Transition to Murder

by Renee James

  Meanwhile, I come to the support group as a sort of compromise with her, but also because the surgery is becoming real to me. It has been an abstraction for as long as I’ve even thought about transitioning, but lately, I find myself planning on it. I’ve circled a date on my calendar, I’ve set aside savings and I’ve chosen the surgeon. I have even figured out what weeks I will have to be gone from the salon while I recover.

  Camille is a transwoman herself. She is very tall—an inch taller than I am. She is one of those women who is attractive without being beautiful. She’s very slim, and wears tasteful clothing in subdued colors. She moves, sits, and stands gracefully. She has a soft voice. Her shoulder-length hair is curly and prone to frizz, but it’s feminine and the simplicity of her style works very well with the rest of her.

  She is giving us a pep talk on being assertive. Not in-your-face assertive like Cecelia, but get out of the closet, stay out of the closet, be proud of who you are assertive. This lecture was precipitated by a girl who sobbed her way through a narrative about attending a family dinner as her feminine self. I guess she expected some degree of acceptance since she had told her family she was trans and what that meant. But they weren’t ready for Abby, not in a dress and makeup. They never are. Her father took one look at her, said, “Jesus Christ!” and left the room; he never came back. Her brother and his wife wouldn’t talk to her or even look at her. Her mother cried. Her sister asked if this was really necessary.

  Camille is a little like the teacher in the old movie The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. She's demanding that we stick up for our right to be ourselves. She and I have danced round and round this topic for months. She’s right, to a point. I think of her when humiliating experiences make me want to stay indoors and avoid the public.

  But there’s this other reality, too. The other reality is that there are quite a few people who will never accept a transsexual as a woman. That includes lots of parents and siblings. If you look like me, it also includes large numbers of people you meet or just pass on the street. Some are outright bigots, but most are regular people who just can’t handle it. We carry a stigma about us that is hard for others to get past.

  I realized this once and for all when I saw a television show featuring a group of really gorgeous, extremely successful transwomen. I had always thought if a trans person could look that good and accomplish so much, they’d be accepted completely as women. Why not? They are more attractive, smarter and more accomplished than the vast majority of genetic women. Turns out, there’s always something. Each of them had been successful in their careers and had no trouble turning heads as beautiful women when they walked through a crowd. But to a woman they felt their love lives were hollow. They had no problem getting laid, of course. The difficult thing, the maybe impossible thing, was finding a committed, loving relationship. “As soon as I tell him I’m trans, it’s over,” one said. They all agreed. They told different stories to illustrate their points. Sometimes it ended right there. Sometimes it ended by degrees. He didn’t want to take her home to mom and family. He didn’t want to go to out as much. The relationship got stale. The “maybe we should see other people” session came along.

  I knew it would be like that for me before I heard those women, but hearing them drove the point home. I will never have an intimate, long-term lover, not a male one, anyway. I will have breasts and a vagina, I’ll wear nice clothes, I’ll have beautiful hair, I’ll think of myself as a woman, but many others won’t think of me that way. I’ll get laid as often as I want by male adventurers, I might even have friends who fuck me when we’re both horny. But I’ll never be loved as a woman.

  And I have decided to accept that. It’s not everything I want in life, but it’s the best I can have. I don’t want to spend my life pretending to be a man, not when I can spend it trying to be a woman.

  ***

  THE MEETING ENDS mercifully at ten p.m. and I join a group of girls heading for the El station. We travel together into the city, ignoring the stares of the train’s night-riders, a motley collection of students, janitors, gangstas and the odd regular person. They leave us alone. Everyone just wants to get where they’re going, except maybe one or two punks. But there are too many of us for them to mess with. And transwomen aren’t good marks for theft since most of us live close to the poverty line.

  When we get to the Loop we go our separate ways. I take the Red Line north, drawing mild interest from the half-dozen or so riders in my car. I get off at Belmont. It's further from my apartment than Addison, but on support-group nights I like to stop at a diner near the Belmont stop and take a few minutes to think about things over a cup of tea.

