Hello Again for the First Time

One of the intrinsic aspects of coming out as a transsexual person, be it the process of simply accepting one's own self, or the subsequent challenge of having "the talk" with those you know and love, is the sense of taking off the mask. Of sorting out that which is the real you, and that which is the affected appearance, behavior, and mannerisms of the avatar you have presented to the world for your whole life.In our current generation, this is not always still true. In the 21st century many children have been blessed with the circumstances that allow them to say to their parents "I am a girl(boy)" when the outer appearance would say otherwise and not face a world which immediately pathologize them and starts trying to fix them. They live in a world where they do not assume they are a freak, or worse, because they are not like everyone else.

But for most of us who came of age more than 20 years ago, there is a real sense of duality between the inner you, that you compulsively hid for fear of the backlash that you knew would come, and the persona you submitted to the judgement of the world around you. Some of us are more successful than others at making that persona work and thrive. I've known of transsexuals who were high-powered executives, successful doctors and lawyers, highly ranked military officers, and more (many of them lost that standing by virtue of revealing their true nature, some did not). Others of us always struggle to make the false front "run smoothly" and achieve worldly success. The latter was the group I fell into.

The process of "coming out" (a term I hate, actually, because it reinforces the unfortunate connection in the minds of many between transsexualism and homosexuality, which are entirely different things - but I can't come up with a more handy phrase to use) to your family, friends, co-workers, neighbors, etc, is a long string of trying to make people understand why you would do such a thing over and over again. Because to them, in their eyes, you are the person they have known you to be, not the person you know yourself to be within. You have to re-build yourself in their eyes all over again by helping them reconcile what they thought they knew of you with what you are telling them now. Some react quite poorly to this (my own dad is an example, as is my spouse) and others open their hearts without condition (my mom has been great, among others).

So it seems appropriate to me that in this space, as I hopefully welcome a somewhat broader audience than my previous writing on this subject enjoyed, to go back and lay the foundations again. Having just reconnected with so many lifelong friends, it's fresh on my mind that those people, at a minimum, must have a great amount of uncertainty about how and why things are as they are. Especially given what they remember of my old life, and given how little personal experience the vast majority of people have with this subject. So let me begin, as they say, at the beginning.

Studies indicate that for what some researchers call "true transsexuals" - the great majority of us realize we are different, even if we are uncertain specifically how and why, at a very early age. Some of this has to do with access to information, some with the environment and culture around you, and some of it is just the clarity of the child themselves. I myself have VERY few clear memories in the area of thought and emotion from before I began school. (on any subject) I cannot tell you for sure that I ever felt that I was a girl at that age but I absolutely felt "weird" - that I was fundamentally different from other boys and "wrong" at a basic level. When I was enrolled in school, there was a girl on my bus who, along with a couple of sisters who lived not far from us and a few cousins that i spent a lot of time with who were the embodiment of "girl" in my life. These five or six girls made up for me the first construct of what seemed "right" for me (as opposed to the wrongness I felt about myself) and by the time I was 8 at least, I understood the nature of my problem. what they were, was what I should have been - what I was on the inside.

I had, at that point, never been exposed to any sort of sexuality. Neither porn, nor molestation, nor abuse, nor schoolyard gossip, nor walking in on my parents, or any other things which might have been presumed to have "twisted" me by the ill-informed. In fact, until I saw my first adult magazine at 14 or 15 I could make that statement. My father was not hen-pecked, or absent, nor was my mother over-bearing - or any of the other rationalizations with which people try to explain the existence of trans kids. My interests were not specifically stereotypically "girly" but they were absolutely "soft" things. particularly in contrast to my "all boy" brother. I had no interest in hunting or fishing or cars or even being outside much (and yes, I understand plenty of women enjoy these things - my own mother was an avid hunter/fisher herself).

More obviously, I was fascinated with the girls in my life, not in a romantic way but in a, for lack of a better word, jealous way. I wanted their hair, their clothes, their accessories. while my classmates at Falkner saw an introverted, nerdy, bookworm who had no pride in themselves at all, what I saw in the mirror was  a stack of WRONGNESS. Yes, I admit that when I could get away with it, I was pilfering time with the clothes of cousins that would fit (and eventually makeup) - not for any sort of physical gratification, but as a band-aid on the bullet wound in my soul. It was one  brief moment in which I could be a tiny bit MORE normal (as felt normal to me) than I had been without it. When I was 11 or so, I read a tiny news item in Time (or maybe Newsweek) which was about a man who'd been arrested after having kidnapped a young boy in New Orleans and holding him for several years while injecting him with hormones - and the boy had developed breasts. I remember thinking "what a lucky kid!" and mourning at the news that the breast would be surgically removed. You probably can't really imagine how traumatic puberty was for me, when all the wrong developments started occurring, but  hopefully you can see why it was a disaster in the eyes of that child - and the more so because it came early.

