I was able to pull off the training. I think it helped that everybody was impressed that the day before I had just run a marathon and was still able to walk. The programs worked the way they should and everybody seemed to be pleased. I finished my technical overview to the network administrators and headed back to the hotel. By the time I had gotten back, I had nearly thirty emails to answer. It was less than thirty-six hours until my surgery and concentration on work was getting hard. I was able to get the emails answered and went to dinner and finally to bed. I had to get up very early, at three thirty AM; I would be flying for the first time as Stephanie.
I probably did not have to get up so early, but I wanted to make sure I had time to get ready. I had a cup of coffee and turned on my computer to check on the flight status. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping for: if the flight was on time, I would make it to my surgery. If the flight was late, I would have to reschedule, and I would have longer to come up with an explanation for the sudden loss of my Adam’s apple.
I was going to have surgery that would alter my looks forever. My Adam’s apple could not be put back on once it was gone. Before I made that leap, I needed to ensure that I was comfortable being able to do everything I had always done as Steve now as Stephanie. Perhaps the biggest challenge I would face in replacing Steve with Stephanie would be flying. Going through security at the airport and having every part of my person scrutinized in detail would certainly be a test of my resolve—a test of my commitment to the life-change I was contemplating.
Not Enough Closet Space
The interesting thing about being transgender is as you come out of your closet you grow. Once you have grown, you cannot fit back into your previous closet. It is like the rain ponchos that you buy at amusement parks or sporting events that come folded and packaged in neat little pouches. Once you take them out and unfold them there is absolutely nothing you can do to get them back into that pouch. The same happens with exploring your transgender side.
Once you are out you cannot fit back into the closet. I am asked frequently why I decided to have sexual reconstruction reassignment surgery. First, I correct them and say it is not a decision— it is more acceptance. Second, the surgery is not really sexual reassignment, but is more of a gender correction. You really are not changing genders; you are just adjusting the physical to match your true gender. There is a difference between a transsexual and, for lack of a better term, cross-dresser. Both are transgender. Each time I stepped out of the closet, I grew just a little, and when I went to go back into the closet, no matter what I did, I could not fit completely back into pouch. I had to either find a bigger box or leave a little outside. This happens for both transsexuals and cross-dressers but the difference comes later. Many cross-dressers find a big enough box for them to remain comfortable. They let themselves out of the box on an as-needed basis and are able to get everything back in when they are done. I can only speak for myself, but I never found a box big enough, and the only option was to make a change so I did not have to go back into the closet.
My closet always seemed cramped, but it began to feel suffocatingly tiny as I reached my teenage years and early twenties. As you grow, so does your wardrobe, and your closet shrinks exponentially, becoming tight and claustrophobic. You cannot breath, and you get a panicky or antsy feeling until you let yourself out of the closet. The closet starts out as a safe haven where you can hide all that is feminine. However, after a while, you look at the door to your closet and you just hate it, and it takes all your self-control to return to it after a night out.
I was always so scared about getting caught acting “fem” that I took extreme caution to hide my feelings. One of the defense mechanisms that I developed as a child—like others who must at all cost hide something—is lying and making up explanations. No matter how good you get at coming up with elaborate stories, it is inevitable that the two worlds will collide. You just hope you will be strong enough to handle the collision.
The woods near my house as a child were my sanctuary. I would spend hours in the woods making a house and being a mom. Nearly every time I went to the woods, I would pack my lunch and my fishing pole. If anyone asked, I was just going fishing, which was kind of funny since I was a very lousy fisher, never catching any fish. None of my brothers or sisters wanted to go fishing so I got to go alone, and that is what I wanted—to be alone. Actually, I sometimes did go fishing. I would put on a dress or some other girl’s clothes I had and wear them when I went fishing. A large part of the time, though, I would just spend pretending. Life is good when you can live in a pretend world.
