Before the 1990s “transgender” was generally not recognized nor embraced by the community it was eventually applied to. Gender misfits had not appeared on national talk shows. There was no World Wide Web. Heterosexual male crossdressers—“transvestites” back then—had only tiny, quiet enclaves. There was no trans community nor laws protecting us. Hollywood depicted us as jokes, victims and crazed killers. And the rise of “Christian” Conservatism could not have come at a worse point in history.
We existed on the remote edges of society, so those with “Gender Dysphoria” had to find our own way. The two avenues toward transsexual transition were from crossdresser groups and the gay community. Given the social backlash against even crossdressing, only the most desperate, and those with the least to lose went ahead.
By the time I turned fourteen I knew deep down I was a failure as a guy. But it took twelve more years of denial—aided by heavy drug use, four years in the Air Force, college and a marriage—until I learned who I was from a book in the college library. The chapters about transsexuals described so many thoughts and feelings it was as though I’d written them myself. It turned out my years of crossdressing wasn’t a fetish; it was a gateway to finding the real me!
Living near San Francisco and its large community of “queens”—it was the word for “trans” back then—gave me a place to meet other gender misfits. I finally knew I no longer had to live the lie of trying to be a man. I had told my wife of my history of crossdressing long before we married, so my decision wasn’t a huge shock to her and were able to part as friends. I moved to the notorious Tenderloin district where my people flourished like exotic creatures in a costal tidepool.
Soon I started female hormones and living as a woman. I was met with near-universal rejection by friends and “Normal” people in general, and distancing from my already-fractured family. The rejection was such I dropped out of college after two years despite being a honors student; the chasm between my transsexual life and society was huge. When my employer, a housecleaning agency in San Francisco, forbade me to work as a woman, I dropped all the way out.
I knew I could make a living as a transsexual prostitute. I used my intellect to become very successful at it. I could more than hold up my end of a conversation with any john: not many TS hookers were college educated in 1986. Prostitution was a job that I came to love: my johns were the only “Normal” people who made me feel good about myself. They called me beautiful and sexy, and I provided a valuable service to them, which made me feel valuable.
However it killed me to know that my true gift, software engineering, was going to waste; no employer would hire me because I was a “Freak.” I started smoking heroin and began injecting it soon after that. When I wanted complete oblivion I smoked PCP. I hated my position forced by society: turning tricks and shooting smack in the Tenderloin.
12-Step recovery programs talk of “hitting bottom” before you take Step One: admitting complete defeat. For the next two years I LIVED on the bottom, “suicide on the installment plan” as it were: multiple Psych holds for PCP psychosis, a felony arrest during a PCP blackout, months in jail, numerous heroin overdoses, and being HIV+ and in danger of coming down with full-blown AIDS. In short, I lived on a steady diet of incomprehensible demoralization.
Thanks to a Veteran’s Administration rehab, 12-Step fellowships, and the love and support of my few loved ones, I got clean and sober. By the time a trans community emerged in the 90s, I’d made a complete turnaround and started a career as a software engineer; I found an employer who saw past “freak” and recognized a valuable person who could be an asset to them and to my community.
Of course it wasn’t all smooth sailing after that—way, WAY far from it—but at least I had a chance for a better life. When things got difficult and oh did they, I tried to keep one thing in mind. The following passage is from my recovery journal-turned-memoir, and it helped me remember to remain grateful.
“I’m so relieved to have finally arrived at fulltime womanhood and to be working in my chosen career, that dwelling in anger would be downright ungrateful. Only fifteen months ago I was a penniless, jobless and virtually homeless male heroin addict. In light of my seemingly charmed transition to living out this dream, it’s not easy to hold a grudge against God or the Universe or Whomever. … At least, it isn’t easy this week.” – Not Your Average American Girl
So there.
[P.S. Yes, that is Jane Fonda sitting with me, backstage at an all-transgender production of The Vagina Monologues in West Hollywood in 2004.]
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