by Renee James
Jen is from Indianapolis. She’s in her mid-thirties. She tried marriage. She’s had girlfriends and boyfriends. One of her girlfriends became a boyfriend while they were together. She has decided she is indifferent about sexuality, and she’s getting that way with gender identity too. I tell her about the “gender queer” kids in Chicago who often mix male and female appearances. One young bearded man I knew would go out on the town in mostly male attire except for a female top and a bra stuffed with silicone breast forms. One of my customers is a young woman who sometimes wears male clothing and adopts male mannerisms, but still looks like a woman. “Do you prefer to be referred to as a female or a male?” I asked her the first time we met. “Either,” she said. “Or both.”
Jen thinks this is cool.
After dinner she takes me to a lesbian bar. We draw lots of stares here, too. Especially me. Interesting. In a gay male bar, I'm usually ignored. Mainstream gays like their men more in the cowboy/athlete mode. The lesbians I’ve known have been polite enough and some of them have partnered up with my transsexual sisters, but not until the sister has fully transitioned and feminized. . So the stares are probably about us as a couple. You don’t see our combination very often.
We talk about doing hair, people we’ve dated. She asks me lots of questions about transitioning. She’s astonished at how much I’ve invested in electrolysis. At one point, I confess my morbid fear of having large hairy breasts whereupon Jen impishly reaches inside my dress and feels me up.
“It worked,” she says. “You feel great.”
I smile and blush profusely. I’m wildly aroused.
“Ohhhh, you liked that!” she says playfully. I nod. “Me too, sweetie,” she says. She kisses me on the lips, a long, soft kiss. Her lips are plump and warm. She puts her tongue in my mouth. I suck on it gently. I feel like I'm on some kind of aphrodisiac. My body is humming with sexual tension so strong I can barely control myself. She murmurs something and we hug.
When I regain my composure, I tell her about my abstinence pact. She thinks about this for a moment. “Are you afraid if we have sex that you’ll want to be a man again?”
“No. My gender isn’t an issue anymore. I’m a woman,” I say. “If you make love to me, you’ll be making love to a woman no matter what body parts I have. But I’d like to have all the right ones.”
Jen nods. “Okay. I understand. I’ll wait.” She pauses. “But we can still neck and pet, right?”
I nod. The anticipation of her warm flesh on mine has robbed me of the power of speech.
***
ON MY FIRST DAY back at the salon, Officer Phil calls to see if I can do lunch with him. I can't. I'm booked solid all day. He says he has something important to tell me. We compare schedules. He's going to walk me to the El after work.
He's on the sidewalk waiting for me when I come out the door, that nice, warm smile on his handsome face. . The sight of him still stirs my senses. His eyes are fixed on mine as I approach and his smile widens. I feel like his love interest for a fleeting moment. I know it's not true. This isn't a boy-girl thing, it's a friend-friend thing, but I store the image of him at this moment in my memory bank so I can play it back later, when I can enjoy a nice warm fantasy.
He kisses me on the cheek and we hug. It's a friend hug, but he squeezes long and hard. I squeeze back, telling the vision of Jen in my mind that it's just a friend thing.
"What's the news?" I ask as we begin walking.
"Can you keep this to yourself?" he asks. "I could get in serious trouble if this gets out."
"Of course," I say. If I couldn't keep secrets I couldn't be a hairdresser.
"We have a suspect for the Strand murder." He stops us so he can say this to my face. His expression is almost joyous, like this is the best news ever.
My jaw drops open. Cecelia? Thomas? It's not me. He wouldn't be so happy if it was me. "Who is it?"
"I can't give you a name, but I can tell you the suspect is a small time hood who does muscle work for, among other people, John Strand. Apparently there was a dispute over money. The guy doesn't have an alibi for that night and he's got a rap sheet filled with violent crimes."
Phil gives me some details. It sounds like they have a strong case, even though the man denies he did it. Charges will be brought soon.