Pretend worlds tend to end when you reach puberty. I did not dress much during my preteens and early teens. I had a growth spurt and the hand-me-downs which I secretly borrowed from my sisters did not fit very well. As a person who has had to go through puberty twice, the first time was definitely the worse. The first time I went through puberty I was in my teens, and the second time came when I was in my forties going through my transition. My body was changing in ways that conflicted with my mind. It was terrible. I did not have any close friends. While other kids were growing up playing ball or building friendships, I spent my time alone. As a result, when I entered my teenage years I did not have any close friends.
My early teens were just hard. I know why now, but back then I did not have a clue what was going on. I found myself very curious about females. It was not a sexual drive, but more a sense of jealousy. I was very jealous of good-looking girls. I was a somewhat homely boy, who stood at least two inches higher than anyone else in the class. A lot of boys finally caught up with me in high school and even surpassed me, but in 6th grade I stood alone. I guess you would have called me nondescript. I could enter a room and nobody would really notice, and if I left, nobody would notice, either. Everybody likes to be popular, but in hindsight being nondescript worked well for me.
Being alone may sound lonely, but it is safe. I had a secret that was locked in my closet and I could not share it with anyone. I was not antisocial, but I preferred being alone to playing sports with the boys. Once in a while the girls would let me play with them, but it was because they wanted someone to be the husband when they played house. I did enjoy playing with the girls, even though I wanted to be the mom. Playing house came to an abrupt end once we entered junior high.
I think I just drifted through junior high school and early high school. I developed an interest in physics, so I spent my free time reading about lasers and subatomic particles. Atomic particles were not very girlish but were interesting nonetheless. My favorite books were Atoms to Quarks and Photon Theories. My interest in science paid off later in life when I started my own company. It may not be cool to be a geek in high school, but it sure is nice later in life—geeks do rule the world.
I had summer jobs for as long as I can remember. When you live in an agrarian community, summer jobs for young people were plentiful. Work flowed with the crops. Late May you would start picking strawberries, then move to the muck fields for planting celery and weeding onions. Around mid-August you would start with blue berries or tomatoes, and in the fall you worked the cauliflower. So you would be able to keep busy from late spring through late fall. It was a great way to earn a little money and keep busy. I always knew at the end of the summer I would have enough extra money to buy something.
It was around the age of 12. I had worked all summer, managing to save enough money to buy a makeup kit I had always wanted. I grabbed my fishing pole—that was my cover story whenever I went somewhere on my bike. Bicycles do not have a trunk like a car but a tackle box was a great place to hide stuff. It would look funny riding around on a bike with just a tackle box, so if you take a fishing pole, you can tell your parents you are going fishing, and some of the time I actually did. Well this fishing trip was different; I had seen a makeup kit in the local five and dime store. It was the kind of makeup case any 12 year old girl would have. It had lip gloss, nail polish, lotion— it had everything. I could
hardly wait to get it. When I got to the store, there were only a few left, but that did not matter: I had one.
I was shaking when I bought it, having thought up all kinds of excuses. If the clerk had asked who it was for I would have said it was for my sister’s birthday, but I was so nervous that if I had to utter the excuse, it would have come out as a long stream of nonsense words. I could feel the sweat trickle down my back, and my shirt begin to stick to my skin under my jacket. I stood in line waiting my turn at the checkout, praying that no one from my family would come in. I don’t have any idea what I would have done. But if they had come in at that time, my secret would have been out. I was truly scared.
When it came my turn to check out, the clerk could not have cared less. She scanned my makeup kit, put it in a bag, and asked for my money. I grabbed the bag and headed for the door. I was almost free. I must have been holding my breath because I remember starting to breathe again. Then I heard the clerk calling me. I just about wet my pants right then. I turned and looked at her, expecting a group of people pointing and laughing. I heard her speak again and this time I realized what she was saying. I had forgotten my change.
