GENDER JOURNEYS: Diary of a Transsexual Job Hunter
For reasons too arcane to mention here, I once again find myself a free agent on the job market. My former boss and I still get along great, and like the Jewish mother she is, she eagerly volunteers an embarrassingly effusive recommendation to anyone within earshot. Hmm ... wonder if that'll be enough to carry me over the top in what every financial pundit is hailing as the Best-Time-To-Get-A-Job-In-The-Last-Hundred-Years?
The January issue of "Out 'N About" predicted, "Ventura County may be becoming the Transgender capital of Southern California." Then heck, this oughta be a cakewalk. And now that I pass SO DAMN WELL, this li'l transsexual honey oughta whiz through the whole ordeal quicker than a waiter with the runs serves yer dinner.
SUNDAY, JANUARY 17
My last job-go-round nine months ago, I called everyone I knew in the Ventura GLBT community, including the current and former presidents of BAPA, an organization one could reasonably assume would "know people who know people." Nothing. Except for apologies that no one could help me.
And hey, look at this ... already I have two job interviews for tomorrow. You go, girl!
MONDAY, JANUARY 18
9:15 a.m.
My interview with the president goes well, lasting about 15 minutes. Since this is my first day away from the still-warm corpse of my former job, and since it's coincidentally headquartered just down the street in Moorpark, I excitedly drive over after the interview.
Upon hearing my animated description of an enervating interview for this perfect job, my former boss insists on calling Kodiak to offer an unsolicited recommendation. That's funny, the prez isn't in ... I left his office only ten minutes ago. My boss leaves a message for him to call her. He never does.
11:00
12 noon
He immediately looks me over ... a little too carefully. Uh-oh, not a good sign. He invites me upstairs to his office overlooking the repair bays. I turn around near the top of the stairs to discover he's still at the bottom, watching how I walk up the stairs. Also not a good sign.
Once we're in his office, sitting opposite one another, Harry spends the first fifteen seconds examining me, without saying a word. By this point I realize I won't be working at Harry's Auto Repair anytime soon ... not a disappointment to shake my world, but I wish I'd known this before making the 2 1/2-hour round trip.
Harry asks me a few questions specifically designed to point out why I'm wrong for the job: Why did you leave your current job? Why did you leave your previous job? Do you have any experience working in an auto repair shop?
Well Harry, I ain't applying as a grease monkey, I'm applying as an administrative assistant; all businesses are pretty much the same to MS Word. And how come you didn't mention the bit about repair shop experience on the phone, when all you had to judge me was my sweet sexy voice? Somehow, the 5'11" chick with the broad shoulders doesn't seem to appeal to Harry's particularly sensitive Auto Repair Shop sensibilities.
"We'll be in touch." Damn, there goes my future in auto body repair.
1:30
Sounds fine to Kelli "No-Job-Too-Menial" McAllister, but Stan is letting me know our interview is over. No, that's okay, I can take the employment application with me and just mail it in.
Maybe it's time I rethink how well I pass.
2:30
Thirty minutes later, at exactly 3:00, the partners meet with me. It's a nice, albeit typical, interview -- "What can you bring to our company?" -- and at the end I'm still not exactly sure what they do. Something about collating data. I know I would call all the hotels in Ventura county, get their current room rates, then input the numbers in Excel for ultimate publication in a UCSB report. The job would expand based on the capabilities of the candidate. Well, in that case, ladies and gentlemen, exactly where would you like me to move this mountain TO?
After this day's final interview, I meet a friend at Carl's Jr. near Thompson and Seaward in Ventura. I notice the counter girl whispering to her manager, then both of them eyeing me. Ah good, the perfect complement to a long and grueling day of four job interviews ... more humiliation.
My friend and I take a table. The people sitting in the booth next to us find excuses to look around so they can glance at me. Now I REALLY know I gotta rethink how well I pass.
As my friend and I leave, the people at the other table continue to stare at me all the way out to my truck in the parking lot.