By the time I was 12, I was fitting into my mom's clothes with ease (ask me how I know!) and had, on more than one occasion, tried to get away with shaving my legs and other body hair (and gotten lectures for doing weird things and leaving a mess). The summer before my 13th birthday, in 1976, I concocted a plan to escape from a life that was clearly going down the wrong road and find some place to be myself. I packed a suitcase full of my favorite items from my mother's wardrobe, and left at first light one Saturday morning in July (a crucial mistake in timing!) with the intention of making my way to New Orleans or maybe San Francisco - and doing it as Tammy (cleverly, I thought, they were looking for a boy, not a girl). but I was not really as clever as all that and between the heat and some other circumstances, I was home before dark - and busted with the tell-tale evidence in hand.

But the thing is - it was Mississippi. It was 1976. the LAST thing Ma and Pa Rainey were prepared, or willing, to deal with was a son who thought he was a girl. Between the razor, and the suitcase, they HAD to know this was not your ordinary "phase" but my dad pretended to buy it when I told him it was only a disguise, and he lectured me about the perverts "out there" in the world and what they would do to me if they knew. For my part, I didn't remotely have the courage to tell my manly-man dad openly that I was a girl. so I let the situation play out and resigned myself to being trapped at least until graduation. I went back to school in the fall and none of you ever knew my shame.

I won't belabor you through all the ups and downs of high school, this will be long enough as it is, but I can distinctly remember many incidents and patterns of behavior which make up the mosaic of those years in my mind. It may never have occurred to you to wonder why, so often, you'd see me sitting at recess with 4 or 5 girls rather than playing ball with the guys, but there was a reason. not only was I not a guy, as far as I was concerned, but I was getting less and less skilled at playing the part. The one time I went out for sports (my dad's idea) it was a humiliating disaster that lasted one day. While it's true I did have a close circle of male friends, this was simply a circumstance of the situation. That's not to say that I didn't then and now think the world of those guys - I did and do. but those relationships developed because there wasn't any practical way to get that close to such a cluster of girlfriends. I ended up with one deeply felt "girlfriend" relationship during those years (and until Saturday night she was entirely unaware that I saw it in that light) which, at times, was the only relationship that felt real to me in my entire life.

After high school, I doubled down on the effort to do what "everyone does" - particularly what every guy does.Seeking dating relationships (I never went on the first real date until eight months after graduation), going to parties (and eventually bars, including strip clubs) hoping for an unrealistic amount of casual sex (and generally finding very little at all) and trying to turn every romantic relationship into "the one" no matter how shaky. I tried joining the Navy - you might be stunned to know how many male-to-female transsexuals try to "man up" by enlisting - but my eyes killed that one. when I returned home, I slid into about three years of very deep depression (I had been routinely depressed over my situation pretty much most of the previous decade but only occasionally to the point I couldn't function or considered suicide - though there were times, maybe 6-8 occasions during the period between, say, 15 and 20, in which I did give serious thought to ending my life).

In those years in the mid-80's, pretty much everything in my life felt hollow and meaningless because I knew the life I was living could never have any joy to it, but I also feared that the consequences of changing it would be more than I could handle. Likewise, I seriously considered suicide on an almost daily basis but lacked the spine to follow through. One of the major factors which bound me in indecision about running away or ending my life was my four living grandparents. Each of them were in their mid-70's and I was convinced they would be completely crushed to find out their grandchild was a "freak" or worse have to mourn me. I convinced myself that if I could just hold out until they passed away, then maybe I could make one move or the other that I needed to make (that joke was on me - three of the four lived to see the 21st century).

In the mean time, my dad (who'd been divorced from my mom for several years) dated and married a woman who brought with her a stepsister and stepbrother for me and my brother. At the risk of seeming creepy, that stepsister was the very embodiment of everything I wanted to be. I instinctively drew close to her and her solid faith drew me back to my own, which had been neglected since my return from the Navy.  I'd gotten saved at the age of nine, and been a regular church-goer with my grandparents for years before and after that event. A couple of my friends will remember my interest and involvement in the Bible Club during high school. But over those dark years of depression, I'd tried hard to let the things of the world make me a man. none of that had worked, and when my step-sister invited me to a crusade being held in new Albany, I gladly accepted.

On that night, in the summer of 1986, on the New Albany football field, Evangelist Freddie Gage preached on the subject of "besetting sins" and made the case that while all Christians were plagued with such weaknesses, if we would but give that problem to God and give our lives to his service, he would heal us of the affliction which was giving us problems.