I quickly grabbed my change and headed towards the door, barely missing another shopper as I exited to the bright afternoon sunlight. I made it. I unlocked my bike and peddled as fast as I could to my secluded “fishing” spot. I hastily opened up the kit and grabbed the body spray and put some on my neck. The spray was cool, but the smell was flowery—it was great. I spent the next two hours trying everything. It was getting close to dinnertime and I had to pack things up. I meticulously put everything back the way it came. I tried to put kit in my tackle box but it did not fit. My little closet was suddenly too small.
I had to think quickly and get back home. I hide the makeup kit in a bush and under some leaves. I made plans to go back the next day and move it to another spot. Dinner is one of those things that you are not late for with my family, and I made it just in time for pre-dinner prayers. When everybody bowed their heads and closed their eyes, I gave my hands a quick look-over to make sure I did not miss any nail polish. T he sweat from the frantic bicycle ride home had washed of most of the body spray, but I could still catch a faint wisp of a flowery sent if I moved just right. I loved it but I prayed that nobody else noticed. We were about to eat when my mother asked what was on my face. For the second time that day, I about wet my pants. I was new to lipstick and I had left a faded red ring around my mouth. I quickly said I had eaten a cherry Popsicle. The lying had started. I figured I would be in less trouble for eating an unauthorized popsicle than putting on makeup. I lucked out because normally I would have gotten the third degree. Where did I get the popsicle from? Why did I eat it before dinner? How come you did not ask first? Tonight, she only asked me to go wash my face.
The next day the first chance I got I went back to where I had left my makeup kit. When I arrived it was like coming across an accident only to fine someone you loved was in it. The contents of the makeup kit were strewn about. I froze for several minutes just staring at the remains of my new makeup kit. I had worked and saved all summer to buy that kit. Tears came to my eyes as I tried to salvage as much as I could. Apparently, raccoons like bubble gum flavored lip-gloss. They had broken the case trying to get at it, and the makeup I was able to salvage fit into my tackle box.
The makeup case was the first female thing I had ever purchased for myself, and will probably remain the most treasured thing I have bought. Each time I purchased something I grew just a little bit more confident. With every purchase I had to make room for some more stuff. It was difficult to buy clothes during those years because I was growing so fast. I never had enough money to buy an entire outfit at once, but by the time I did get everything, usually the first thing I purchased no longer fit.
The summer of 1981 I got my first non-farming job as a busboy at the same local restaurant. It became kind of a family tradition to work there because it was where my mother, three sisters and a future brother in-law worked. My mother worked as a pie maker and I have yet to find someone who could make a better lemon-moraine pies, it was so light it was like eating sweat air. My sisters were lucky they got wear the waitress uniforms that I so desperately wanted to wear. I had worked my way up from busboy to cook, it was a job that fit me. I guess you could say it was a real family restaurant. My oldest sister was dating the owners sun, my future brother in-law so when a job opening became available I had inside help getting hired. At first I only worked a couple nights a week, but soon I was putting in between twenty-four and thirty hours a week. I liked the work: it kept me busy and it suited me much better than the carpenter work my father did. It just seemed more natural to me to follow in my mothers foot steps than my fathers.
I instantly fell in love with the waitress uniforms. As waitresses would leave, they would try to sell their uniforms to someone who was just starting. Once in a while they would leave the uniforms a day or two in the break room. On more than one occasion, I would try them on. They were in a jumper style that would reach to just above the knee. I would only dare to wear them for a couple of seconds because I did not want to be caught. However, those few seconds would get my heart racing, and my head would fill with pink fog.
It was a warm summer day when I arrived home from my restaurant job on my bike. There was a bright red Oldsmobile in the driveway. My father was standing next to it. He had been out driving around and got suckered by a salesman to take the car home for the weekend. My father informed me that this was going to be my car if I wanted it. I did not know much about cars, but it looked nice; I had to take his word that it was a good car. My parents never bought us cars. When he said I could have it if I wanted, he actually meant that if the bank approved a loan for me, he would cosign, but I had to come up with the down payment. I had been saving for a new dress but it was worth the sacrifice, because now I had a great big mobile closet!