  I take a surreptitious glance around as I exit the train to see if anyone seems to be following me. It’s something I’ve been doing ever since I found out those two goons were following me.

  No one else gets off my car. Two kids get off the car in front of mine and run lightly to the exit, disappearing before I've taken my fifth step. It is silent on the subway platform except for the click of my heels. Below the raised platform, Boystown twinkles quietly to the east, its eclectic cafes and clubs still beckoning at ten-thirty on a Tuesday night in mid-winter. Sidewalk traffic on Belmont is sparse. Plumes of vapors rise from the mouths of a couple vigorously walking and talking. Single figures move swiftly east and west, muffled and hunched to ward off the cold. On a summer night at this hour, Belmont would be teeming with street life, but the icy fangs of February have pushed people indoors.

  I descend to street level in a darkened staircase, its lights sacrificed to vandals. Near the street level, the sky comes into view. The moon fills my vision, full and fat, set off by hundreds of tiny stars. The sight stops me dead. I gape in awe, my mind suddenly filled with romantic notions. It would be so nice to be holding hands with someone special just now, to share this moment.

  The sound of feet scraping on stairs behind me interrupts my reverie. I turn, startled. All I see is a glimpse of a retreating shape shuffling up the stairs. Heavy footfalls, like work boots would make. Dark on dark. A shadow. Probably male. Where did he come from? The platform was empty when I got to the exit. Why is he going back up?

  I'm spooked. I descend the last few stairs as fast as I can in heels and walk briskly toward the café. It’s probably nothing, but I feel like the man might be following me. Why? Because he moves so furtively. Because I didn’t see him get off the train when I got off and I didn't see him on the platform. Weird. I want to get where people are.

  As I cross Wilton to the café I glance back. Nothing. I relax a little. On the street, it’s not likely anyone will mess with me. I wonder how big he is. I try to remember what he looked like in my fragmented glimpse of him. Work boots. Blue jeans. A light colored coat, maybe tan.

  The tan coat rings a frightening bell in my memory. One of the men I thought was following me a few weeks ago wore a tan coat and a blue stocking cap. Of course, thousands of men wear tan coats and blue stocking caps in Chicago during the winter. I'm not even sure this man's coat was tan and I didn't see a hat. It's nothing.

  I relax and enjoy the clear, chill air and the glow of the Belmont Avenue lights. It’s like being in an idyllic Christmas card scene. With no one looking, I let my hips roll as I walk, one hand swinging girlishly, the other holding the purse strap slung from my shoulder. I don’t let myself be girly in public very often, but at this time and place it feels good.

  Clarke's is an upscale bar and grill with a pleasant ambience. Great breakfasts, sinful burgers, inspired beer and wine list, rich selection of teas. It sits on the southwest border of Boystown, a place where Lakeview’s straight yuppies mingle with gays and lesbians and transpeople. . In Lincoln Park it would be pretentious and pricey, but in Boystown it's just comfortable.

  The place is quiet tonight, a smattering of customers, some reading, some in quiet conversations. Plenty of open tables. People straggle in and out. As I sip my tea I find myself thinking warm, personal thoughts. How nice it
was to go out with Ray. How much I look forward to dinner with him this weekend. I wonder what it will be like to have my surgery and to be making this walk with nothing between my legs. I wonder if I have any fun clients coming in tomorrow. My mind jitterbugs from one fleeting thought to another. I am enjoying this immensely. I feel alive with anticipation.

  The cozy quiet overcomes my sense of time. When the waiter checks on me it's close to midnight. Much too late for a working girl who will be on her feet all day tomorrow.

  Outside I pause briefly, debating what route to take. I usually take Wilton, a battered side street that goes north next to the El tracks for a long, ugly block, then turns into an alley that wends its way under the tracks. This late at night, it’s creepy enough to be a set for a horror movie or a Hitchcock thriller. Its single virtue is it cuts ten minutes off my walk home.

  I take a long look around, especially at the El station. Nothing moving. I opt for the shorter route. The one advantage to being a big muscular girl is that most people don’t mess with me.