We start walking again. My mind is whirling at sonic speeds, but not about the imminent arrest. I'm fixated on how excited Phil is about all this.
"You seem especially happy about this, Phil." I glance at him as I say the words. The smile and bright eyes are still there. "Why would that be?"
He stops us again and looks me with great intensity. "Because this puts you in the clear, Bobbi."I'm stunned. My brain freezes as I try to understand how I feel about this, then try to find words to say. "Why is that important to you?" I ask finally.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and gets this gentle look on his face. "Because you're a good person, Bobbi. You're one of the best people I've ever known. You're finally getting out of your cage and I want you to fly higher and further than you ever thought possible. It just brings pure joy to my soul."
For the second time in a few seconds, I am reduced to mute astonishment. He really does care. I can see it on his face. It's not the hot, romantic stuff of my dreams—I'd have a heart attack if it was—but it's more than a casual friendship. It's special. Regret comes next, for all the cross words I hurled at him and all the doubts I had about what kind of person he is. Who knew?
June
IT IS ONE OF THOSE MIRACLE EVENINGS we get in Chicago that you don’t get anywhere else. Oh, you can get the same weather in California or Florida, but it doesn’t feel as good there because you haven’t paid for it with a long winter. . You can get the same feeling about the weather in Indianapolis or Milwaukee, but you don’t get the ambience. Nothing against any of those cities, but not even New York has Chicago’s combination of architectural majesty, beautiful beaches, hip urbanity, and an arcane touch of Midwestern innocence.
I’m walking home from the salon. I inhale the evening air and feel like I’m walking in a dream. It is good to be alive. It’s good to feel alive. I feel the vibrations of life all around me, from the throngs of people moving about on their way to restaurants and clubs and goodness knows what else, to the traffic, the buildings, the sidewalk art, and the finger-like streaks of clouds etched in the dimming light of the skies.
This is a milestone moment. The end of something before the beginning of something else. Like New Year’s Eve. This is my last evening in Chicago as a pre-op transsexual, a woman with a penis. Tomorrow, I'll board a west-bound airplane and in three days I will have my male parts removed and I will finally have my vagina. I know this sounds grizzly to most people, but it will be a fantastic relief for me. As my transition has progressed, as I’ve become more absorbed in living my life and less worried about how others see me, my male appendage has become increasingly bothersome. A nagging sore in my consciousness that constantly reminds me I am not whole yet.
I am forewarned by my doctor that I will be in great pain and discomfort at first, and that I will not feel at all ecstatic about having this operation. Not for many days. . No matter. I’m getting it done. I am giddy with the knowledge that I'm at last getting it done. As for the pain, well, it’s just physical pain. It subsides after a while. When I think of pain, I think of my father’s contempt for who I actually am. I think of my mother abandoning me because my father said to. I think of all the nasty, cutting remarks people have sent my way because I’m different.
I think, too, of pleasuring a man and having him despise me for it. I think of being raped and beaten and left in an alley like garbage.
And yes, I think about what I did to Strand. I think about the months of dithering about what to do, and the weeks of actively planning to kill him, the shame I felt at savoring the idea of it. I think about that night, how Strand treated that young transwoman. I think about what he looked like and how he acted when he reach
ed consciousness. I still remember holding the knife to his throat and commanding my nerves and muscle fibers to slice it through his flesh and cartilage and veins and arteries. And failing. I will never forget the shock of learning about his murder, and I will never feel secure from being implicated in it.
Those thoughts and memories still play in my mind. Not every day. Not anymore. But several times a week, anyway. I sleep through the night now, but I don’t sleep like the innocent. I never will again. I have it within me to slit a man’s throat and watch him die. I didn't do it, but I could have. I wanted to. I bear the burden of knowing who I am and what I’m capable of doing.
