaring angrily in my headphones, I felt my world falling apart.
It would take years for me to internalize what Minh-Thu had told me. It would take years for me to fully contemplate and process her guidance, let alone learn to appreciate her for sharing it with me.
For the moment, I decided that she was right about one thing: I needed time to think things over. I needed to think about how I wanted to proceed. How important was my gender, really? In a vacuum, I would obviously express myself however I felt comfortable, but given that I lived in the real world, a place notoriously hostile to people like me, what was I willing to give up in order to express my gender openly?
For the remainder of my time at the United Nations, I left my Hillary Clinton pumps in my desk drawer, only daring to put them on late at night when most of my colleagues had left the office.
There were two exceptions to that rule. I wore high heels—my party heels—to our foundation-wide holiday party in Washington, DC. And I wore my Hillary pumps to UN Headquarters when Ban Ki-moon and Ricky Martin spoke at a big event promoting Free & Equal, the United Nation’s first ever campaign for LGBTQI rights. I couldn’t help myself with that one. If there’s ever a time to risk your entire career at the United Nations in order to wear a pair of two-inch pumps, it’s when Ricky Martin is in the building.