  I start down Wilton, working on my girly walk. I try to get more swing in my hips by centering my steps, like a fashion model. I hear footsteps behind me and blush. Some dog-walker got an eyeful of me trying to be girly tonight. Fodder for a story at the office tomorrow. I glance back to see who has witnessed my folly. It's a man in a tan coat and a blue stocking cap, blue jeans, and work boots.

  My skin breaks out in a thousand pinpricks of panic: It’s the guy. The guy who was following me before. And he’s walking briskly.

  Alarm bells jangle in my head. I turn quickly and pick up my pace, looking for someone, anyone, out on the street. Someone parking on the curb, maybe. A dog-walker. Someone to call out to. There's no one. Like a living nightmare, there is nothing moving on the street. I glance back. He is gaining on me. It feels like he’s pursuing me. I break from a fast walk to a high-heeled trot.

  Mid-block, I reach an alley. As I glance into the dark, hoping to see an apartment dweller coming or going, a man darts out of the shadows. He is moving fast. Really fast. He is on me almost as quickly as I can comprehend what's happening. There is something menacing about his approach. And there’s something wrong with his face. I realize with horror he is wearing a nylon stocking over his face. He means to harm me. Another step and he is on me. I shoot a straight right hand at him but it's slow and awkward, hindered by my tight-fitting coat and my teetering balance on high heels. He parries it easily. My mind clicks forward. I start to swing my left hand, thumb first, at his eye.

  Before I can move my arm someone grabs me from behind and cups a hand over my mouth. I can’t see him, but it has to be Tan Coat. In front of me is Bluto, a thick, brutish looking white man. The mask distorts his features, but I sense a heavy five o’clock shadow to go with his nylon-flattened nose. A nasty looking mug. This is going to get ugly.

  My world goes black. One of them wraps an arm over my eyes and stuffs something in my mouth. They push and drag me into the alley. My feet go out from under me. One is holding my legs, the other has my torso. They carry me like a rug, running. One sniggers quietly. Five steps. Ten. They stop. My feet hit the ground. They throw me against a wall like a rag doll. I struggle to my feet, trying to get air in my lungs and spit out the gag so I can scream for help. Bluto grabs the zipper of my coat. I knee him hard in the balls. Tan Coat grabs me from behind. I try to resist but my heels make it impossible to get leverage. Bluto grunts and lurches back half a step, then brings an overhand right to my face. I see his eyes just before the blow lands. He wears a look of determination, but no particular emotion. Then his meaty fist lands, smashing my nose and lips. I see stars. I lose control of my legs. Tan Coat holds me up.

  “Hey, lift his arms up a minute,” he calls to Bluto. Referring to me as a male is an intentional insult, but I have bigger problems.

  Bluto lifts my arms over my head. They are like jelly. I want to resist but my body has shut down. I want to smash his windpipe with a good shot to the throat. I want to kill them both, but I can’t get my nervous system and my muscles to react.

  As Bluto holds my arms, Tan Coat lifts the bottom of my jacket over my head, inside out. It’s like a handcuff and a blindfold. They laugh. It’s very funny to them. One of them throws me on something that feels like a packing crate. I land on my front, my face slapping against the flexing wood of the crate, sending more waves of pain through my body. They grab my legs at the knees and yank me backwards. When they let go, my knees and toes drop to the pavement. My torso is flat on the crate, my arms held over my head by my coat. I hear a belt buckle being loosened and one of them sniggers.

  Two hands jerk my skirt up over my hips and rip down my panty hose. Something hard enters my anus. He thrusts roughly, big strokes. Pain shoots through my body. This isn’t sex for the man on top. I’m being brutalized. I can feel tender skin ripping. Oh God, I think, please don’t let me get HIV! Oh God, please let this be a broom stick he is using.

  The sniggers continue. When one finishes, the other mounts me. When he's done they pick me up and throw me against a wall. My head hits hard, knocking me almost senseless. Pain flares from all parts of my body. My jacket is still over my head. My skirt is on my waist. My panties are around my knees. More sniggers, joined by a high-pitched chuckle.

  “Be careful who you piss off, you fucking freak,” one says in a low voice. He hits me in the stomach with all his strength. I fall.