That’s not who I am but it’s part of who I am now, and it will always be a part of who I am. Bobbi Logan: passionate hairdresser, transsexual woman, loving friend to many, abductor of John Strand, would-be murderer.
So whatever physical pain awaits me I readily accept.
Every once in a while I hear about the police interviewing someone in the community, still trying to get a lead on Strand's murder. It’s a reminder that the police might someday blunder onto a trail that leads to me, and that I could then be incarcerated for the rest of my life. It isn’t likely. John Strand was a secretive man with a lot to hide. None of the facts they’ve uncovered about him seem to lead anywhere. They don’t even know about the poor girl he beat up on the last night of his vile life. In fact, the rumors about him and Mandy are the only connection the police have between him and transgender world, and Cecelia is making life miserable for them on that score by demanding to know why a more spirited investigation wasn't mounted when Mandy was murdered. I sometimes wonder if her bravado on this subject is an elaborate subterfuge calculated to put her above any possible suspicion for killing the man herself.
As for who delivered the killing blow, and why, the state still hasn't brought charges against the man Phil told me about. If he isn't convicted, it might become a crime that is never solved, though if the police somehow discover my connection to the murder, they won't look any further for a scapegoat. They would never believe the truth about what I know, and even if they did, I can't help them find the murderer. I have only guesses, and I wouldn't share them with anyone.
If they do bust me, at least I’ll get locked away as a woman. That was the deciding factor with Camille giving me the okay to go ahead with gender reassignment surgery. When we finally sat down and talked about my part in the Strand murder, she wanted me to put off GRS while I came to terms with what I had done. . I begged her to let me go to a more intense counseling schedule instead. Because if I got busted before my surgery, a life sentence for me in a male prison would be the most painful possible death sentence, much worse than Strand’s end.
She pondered this for a week, then told me in her quiet, dignified way that she would agree to an accelerated counseling schedule. She held me to it, too. The sessions were three times a week at first, then two, and they were painful. We revisited every moment of my conflict with Strand, every emotion I felt, even the finest details about the sexual escapade with him. . Ever the pragmatist, Camille wanted me not only to understand what I did, but also to consider alternatives I could have explored—to the kidnapping, to the secrecy, to everything. Most of all, she said, I needed to come to grips with what I had done. I needed to be able to put that information in a place where I would never forget it, but where it didn’t affect everything I do, every thought I have.
I’m getting there.
Hillary Clinton was right. It takes a village. She said it took a village to nurture kids, but really, all of us need a village. . My community is what has pulled me through. I’ve been hugged by Marilee more in the last six weeks than my own mother hugged me in all my life. Cecelia calls me every day. Ray comes in every four weeks for a haircut and to get us caught up on each other’s lives. Phil's a regular client, too, and we had coffee a couple of times just to chat. My ex-wife, Betsy, calls several times a week to see how I’m holding up as my time draws near. She wants to take me to the airport tomorrow and pick me up when I get back. I still have dark moments now and then, and when I do I often find myself revisiting the murder of John Strand and thinking if they don't charge Strand's goon, maybe I should figure out who delivered the coup de grace. Part of my motivation is curiosity, but part is the vague, horrific thought that maybe I did it and because it was so violent and horrible I just won't let myself recall it. Proving to myself that Thomas did it, or maybe Cecelia, or someone else, would get the curse off my soul once and for all. In my rational moments, I can see Thomas or Cecelia doing the deed, not out of hatred for Strand but out of concern for my life. I can also see someone from some other part of Strand's life doing it to get even for something Strand did to them. He'd screwed so many people in his life, the list of possibilities must be endless.
I haven't acted on my impulse to investigate Strand's death for a lot of reasons. One is the memory of how my last murder investigation ended. Another is that neither Camille nor Marilee thinks I killed him and blocked out the memory of it, and deep down inside I don't either. Most of all, I don't want to know. If I found out it was Cecelia or Thomas or someone else I cared about, I would be a danger to them, someone who could be bullied by the police into a revelation that would land them in jail. For killing a rat far more dangerous to humanity than any four-legged vermin.