The Village Freak ... it's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it.
TUESDAY, JANUARY 19
My only interview is at 11:00 in Ventura Harbor, so I figure I can be at Harbor Freight around 9, finish by 10 or so and have plenty of time to make my interview.
Time to get up ... dragons to slay.
10:00 a.m.
This place is huge, and a little rough for a T-girl. Lots of blue-collar types assembling freight orders for shipment all over America. And what's with this parking? Most huge corporations have some accommodation for visitor parking reasonably near the entrance. At Harbor Freight visitors park somewhere outside of Bakersfield and walk back! The closest 200 spaces are all marked "Reserved," presumably for White Male Americans. Then the next 10,000 spaces are already taken by employees. I'm not exactly sure where I parked, but it made me appreciate the parking convenience of Disneyland. My 15-minute hike to the front door, through the freight yards and the host of smoking high-school dropouts, made me a little surly already. Being met with another four-page job application did nothing to improve my mood.
So when HR rep Donna called me in, I was struggling to recapture that genial charisma which had obviously charmed my previous interviewers.
Hmm, I scored 97. Only an arrogant perfectionist would be dissatisfied with that. So what'd I miss? What'd I miss?
She wouldn't tell me, but what is 96 divided by .5 anyway? I thought when you divide by a fraction you multiply by 2 or something. Anyway, I was applying for a Copy Editor position, and I scored 100 on all the grammer and speling.
After being chastised for a couple of incomplete or inappropriate responses on my employment application I was told to return at 4:00 to meet with the head of Catalog Marketing.
Back at my truck, I connected on my cell phone with Oxnard and set up an interview for 1:30. I began the day with a single firm interview; already I've aced a preliminary employment exam and now have three more interviews before dusk.
I may not be able to GET a job, but I damn sure know how to APPLY for one!
10:30
Discrimination, like Carl Sandburg's fog, creeps in Ventura county on little cat's feet.
I make it to HCC and am shortly ushered into the office of the lady whom I will be replacing. The interview goes flawlessly; it turns out we both attended Indiana University, and we reminisce about Bloomington for the first five minutes. We establish an immediate, easy rapport; the job is right up my alley, and exactly what I'm looking for; the compensation package is reasonably close; and my private office OVERLOOKS THE OCEAN! Omigod omigod omigod! I want this job!!! Finally, a gig a girl can sink her teeth into.
I make my exit, but not before giving the interviewer my cellphone number so she can reach me at a moment's notice to schedule my return interview with the Vice President who's flying in from Dallas tomorrow. I meet a friend for lunch, but am so distracted by anxiety I miss everything he says and have to keep apologizing.
IwantthisjobIwantthisjobIwantthisjobIwantthisjob. If I say it fervently enough, like a mantra, maybe my positive vibes will realign the universe in my favor.
And maybe monkeys'll fly outta my ass.
1:15
My interviewer arrives shortly and invites me in, where we chat for more than an hour. It's a very low-key affair -- only three people on staff. She too is leaving, because the job is too isolated for her. Actually, the job seems nice to me, interfacing with governmental boards, film companies looking for shoot permits, companies interested in relocating. The compensation package is very nice, the interview goes well, and it's something I could easily step into.
But why is my mind back on that damn ocean view?
3:00
At 3:50, still waiting, my cellphone rings. The lady from HCC is calling to arrange a follow-up interview for tomorrow at 3:15.
IwantthisjobIwantthisjobIwantthisjobIwantthisjob. In my mind I start compiling a whole long list of people to invite up to my ocean-view office so I can oh-so-casually GLOAT my butt off!
Ten minutes later I meet with Rob at Harbor Freight, along with some lady who sits next to me with a clipboard, doesn't say a word the entire interview and takes notes. Honey, if you wanna know where I bought my shoes, just ASK me! The interview goes well, but the job starts at $3 an hour less than I've been making, and I decide I don't much like these humorless people or this hardcore working environment.
