The Wrong Kind of American

A t the CIA , they’d started an office pool on when I’d be fired.

President Trump would be sworn in for his second term at noon; the smart money had me gone by 12:15.

But the smart money hadn’t counted on Trump’s first pick to run intelligence for the National Security Council being shredded by an online mob on suspicion of disloyalty.

There wasn’t yet anyone in place to fire me.

After taking the oath, Trump spoke at the Capitol.

“As of today, it will henceforth be the official policy of the United States government that there are only two genders: male and female.” “Did he … ?” an NSA colleague asked.

She glanced at me and looked away.

“Yeah,” I muttered.

The good news: I was one of those two genders.

The bad news: The administration would have views as to which one.

I gripped my badge.

I could take it off, leave the White House complex, walk out the north gate, and never look back.

I imagined the story they would tell: See? Even she knew she didn’t belong.

I didn’t move.