Having my first car meant a lot of freedom for me. I could go where I wanted, buy what I wanted, and have a huge trunk to hide it in. It was an exciting time. It seemed like I had an unlimited amount of space, but every time I went out, I had to put everything back in the trunk when I got home. That got harder and harder to do. By the time I was seventeen I had outgrown that closet, and I was desperate to find another one. I started to feel like a hermit crab: as soon as I got comfortable with a new shell, it became too small and I needed to move on.
If you live under my roof, you have to follow my rules. My parents lived by that command, which I found increasingly difficult to follow. I was choking on my parents’ religious dogma. My siblings were pretty much numb to this dogma; they heard it but never really processed it. The constant barrage of hate and bigotry became intolerable, because it was a direct attack on me. I was that person who was different; I was that person who was unsure of my sexuality, my gender. The church laid out two fundamental rules: It was right and if you did not agree with it, you were wrong. I no longer fit in my parents’ home.
At the age of seventeen, I joined the United States Marine Corp. It was the place you went to be a man. The Marines pride themselves in turning boys into men. It turns out in my case they failed; later I met another girl from my same battalion who never was turned into a man, either. I did not have the money to move out and go to college. My parents did not think it was all that necessary to go to college, so they did not help their children pay for it. The quickest exit for me was the armed forces.
Six weeks after I graduated from high school, I was on a plane heading to San Diego, California. The Marine Corps did not turn me into a man, but they did give me something that I was lacking: self-confidence, determination, and tenacity. All of these traits helped me later in life when I started my own business and even when I came out to my parents. I actually enjoyed being in the Marine Corps, and it felt good to serve my country. It was one of few things my parents were proud of.
The tour of duty ended shortly after it started. I had enlisted i
nto the Marine Corps when I was seventeen. I took and passed all my physicals with no problems. Eighteen months later at a routine physical, I failed the colors test on my eye exam. Color tests are interest because you discover what you can’t see. The color test consist of a circle filled with dots ranging in size and color. You can clearly see each dot, but if you have good color vision you can make out a number made by a series of dots. If you are color blind for certain colors you will see all the dots but because the all look the same color you will not be able to see the number. No matter how hard you try you just can’t see them. I did not flunk it by just a little bit, but failed miserably, a year earlier I could see all but one number, now I could only see one of the numbers. . I was in the electronics program which required perfect vision. I was left floating around from base to base while they tried to find a spot for me. They eventually gave me an honorable discharge.
Being in the Marine Corps is interesting when you are transgender. I was in the Corps long before there was even a don’t ask don’t tell policy. I was in during the era of hide it well, don’t breath a word of it to any one, and claim to have beaten up faggots just for the fun of it. It was hard because I lived in a barracks that housed three Marines per room so you never had any time that you were truly alone. Drinking became a very common pass time for me. I was only 18 gut I could drink on base and Fort Bliss is on the Mexican border so not only could I drink but I could drink cheaply.
While I was gone, I grew just a little bit more. I returned home and without any place to live and no job, I moved back in with my parents and my younger siblings who still were living at home. My parent’s house was a four-bedroom split-level. That meant when I was younger, we had three bedrooms split between seven children. My two oldest sisters shared a bedroom as did my two youngest sisters. I had to share a room with my two brothers. By the time I had returned home, my two older sisters and older brother had moved out. My older sisters got pregnant and due to the strict religious roots, they had to get married. My oldest sister liked getting married so much that by the time I wrote this book, she had been married three times. The sister I got a long with the best was the one who was just a little older than I am. I can’t say I was close to her. She was a very talented baker and cook. Her specialties were sweets and cakes. Bob, my older brother, followed in my father’s footsteps and became a carpenter. He learned a lot from my dad, but I would have to say he became better than my father when it came to custom cabinets. Needless to say, he was a manly man and we were never close; he went hunting and I went to the library. This left me with Ron who is four years younger and Cheryl and Kathy who are two and six years younger than I am. My parents put me back in my old room, and Ron got the bedroom to himself, much to the disappointment of my sisters.
The Great Elephant Ride Page 3