[because of the unworldly length of this article, I'm going to insert a "page break" here.  Catch your breath, go to the can, get a glass of tea, or whatever, before moving on. I'm sorry for the length but it's a long story. Ok, ready now? Carry on]






Really? I could be HEALED of this curse? I didn't HAVE to be a freak who dared not admit his perversion to the prying yes of loved ones and acquaintances? REALLY?  SIGN ME UP!!! That night in sincere faith I promised God I would go to any length to serve him if he could and would remove this affliction from my life. For the decade plus I did not waiver in faith at all that my deliverance was coming. I became involved in a local congregation, served in every capacity given to me (and mourned the missed opportunity when one was given to someone else) and soaked up the "party line" about the sins of perverted folks. It had to be true - I needed it to be true. If such things were indeed sin, then God would hear the righteous prayer of the faithful and provide deliverance and I would no longer be a freak. If it was not true then I was condemned to remain a pariah and a miserable soul and possibly even outside his love.

At length, I felt what I understood at the time to be the call to preach. I did not know it to be exactly that, but nothing else in my experience fit the feeling I had. I said on more than one occasion during my time in the ministry that I never really understood or believed that it was a call to a TYPE of ministry, such as the pastorate. Rather, the impression I had was that God wanted me to "speak up" and tell the truth to people. To speak the uncomfortable thing that no one else would. Would to God I had known then what message he had in mind, but in those days I could only understand that call within the context of the worldview and faith system I'd been brought up in. There was no other context but "go preach" and it would never have occurred to me that the call was something that would place me in the exact opposite position if I'd understood it correctly.

So sincere and unshakeable was my faith that my healing would come that I felt perfectly safe in romancing and marrying an innocent young lady who had no idea what she'd gotten herself into. She thought she was marrying a minister, and moreover a man who'd bring some stability and sanity to what to that point had been a very troubles life. Discretion will not permit me to detail the struggles we worked through in the early years as I gave what seemed my whole life to help her work through that darkness and come out on the other side, And it took over a decade to fully accomplish. I will only say that for those of you who accuse me of being self absorbed now, if you knew what I know about those years, you would see me in a different light I hope.
In all this I never told her about my shame, because, after all, god was going to heal me and it would never be an issue...right?

For over a decade I struggled to be taken seriously in the ministry. while I was mentored by a succession of three sincere and compassionate pastors, I could never understand how I could have been called and yet confronted with closed door after closed door. After over a decade of floundering, I enrolled in Blue Mountain College (a private SBC school for those of you not local) which had a sterling reputation for turning out skilled and well-learned (and well connected!) ministers. To be a BMC alum was to have a vast network of connections to others which was invaluable in making headway in the ministry.

But inside, unknown to those men and women I shared a classroom with, or to my wife and two sons, the cracks were beginning to show in my confidence regarding the oncoming healing. It had been over 15 years now and I did not feel any different about my true nature than I did the day before Freddie Gage came to town. On top of that I felt much worse, as difficult as that was, about the "man" I had become. I literally loathed everything about myself, from appearance to mannerism to behavior. The only thing I took any comfort in was being a very good student, and a good communicator (although even then, one who talked far too much and was far too impressed with his own opinion). But these things had no context. They were built upon a lie.

I did not then and do not now consider myself a good spouse or father. I do not wish to give the implication that I did not or do not love my family - I did and I do. At least to the extent that it was possible to love someone else while hating my own self (there's a reason for the old saw that you can never truly love others until you love yourself). I have two wonderful sons, but they are wonderful in spite of me, not because of me.  Nor did I consider myself a respectable minister. The doors were still not opening, and when I occasionally got a small opportunity, I found that I did not feel a deep sense of love for the congregation, as a minister should have, or a passion for sharing the gospel. Rather, beyond the gospel of grace,  I felt like I could only bring myself to speak against the cliches and misunderstandings common in the church. But I needed something, anything, in my life that would be respectable and maybe make me forget my condition.

By graduation I'd shifted my focus from ministry to education and gotten a degree that would let me teach. but because I was an "idea person" at heart, I chose social science. Bad move. It turned out there's a social studies teacher hiding behind every tree in North Mississippi. I found just as little opportunity to teach as I had to preach, and after one pretty disastrous year in the classroom (mostly not my fault, but still) I found myself looking at my 44th birthday with a life in ruins (I speak here of my internal conflict, not that I intend to imply anything bad about my family). I'd come up short again in an attempt to "man up" and concluded that no amount of faith, or prayer, or tears (of which there had been hundreds of thousands over the previous two decades) or pleadings or tithing or teaching or preaching was going to be enough to convince God to take my pain away. for a time, My reaction to that, at first, was hedonism. If in fact there was nothing to be gained from praying my pain away, then perhaps I could play it away. I won't detail that bit of business, except to say that I'm not ashamed of it and I do not apologize to any human being for it. It was a necessary stepping stone in the process and it taught me some valuable lessons.