  The receding sniggers tell me the two have left.

  For a while all I can do is cry. I sob in terror and in anger and in wretched helplessness. I don’t know how long.

  Finally, I will myself to ease my jacket down, then I struggle to my feet. There are fluids running down my legs. I can smell urine and excrement. I lost control of my bowels during the rape. My anus feels swollen and it aches. My insides ache, too. My stomach feels like it has burst. I feel pain with every movement.

  I find tissues in my purse and try to clean up. Even in the dull green glow of a distant streetlight I can see that the tissue is covered with blood as well as excrement. My brain dully registers the fact I see no semen. Maybe they used condoms.

  I am sobbing reflexively, but I wipe the fluids off before they drip into my boots, then I lower my skirt. If I had a gun right now, I don’t know if I would use it on myself or try to chase down my assailants. I am seething with anger. I’m angry with them for what they have done to me. But I’m angry with me for being such a pathetic human being. For being a victim. Part of me feels like a village idiot, a man in makeup and a skirt who just got the ass reaming he deserved for being so pathetic.

  I don’t have a gun. All I have is a house key, which I now put in my fist like a small knife. If those bastards try me again I will blind one of them. I swear I will.

  Sobbing, I try to walk from the alley like a lady, even though I feel like human garbage. My home is four blocks and a lifetime from here. Each step hurts. The hurt is everywhere. My rectum. My ribs. My stomach. And my face, from Bluto’s punch. My lips are swollen so badly I can see part of my upper lip when I look down. My nose is broken. I stop twice to see if blood is dripping from my ripped anus. It isn’t, but the feeling persists.

  As I walk I think. Should I report the rape? To what end? A physical exam. Official sympathy from a bureaucrat. No semen for a DNA test, not that they’d go that far anyway. What kind of description do I give? Bluto, an ugly mug in a mask, sniggers a lot. Tan Coat has a blue hat, like a million other Chicago men.

  Even if I could make one of them, the grim reality of my situation is he’d beat the rap. His word against a transsexual's. Who would you believe? Who would care?

  Why did this happen? I wonder. It was planned. Someone waited for me at the El station. Someone else waited for me in an alley on my way home. They knew I’d be in those places after ten o’clock on a Tuesday night. They didn’t pick me out of a crowd. They were waiting for me.

  Why?

  Be careful who you piss off, you fucking freak. Th
e attacker’s words come back to me now.

  And then I know. I know who called this tune. I know the miserable psychopathic mother-fucking bastard who put these thugs on me.

  I will have my revenge, John Strand. I swear it.

  It will be painful and bloody. I swear it.

  It will be humiliating. And it will be final.

  You have my word on it you animal.

  ***

  IN THE END, I go to the Emergency Room and the doc there instantly deduces that I’ve been raped, calls in the cops, and I end up having to go through the rape drill. It’s like being raped again, since there’s no hope of apprehending the rapists. The female cop makes a show of sympathy, but it isn’t heartfelt. She’s thinking in the back of her mind that I was asking for it, a man in a mini skirt flashing cleavage, wearing a messy updo.

  We all go through the motions. They pretend to care; I pretend to think they care. No, I didn’t know my assailants. No, I can’t identify them. They wore masks. No, I haven’t broken up with anyone or stiffed a john.

  It takes all night, but I get through the cop stuff and get some medical attention. The nurse regards me like an alien but tends to me. The doctor is completely indifferent. My lips are sewn up and the swelling is starting to recede, thanks to ice packs. My rectum has been swabbed and cleaned and stitched. The good news is, no semen residue, so there’s a very good chance I won’t get a venereal disease out of this. The bad news is, I’m going to be tender and swollen there for a while, and there is a risk of infection.

  At eight o’clock in the morning. I call Roger at the salon and tell him that I've been badly beaten, that I won’t be in for a few days, maybe a week, because it will be that long before my face won’t scare people. He is aghast and sympathetic. He wants to do something. Just don’t fire me, I tell him. He’s already doing the best thing anyone can do for me—he’s thinking of me as another human being, a worthwhile member of society. Imagine that.