1983. “The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth
unto a man; neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment, for all that do so
are abomination unto the Lord thy God”.
As I read these words from Deuteronomy 22:5 in an old family Bible, I
feel as if I have been punched in the stomach. Ever since the age of 3, when my
mother caught me playing dress-up, I had known that dressing like a girl was
not acceptable. That didn’t stop me, I
just became more careful. Yes, I did
tell my mother I wanted to be a girl, but I learned to keep thoughts like that
to myself. Once I prayed to God that
President Carter would decree that it would be OK for boys to dress like girls
if they wanted to. I drew a comic book
in which my friends and I were turned into female superheroes. I knew I was different, but I didn’t feel bad
about that. Until now. The Bible says I am an abomination, “a thing
that causes disgust or hatred”. Now, at
the age of 13, I feel for the first time like damaged goods. Inferior.
I will spend much of the next decade fantasizing about living as a woman
and dressing the part when I can, and at the same time hating myself for having
these desires. I will pray on my knees
with tears streaming down my face for God to help me be a normal person. But my prayers are never answered.
1995. With trembling hands, I place a letter in the
mailbox. Thanks to a Dear Abby column in
the Kingsport Times-News, I have
learned for the first time that there are support organizations for people like
me, and now I am sending an inquiry to an address printed in the same
column. I have been through a lot of
changes. College relieved me of some of
my illusions, and my faith has fallen away.
Now I’m an agnostic yearning for a spiritual presence. I have spent much time in libraries searching
for answers to why I am the way I am.
Most of what I find, in old psychiatric texts, tells me that I am a
transvestite, that I am mentally ill or perverted. The Dear Abby column is really the first time
I have read something affirming. The
letter I am mailing will change my life.
I will learn that there are many people like me, gathered in support
groups across the country. I will join a
national one, called the Society for the Second Self, or Tri-Ess, by mail. And I will learn a new word—transgender.
1998. I walk down
a dark hallway toward a door outlined in light, literally shaking with
fear. I hesitate, then open the door to
find a small group of people sitting in chairs, talking quietly. A woman with red hair rises to welcome me and
asks me my name. I hoarsely answer,
“Wendy”. It is the first time anyone has
seen me as a woman. I found this group
in Knoxville, called Swans, via the Internet.
In the last couple of years I have learned a lot. For the first time, I allowed myself to
embrace and explore my desire to be feminine.
I have assembled a small wardrobe of women’s clothing, shoes, makeup,
and a wig, and have even chosen a woman’s name.
Now, I am in a room with a group of transgender women for the first
time. It is another life-changing
moment. My life will blossom in new and
unexpected ways. I will find love, and
heartache, for the first time. And when
Swans moves to a new meeting place, I will learn for the first time about a
church called Unitarian Universalist.
Though staunchly against organized religion, I will be intrigued.
2002. I am in Pen’s
bathroom, putting on makeup. She and I
only met a few months ago, but she is already a close friend. We met through the choir at Holston Valley Unitarian
Universalist Church, where we have both been attending for nearly a year. We’re considering becoming members. Though there is a large difference in ages,
we seem to have a lot in common, and enjoy each other’s’ company. A couple of months back, I told her that I
was a crossdresser. She has been
amazingly accepting, and though she has seen pictures, she wants to see Wendy
in real life. I finish my makeup, fix my
wig, and open the door. She stands, with
a big smile on her face, and embraces me.
“Nice to meet you, Wendy”, she whispers.
In the coming years, we will become best friends, then lovers. She will encourage me to overcome my fears
and experience more as Wendy; we will attend shows, take Samba lessons, and go
on vacations as two women.
2005. I am sitting in Sandy’s living room with Pen and
the other members of the Music Covenant Group.
I have requested a little more time to share something with the rest of
the group. I take a deep breath, and begin
to share my secret: that I am a transgender person, a crossdresser. The group is very supportive, asking
questions and sharing their appreciation for my trust. It’s a very special night. I reveal that I have been working on a rock
opera with transgender and spiritual themes.
The group encourages me to finish it, and my musically talented friend
John offers to help when I’m ready to record it. In a little over two years,
the CDs of the opera, now called Transposition,
will arrive on my doorstep.
2010. It has been a tough few years for Pen and I. She got the preliminary cancer diagnosis the
day before our wedding. Now she is
cancer-free, but we both know something is wrong; her brain doesn’t seem to
work as well as it should. I am sitting
in the church sanctuary in front of a small group of friends as part of an LGBT
panel for a question and answer session.
The congregation is going through the process of becoming an officially
Welcoming Congregation. Except for the
members of the music covenant group, the revelation that I am transgender seems
to come as a surprise. There are lots of
questions, and at the end, almost everyone comes up to give me a hug. I’m even invited to the monthly women’s group
gatherings. In a couple of months, the
congregation will vote to become a Welcoming Congregation.
2013. Pen’s health
is getting worse and worse. She has
dementia, and can no longer walk or do much of anything without help. Her decline weighs heavy on my heart, and the
responsibility of being her caregiver sits heavily on my shoulders. I have found that I can no longer identify myself
as a crossdresser, but simply as transgender, and that it makes me increasingly
uncomfortable to be referred to as a man.
I have removed much of my beard through ongoing laser hair removal. For the past few years, the thought of
transitioning to full-time womanhood has been increasingly on my mind. I have been attending church women’s nights
semi-regularly, and I have become consumed with the desire to come to church as
Wendy. I have already done it once, but
rather surreptitiously. Now I plan to
attend three services in a row in December, and even sing in the choir, as a
woman. I have come a long way in the 30
years since I read that passage in Deuteronomy.
2015. I am
standing in front of the HVUUC congregation, telling my story. It has been a year of seismic changes. Pen has passed on from this world, but is
never far from my thoughts. Her memorial
service is the only time I’ve appeared as a man in the church for more than a
year. I am now in the midst of a slow
transition to a new life as a woman.
Unfortunately, my family does not seem to be able to make the transition
with me. It is a time of longing and
loss, fear and excitement. As if by
magic, I have found a transgender community here in the Tri-Cities, right when
I needed it. And my church family is
here with me, holding me in love as it has so many times before.
2016. I am walking
into my building at work, presenting as a woman for the first time. I am simultaneously nervous and confident. It’s been another crazy year. I started hormone replacement therapy at the
beginning of the year, bringing many physical, mental, and emotional changes. In the past two months I have been laying the
groundwork for legal transition to female.
At the same time, I have been meeting with senior management to plan
a smooth transition at work. For the
past week, I have been busy legally changing my name and gender on many
documents, and with utilities, doctors, and state agencies. My new life, living completely as myself, has
begun. To my great surprise and
happiness, my coworkers hardly miss a beat adjusting to the new me.
2018. I am writing a blog entry for the Transgender Day
of Visibility, well into the second year of my new life. I feel more comfortable and at ease with
myself than I ever imagined possible. My
depression, a constant for decades, seems to have receded into
nothingness. I have made new friends and
reconnected with old ones. I’m
friendlier. I smile more often. Life is, of course, not perfect; I have my
share of problems and obstacles, like anyone.
I miss my family. But I can’t
conceive of going back, of putting that male mask back on; transitioning was definitely
the right thing for me. I look forward
to new experiences, new knowledge, and maybe even new love. I feel so blessed.
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