How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm, after they've seen the sea?
4:45
I have another message from my former boss, who needs a 1000-word article on her business for immediate publication in the Daily News. We're still on great terms, she's giving me a wonderful severance package, and I'm happy to accommodate her.
Are all unemployed people this overworked?
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 20
I take my stuff and return home to compose in peace, all the while anticipating my second interview with HCC.
3:05
Let's put it this way: I'm not sure the Dallas Veep appreciates the L.A. Transsexual. Suddenly the power of my job mantra seems hopelessly ineffective against someone who prefers someone 20 years younger, 20 pounds slimmer ... and WITH NO Y CHROMOSOME!!
We had a 15-minute interview, comprised mainly of completely inane questions like, "If you were to start tomorrow, what would you do first?" How can I possibly answer that until I learn what the job requires? Ironically, this guy stays in Dallas and would never even see me. The actual head of the company, to whom I would be personal assistant, remains comfortably at home in Carpinteria. I suggest that logic would require I meet him, since we'll be working closely together. The Veep agrees, but I'm not optimistic it'll happen. Dallas derailed my ocean view.
"Oh, I am fortune's fool" .. no wait, that's Romeo's line, not Juliet's. Even now my Gender Dysphoria manifests.
In my mind I rip up my ocean-view Gloat List.
3:45
I return her gaze as she continues to stare straight at me, for three minutes now. I couldn't be more busted if I were on "Cops." I'm already in a piss-poor mood from having my Pacific Ocean office ripped away, and I tell my friend we've got to leave. Confused but compliant, he follows behind me to my truck, where I turn around and see the lady still staring at me. She speaks to some people sitting at the next table and everybody laughs.
I tell my friend to wait by the truck as I go back into the restaurant to have a little chat with my new acquaintance. She sees me returning, immediately jumps up and scurries out the other door. The only problem is, she's so flustered she forgets her dry cleaning on the chair next to her. She's forced to return.
I tell her, "I think we need to chat." She responds, "I think if you come near me I'm calling the police" and quickly exits, more agitated than a Maytag on full soil cycle.
Well. This episode ranks right alongside the time a coworker told me I should wear a sign around my neck so people would know what I am, or the time a sheriff asked me about my penis or vagina during a routine traffic stop.
I follow her out the door and stare behind her for nearly four minutes, but she never turns around, eager to put as much distance between herself and this twisted, disgusting pervert as possible. I reenter the restaurant and ask those sitting near her what her problem is, but they say they don't even know her. Nevertheless, I see them looking at me and laughing after I leave.
I drop my friend off at his house, no longer in any mood for company. On the drive home I cry.
THURSDAY, JANUARY 21
Bitter? Me?
My original interviewer is still sweet on the phone. We chat for awhile and she asks if she can keep my number for her own future reference. Funny how the world works: there are folks in white hats, and folks in black hats. And usually it's pretty easy to tell who's who.
Sadly, the assholes remain tragically ignorant of their condition.
FRIDAY, JANUARY 22
All this, and no job offer. Hmm ... wonder what it could be?
Four years of hormone therapy; two major operations; more than $20,000, and a resulting bankruptcy; two years of full-time womanhood, complete with all appropriate documentation.
Quite an investment I've made in Kelli McAllister, for every employer in two counties to shun me in this Best-Time-To-Get-A-Job-In-The-Last-Hundred-Years.
I must pass about as well as the Titanic passed the iceberg.
Nobody can say this chick's letting the grass grow under her feet. In the past four days I've sent out more than 60 resumes, from various classified ads and job hotlines. Yes, I KNOW the newspaper want ads are the last resort of a desperate job hunter ... but do you have anyone willing to network with the trannie girl?
8:00 a.m.
I get a call from a marketing firm in Moorpark, asking if I can stop by for an interview. Let's see, I've got an interview in Los Angeles at noon ... I can pull myself together and be over there in an hour.