If the murderer was one of Strand's thugs, I might just set another murderous cycle in motion. As with Strand, the thug realizes I'm getting close to him and he feels the need to eliminate me. I've been through that once, which is more than enough for this lifetime.
So I've made my peace with having the identity of Strand's murderer become one more of life's unanswered mysteries, like who killed Kennedy, what came before the Big Bang, and why is red the most difficult hair color to get right and the fastest to fade?
Today at the salon, Roger and the staff got me a cake and had a champagne toast for me in the mid-afternoon. A year ago, I was an embarrassment to most of them. Today, they were celebrating my imminent sex change and talking about it openly with their clients. I have kissed and hugged every one of them. Even Trudy, my religious colleague. Some of them even had tears as we embraced.
Yes, I know none of them are aware of the fact that I tried to murder someone, but I think if they knew the whole story they might be able to forgive me for what I did, even Trudy, just as they have come to accept me as a transsexual woman.
Of all the things that have happened to me in the past year, Trudy’s transformation is one of the most remarkable. I never would have guessed that this person who was once so angry and judgmental toward me would become my friend. I think it shocks her, too. And I know it makes her feel good, just like it does me.
Thomas called to wish me well. He took the precaution of using a disposable cell phone for the occasion. We hope to restart our open friendship in the fall. That will give him time to forgive me for having my penis cut off (a standing joke between us). I think his partner will find it a little easier to have me around then, too. I’m no threat for Thomas’ affections as a woman, not that I was as a pre-op either.
Somewhere in all of this I gradually came to realize that I love this place, this time, these people. . This is where I learned to accept myself. Bobbi, a strange looking woman who used to be a man, who has this weird girlie streak, who loves to do hair, who tried to kill someone once. After that, loving the people around me was easy. Some of them loved me before I loved myself. I’m not talking about romantic love. I’m talking about the kind of love that bonds people together as they deal with life’s endless contingencies and surprises. I include Roger, my boss, in that circle. He stood by me when it really didn’t make good sense to stand by me. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s getting paid back. Today I called SuperGlam to turn down a full-time gig in their New York facility. I would have been part of their teaching staff, doing demos all over the country and even Europe. It would have set me up for life, big money, prestige, a big name. I cou
ld have charged $150 for haircuts the rest of my working life.
But, you know, I’m doing okay here financially. My business is growing and I’m helping the salon grow, too. It makes me feel, I don’t know, valuable. Worthy. Like I’m someone.
And in the end, I just couldn’t leave my friends and my community. I wouldn’t be the same person someplace else. I could never say goodbye to Cecelia. Or Camille. Or Roger. Certainly not to Marilee. I want to be a doting aunt to Betsy’s child. I want to see how things turn out with Ray and his wife and their trans-child. I want to be here this summer when Jen comes up from Indy for a visit, and I want to visit her down there.
I want to fall in love someday. I want to share a life with someone who can handle what I am and who I am. I can do that anywhere I guess, but I need to do it here. This is who I am. This is where I make my stand.
Acknowledgments
I owe so much to so many in the making of this book that acknowledging everyone would be impossible, so allow me to offer special thanks to a few.
Thanks to Katie Thomas for being my mentor and reading each draft of this book.
Thanks to Mary Whitledge for her wisdom, moderation, and professional counsel.
Thanks to June LaTrobe for sharing her intimacy with Boystown.
And thanks to the several brilliant editors it has been my pleasure to work with on this book. They include Chris Nelson, who taught me about character and plot from the Pacific Northwest, Elizabeth Schwaiger, who taught me about style and content from Aberdeen, Scotland, and most recently, Donald Weise, who showed me how valuable it is to re-think everything from an office in New York. Together they have made me feel like a long-distance traveler as I toiled alone in the corner of a room with a window in suburban Chicago.