Last week I used a women’s room. Again.

A different take on Utah and gendered bathrooms

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I wrote this for the Salt Lake Tribune, which has published me in the past. There had been a changing of the opinion editors, however, and the new one politely declined it. There were two stated reasons. First, they have published much on this topic. Second, they prefer pieces by local authors, which I no longer am. The latter stung a little. I moved away but four years ago and still care quite a bit about what for 43 years was my home. This article will attain much less reach here that it would have in the Tribune; so, should you feel inclined, please share.

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I am not eager to write, much less publish, this piece. Discussing my gastrointestinal issues before readers is not my idea of a good time. Speaking of which, trigger warning: I’m going to open by discussing my gastrointestinal issues.

I have lived with said issues, the result of a surgical mishap, for 20 years. I have tested diet, meds, probiotics, special undergarments, positive thinking, sacrificing a pumpkin spice latte on an altar, and more, all to no avail. The upshot? Let’s just say that sometimes my innards give me minutes if I’m lucky, seconds if I’m not, to take a seat in a restroom. I shall leave to your imagination the inconvenience and humiliation that I have, on occasion, endured when none was at hand.

Last week I found myself in a large public building, making a beeline in the direction of a mercifully easy-to-spot restroom sign. Alas, it turned out to be the women’s room. No men’s room was in sight, and on this occasion my innards had no intention of affording me time to hunt for one. I later learned that the men’s room was one floor down. I would not have made it.

So it was that, not for the first time, I slipped into a women’s room. Mind you, not even the most casual observer would mistake me for female. I’m six feet tall, 220 pounds, bald, and bearded. I have a baritone voice. No wonder the woman reading a magazine in the lounge area looked up with surprise. “I’m sorry,” I stammered, “I have a condition and I can’t find the men’s—”

“Don’t worry about it,” the woman interrupted, motioning toward the doorway to the stalls, “go ahead.”

By the time I reemerged a few minutes later, a second woman had joined the first in the lounge. Again I began an apology. “No problem,” the newcomer said. I thanked them both, hurried out, and disappeared down the hallway as fast I could.

This little adventure took place in a city where people tend not to be uptight about such things. Had it taken place in Utah, my home for 43 years, there’s no telling what kind of hubbub might have ensued. 

Or maybe not. Even when I lived in Utah, my condition tended to win understanding to my side. Moreover, I think you’ll agree that no harm was done. After all, if you have ever visited a women’s restroom, you know that the stalls tend to provide privacy.

But … suppose I’d been in Utah … and suppose I were a transgender woman. In that case, I might be writing about my adventure from a cell instead of my office. Which, when you think about it, is absurd. Condition or no condition, if a straight male does no harm using a women’s room, neither does a transgender woman using a women’s room, nor a transgender man using a men’s room.

If you think transgender people are de facto predatory, you’re just plain uninformed. If you think a restroom is a sexual predator’s preferred hunting ground, let’s hope you’re uninformed and not projecting. The overwhelming majority of people who enter a restroom are there to go potty. Let them.

As I said, I don’t enjoy sharing personal medical matters. But if it might nudge one or two self-appointed morality police an iota closer to basic humanity, I’m willing.