Don't Shoot Me Because I'm A Liberal Writing About Some Woke Ass Shit

You would think, boys are boys and girls are girls. And rightly so. I understand the whole psychological thing where people go through much of their life as one gender, but inside they feel they’re the other gender. I respect that.

            Having said that, let me tell you about an incident that occurred last year at Dr. Robert Beetle Middle School where I work as a campus security monitor. My name is Fred Mitchell.

            We have this girl on campus. Her name is Edwina. Edwina likes to dress like a boy. No problem there. She has mounds of flesh on her chest where girls typically develop mounds of flesh. Edwina may be an extremely unattractive girl, but she definitely looks female.

            Plus, her ID has her name on it. Edwina Jones. Sounds like a girl’s name to me. So, I figure she’s a girl. Now what I’m about to tell you folks actually happened. This is not a work of fiction from my troubled mind.

I’m there when Edwina walks into the 800 Hall Boys Bathroom. I follow her inside, a little confused and very unsure what to do. Edwina leans against the wall as if she’s one of the guys trying to be cool. There are a bunch of other boys in the bathroom doing what middle school boys do.  They’re hanging out, talking about sports, video games and girls.

            None of them say a word about Edwina being in the boys’ bathroom, so I’m getting more confused by the minute. Surely, they’d object if a girl came into their bathroom. But no one is saying anything. I’m starting to think maybe I have it wrong. Maybe Edwina is a boy. Maybe my eyes are deceiving me.

            Afterall, I’m so old they’re going to have me audition for the Broadway version of Jurassic Park. They say my toenails are so long and curled, I could pass for a velociraptor.

I know you’re not allowed to discriminate against a student based on their sexual identity. So, I don’t say anything.  After a while, Edwina goes into one of the toilet stalls. After another little while she exits the stall and the bathroom.

            An African American boy named Jeremiah Yungblud looks at me.

            “Mr. Fred,” he says. “What’s a girl doing in the boys’ bathroom.”

            “You mean that wasn’t a boy, Yungblud?”

            I don’t know what else to say to him.

            “Maybe you should talk to your mother about this Yungblud when you get home from school today.”

            A week passes and I’m at the school Christmas party they hold at a bar down the street. Lord knows you need a good stiff drink now and then to work in a school where sometimes it can be hard to tell the girls from the boys. I relate the story to one of my assistant principals, Dr. Oldskul.

“Under no circumstances are you to allow Edwina to use the boys’ bathroom. Edwina is a girl. She’s registered as a girl. Have her use the girls’ restroom.”

            “Will do,” I answer.

A couple of days later, Edwina shows up at the 200 Hall Boys Bathroom. I stop her.

            “Edwina, can I get you to use the girls’ bathroom please?”

            “No. I’m a boy.”

            “No, you’re registered in school as a girl. I’ve been told by admin to have you use the girls’ bathroom””

            “No. I’m a boy.”

            “Come on now. Come with me to the Student Success Office, so we can get this cleared up.”

            The Student Success Office used to be called the Dean’s Office. But times have changed. Edwina immediately hot-foots it away from me. She is upset and angry. Instead of Edwina, I end up being the one to go to the Dean’s. I tell the dean what happened.

            “What should I do?” I ask.

            “I don’t know. Let me talk to the principal. “

The principal in turn calls the school district’s legal department. Legal advises we have to let Edwina use the bathroom associated with the gender with which the student identifies. WTF, I think to myself. What the school district really needs is a Department of Common Sense.

The next day I run into Principal Donlea, whom I respect because she is a hands-on administrator. She leads by example and gets her hands dirty every day. I express my concern to the principal that some of the young thugs at our school might beat up Edwina for using the boys’ bathroom. Edwina's presence makes them uncomfortable.

            “Wouldn’t it be better and safer to have her use the Unisex Bathroom in the nurse’s office,” I ask.

            “We can’t do that,” the principal tells me.  “That would be treating Edwina differently than the other students. We have to treat all students equally. We don’t make other students use the Unisex Bathroom.”

            “But what do I tell the guys in the boys’ bathroom when they ask what a girl is doing in their bathroom?”

            “Tell them he’s a boy. Times have changed Mr. Fred.”

            “You sure are right. Times sure have changed.”

            “You okay with that.”

            “Yeah I’m good with it.”

I'm a good soldier and always listen to my superiors. But I’m not going to tell the fellas that Edwina is a boy. I’m going to tell them to talk to their parental unit or whatever they call mom or dad these days. But I don’t tell my principal any of this. I keep it to myself.

            As for Edwina, months later her parental unit has her name legally changed to Edward, even though as far as I know she has not had sexual reassignment surgery. He/She/Somebody also has Edwina's sexual identification changed in her school records to male. I always loved that Johnny Cash song "A Boy Named Sue."

            Eventually, Edward graduates from our school. I assume he’s in high school now. Hopefully, he’s doing well.

            I swear that what I have just told you as they say in court under oath, is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God. And I hope God helps me deal with situations like this in the future. I hope my old ass doesn’t get fired for telling you all this. I shouldn’t have told you Edwina’s name or Yungblud’s name. This kind of thing is considered confidential. But I had to tell someone and tag you’re it.

All of which brings me to the famous Bob Dylan protest song from 1964, “The Times They Are A Changin."

That song rings as true today as when Bob Dylan wrote it. It's as if Dylan was singing about this stuff in 64' without knowing he was singing about it. Oh well, I got to get to bed. I have to get up early for work tomorrow. The alarm is set for 4:30. No rest for the weary.

Note To Readers: What you just read is a work of fiction. Any similarity to people, places, events is strictly coincidental. This story is a creation of the author's imagination.