Dress Codes, Double Standards, and the Eagles of Santa Fe

Tonight, we played pool at the Eagles in Santa Fe.

I don’t like the Eagles. Not because of the BCA league or the people we play against, that part is usually fine, but because the place itself is a pain in the ass to play in. The tables are small. The floor space is cramped. There’s nowhere to put your stuff. That’s it. That’s the complaint.

And it’s not like I get to choose the venue anyway. League play rotates. Tonight was our turn. So we showed up.

I came straight from work, which meant black jeans, black boots, a black tank top, and a light blue button-up over it. Anyone who knows me knows this: I wear tank tops religiously. All the time. Summer. Winter. Doesn’t matter. Jeans and a tank top is my uniform. Add biker gear when appropriate. That’s it. And yes, I’ve worn this exact thing to the Eagles before.

Let’s also be clear about what the Eagles actually is.

They call it a “club,” but in reality it’s just a private bar where people can get overserved without breaking the bank. The building is run down. The place reeks of weed. Drunk slurring dominates the noise. The clientele-sorry, members-run the gamut: wannabe gangbangers, working-class folks still in their work clothes, retirees with nowhere else to be, stoners, drunks, slobs, the occasional floozy. Nobody’s pretending this is some refined establishment.

So imagine my surprise when we’re getting ready to play, it’s hot as hell, and I take off my button-up, revealing a plain black tank top, and the barmaid immediately tells me I’m violating the dress code.

Tank tops aren’t allowed.

She’s wearing a women’s T-shirt with sleeves so short they barely qualify as sleeves at all, essentially tank straps with marketing. Apparently that passes.

Cool.

I spend the rest of the night pissed off. Not mildly annoyed. Properly, deeply pissed off. At some point I go back and ask the obvious question: did someone complain?

Yep. Someone complained.

Ah. The plot thickens.

So I start scanning the room, locking eyes with every sorry-ass maggot at the bar, trying to figure out which one of them couldn’t manage their own feelings like an adult. If you’ve got a problem with a trans woman in a tank top at your sacred fucking dive bar, say it to my face.

Seriously. I dare you.

And here’s the part I fucking hate having to ask every single time something like this happens: Was I singled out because of who I am?

Nobody else has to ask that question. I’m not playing the victim. I’m explaining that the thought inevitably enters your head when you look around at a place where intoxication, disorder, and bad judgment are apparently fine, but somehow I’m the problem.

Which brings me to the part that really stuck in my crawl.

I always thought the Eagles were supposed to be about American values. Liberty. Freedom. The American spirit. That’s the branding, at least. And yet here we are, policing how someone dresses. Not because it’s obscene, not because it’s disruptive, but because it makes someone else uncomfortable.

That’s not American. That’s arbitrary regulation, selectively enforced. And policing and regulation, by their very fucking definitions, spit in the face of individual freedom.

And here’s the kicker: I have served this country. A lot.

I served in the United States submarine force as a reactor operator on a fast-attack submarine. And for the last 24 years, I’ve served this country in its national laboratory complex. That work matters. That service matters. That should mean something.

Haven’t I earned the right to wear a fucking tank top?

I saw a man there last night wearing a jean jacket with a pin on his hat that said “veteran.” I doubt he had a problem with what I was wearing. Because real service tends to teach you something about freedom, and it’s usually not “let’s call the bartender instead of minding our own business.”

The irony is almost impressive. The place reeks of weed. Drunk chatter fills the room. Standards are loose everywhere, until suddenly they aren’t. Until suddenly the line gets drawn at the sight of a tall, not-particularly-feminine transgender woman in a black tank top.

It got in my head. It fucked with my game. I only won one match.

So yeah.

Eagles of Santa Fe: Fuck you.