Here I am at Kodiak Communications. It's the perfect job for me, a combination of administrative and marketing -- exactly what my last two jobs have been, thrown together in a single secretarial salad bowl.
Driving to my next appointment, I get a call on my cell phone from Stan at Mod-U-Mend in Newbury Park, wondering if I can squeeze in an interview at 1:30? Sure, no problem, I should be back from L.A. by then. Wow, four job interviews in a single day ... there must be some sort of trophy for Most Aggressive Job Hunter, middle-aged woman category.
My second interview is at Harry's Auto Repair on south La Brea. I fill out another interminable application form -- isn't all this stuff exactly what's on my resume, and why do you need a handwritten copy to go with the typed one? -- and meet with Harry, the Middle-Eastern owner.
Newbury Park's Mod-U-Mend is about as exciting as their name would imply. They repair power supplies, and Stan is telling me my job would be to invoice the customers and track the progress of each repair.
My last interview of the day is in Ventura, at a real estate data processing company. I'm thirty minutes early, but no one else is in the office, and with any luck the two partners can see me ahead of schedule.
As the new day dawns, I only have a single job interview scheduled. That's not really a bad thing; I'm a little murky after yesterday. I'm still trying to reach a lady in Oxnard to schedule a time for an interview, and I need to swing by Harbor Freight in Camarillo to take a one-hour employment test at my convenience. It's shaping up to be another busy day.
The nice security guard has graded my test and passed it along to the appropriate Harbor Freight representative; I'm waiting to be called in for a preliminary interview. I'm guessing that means I did okay on the test.
I'm a half hour early for my interview with HCC Communications in Ventura Harbor, so I drop by the Ventura County Reporter just a few doors away, where I used to work. They are a charming bunch of people, honestly. I only wish they'd kept me on as the best Copy Editor and feature writer they ever had, instead of taking away all my writing assignments and reducing my hours. Seems a freshly-minted transsexual was just a little too disruptive for their workplace.
I'm a few minutes early for my interview with the Oxnard Development Association, and the office is locked. It's in a charming location known as Heritage Square, which I later learn is a collection of authentic historical houses transplanted from all over the county and restored to their original condition.
Once again in Camarillo, I'm an hour early for my follow-up interview at Harbor Freight. No problem, I relax in the lunchroom and read a magazine.
I arrive back home to find a message for "Karen" McAllister, thanking me for applying for a position and letting me know they've already found someone. That's wonderful, dear, but what company are you with? Obviously, whomever it is, secretarial salaries are low there.
A single interview today, but oh what an interview it is. In the morning I drop by my old office to pick up some stuff and begin to write that article, but with the boss's dog relentlessly barking at the new Office Parakeet, work crews stopping by lost on their way to Simi Valley, and incessant phones, I feel like I just stepped into that Doris Day movie where they have eight kids and it's nonstop chaos. Ernie Pyle couldn't write in this melee.
I arrived at the Harbor ten minutes ago, and have been sitting in my truck so I don't show up too early for my 3:15 appointment. As I announce my arrival I'm met by my original interviewer, who introduces me to Rich, the Vice President from Dallas.
I meet my friend, again at Carl's Jr. on Thompson in Ventura, and notice a lady staring at me as I enter and walk to the restroom. She's staring at me as I leave the restroom, and staring at me as I walk to the counter.
No job interviews today ... I'm not sure my heart could take it. Instead I compose 4000 words of prose and catch up on some personal bookkeeping, pausing only to call HCC at 3:00 and confirm VP Rich's disapproval of me. My original interviewer reveals they've offered the job to someone else ... undoubtedly someone born with a vagina.
Let's recap one full week of ferocious transsexual job-hunting, in this Best-Time-To-Get-A-Job-In-The-Last-Hundred-Years: I've sent out 60+ resumes; I've been on 8-10 job interviews, and only for positions for which I am the most qualified candidate in a 500-mile radius; I've been asked back for second interviews at two companies; I've taken two tests and scored nearly 100% on both.