At length, however, that last desperate attempt to "man up" failed, as each other attempt before had failed, to reconcile me with my situation. I HAD to settle accounts with God. Given what I believed about the nature of God, I was thus forced to re-evaluate the very question of whether or not I was, in fact, in need of healing in his eyes. To be sure, since I was a teen I had read and re-read the Scriptures looking for some way to rationalize my situation in a way that did not label me a dirty depraved sinned. But I was trapped within the indoctrination that had been my whole source of information all this time, with no actual training in proper exegesis. But over the years after my college graduation I found I HAD to reconcile the God of grace that I knew to be, with the supposed set of rules that I'd been told he was obsessed with. Both could not be true.

A mild digression here: Don't ever, by the way, presume to lecture me on what the Bible says on this subject (or on homosexuality, by the way, given the subjects are so closely bound up in the minds of the conservative evangelical church - homosexuality is not the subject at hand here) or about what my choices might mean to my future and to my family - because when you do you presume I have not given any thought to these subjects, while in fact the reverse is true. If you are not someone afflicted with this condition, or have not loved someone who is, the odds are great you've never spent 10 consecutive minutes considering the subject and it's virtually certain you've given no real study to whether the Bible forbids it.  I, on the other hand, have spent probably more than half of the waking hours of my adult life considering the subject. Thoughtful questions and comments are welcome. "I know better than you" lectures are not. But any way, back on topic.

I came to understand (through research, study, wise counsel and much prayer) that I am not a pervert or a freak in God's eyes, that indeed I have no need to be forgiven or healed on account of being trans (other than letting him heal the pain that accumulated from hiding it for four decades). I came to understand that I had been living an inauthentic life, submitting myself to the expectations and judgements of my fellow man, not those of God. I came to understand that  all those messages he gave me to preach about the masks Christians wear, and the fear we have of letting others see the real self were for me, as much as for them. I came to understand what it meant when he said he had not given us a spirit of fear, because fear had defined my entire existence. Most of all, I came to understand that I could not continue to live in that fear and self-loathing and remain sane. If I was ever going to be any good to anyone in any context, it could only be by living an authentic, honest life.

On the Sunday before Labor Day, in 2008, after some months of waiting for an opening which I would have the courage to step through, I told my wife what I was and what I hoped to do about it. Without adding another 1,000 words to this already gargantuan post, I will only say on this occasion that her life began to fall apart at that point. All the things I had professed to believe - that I had desperately needed to be true - for all those years, she still believed (and indeed, still does today three years later). And her difficulty in processing the events of the last three years is entirely understandable, if all her words and actions certainly have not been. Some months later I sat down with my sons to discuss it (more on that another time) and before the end of 2009 I was making no secret of what I am.

My life is tremendously more difficult now, than it was then, in every measurable sense. One does not become a walking punch line without consequences. One does not announce they are transsexual in small town America without a downside. One does not share a home with a person who violently rejects your very identity without a lot of heartache.

And yet for all that, these last two years have been, deep inside my soul and spirit, immeasurably better than all the years that came before. Every minute of every day for almost 40 years, no matter how otherwise pleasant, was deeply tainted by the certain knowledge that it wasn't MY life - it was the life of this fictional character whose part I'd learn to play. One might imagine an actor playing the role of a groom in a weeding on a TV show. To appearances the wedding is a happy and joyous occasion, but to the actor it's not HIS wedding, it is the wedding of the man who's role he plays. This is not to say I regret any of those moments, or have any less feelings for the people involved (although I do regret those moments led to so much pain for someone I love now) but I'm saying that no matter who relatively happy the occasion, it was stained. Tarnished by the fact that my whole life was a lie (even though a very well intentioned one).

Now, I could if I wanted to, break your heart at all the things which are going wrong for me - but ultimately it's better because it's ME. If you told me that you would pay me $100,000 a year to push a button once an hour for 40 hours a week, that I could work from home, and that I could never lose the job - but as a condition of employment I had to put Tammy away and put the mask back on and live that lie the rest of my life - I would not hesitate to decline. I know that for some who are reading this that seems insane. But not to me.

This one thing I know to be true: I may never have the money to have my surgery, or indeed even accomplish much more modest goals like hair removal. I may find myself at length homeless and alone - but I know that I can never ever put that mask back on. Whatever the cost, I'd a thousand times prefer death to living that life again. The saying goes around, attributed to various famous people, that "it is better to be hated for who you are, than to be loved for who you are not" and I testify to the profound truth of that saying. If I MUST be hated and reviled of all men to be who I am, then it is the price I must pay, or die in the attempt. but I can never be the puppet of the expectations of others again. That way lies insanity.

Whatever happens in the years to come, whether I live or die, whether you see me every day or I "drop off the face of the earth" - if you wish to honor our acquaintance, our friendship, or our love - remember Tammy, and accept her with all her flaws. Please do not try to resurrect that other fellow.He doesn't live here anymore..