Suits moi to a T!
Back in the mid-80s I met my first male-to-female T-person, Stephanie DuCharme, introduced to me by violinist Gordon Petersen, then Assistant Concertmaster of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra.
Stephanie was a gourmet cook, artist's model, watercolorist, English/French bilingual. Her Forest Avenue flat was filled with dozens of her lush and exotic paintings. I envied her creative output at a time when, due to my own insecurities (and downright laziness), my own talents lay untapped.
For a living Stephanie sold cosmetics at a tres chic Second Boulevard store near the Fisher Theater. She was outted by hush-hush rumors, then let go. Soon after she moved to New York City. Last I heard, she was painting, modeling and appearing weekends as chanteuse in a French bistro. (Vas-y, ma belle cherie noire!)
My first FTM "sharing" happened at MCC-Detroit, then located in Birmingham. One Sunday Dave, whom I had often greeted at church – that day sporting a bright red tie for Pentecost – asked if I thought it curious that a straight couple was worshipping there. "Not in the least. Why?" I asked, over after-service coffee. "Well, I just felt moved to share. I'm a transsexual. My partner is not." His answer startled me.
I hadn't a clue. Dave had a beard, crew cut, dressed neatly, and looked like Joe Average (but brighter). I doubt he had ever been "clocked" (didn't pass). Sorry to say, his partner, who was pleasant, a little older, went back home for a family visit one long, long weekend (too long for Dave) and called to say she was marrying her high school sweetheart. Dave was devastated.
In the early 90s I was friends with Dr. Jack, a D.O., member of the Motor City Business Forum. It occurred to me one night in a crowded bar that Jack had plucked his eyebrows. Hmmm, I thought.
Months went by without seeing him. I came home to find borrowed books left for me at the lobby desk, with a patchouli scented note, "Love, Jackie".
I learned from his roommates that Dr. Jack, in his late fifties, waited until his mother's death to become Dr. Jackie. His daughter, then 21, was supportive.
Now years later, I'm enriched to know several T-persons. I count among activist friends the courageous and witty Rachel Crandall, MSW, who counsels persons seeking reassignment surgery; and Susan, Rachel's soft-spoken roomie, who regularly (and knowledgeably) attends art openings and museum events. [With sadness I now also mention Jamie Phillips-Fox – see BTL's obituary in this issue – and extend my heartfelt sympathy to Michelle Fox-Phillips.]
It's estimated one per 30,000 adult males and one per 100,000 adult females of the total American population seek sex reassignment surgery. It's usually a three- to five-year process from contemplation to change, involving in-depth psychological counseling, living as the opposite sex in dress, speech, makeup and manner, undergoing hormonal treatment (with lifelong "upkeep") and undergoing transforming – and costly – surgery.
It takes commitment – guts, really – and a deep sense of one's authentic personhood to achieve the hidden "you" you've long dreamed of becoming. Coming out as a T-person is in many ways more radically demanding mentally and physically than coming out as gay, lesbian, or bi – particularly for those youths who lack role models, access to professional counseling (or, tragically, pre-ops who are forced to barter sex on the streets to survive).
As gays, lesbians, bi's, T-persons, it's taken us decades to realize that our lives if lived honestly and openly can be fulfilling. These days we can chose to live proudly. Determined. LGB – and – T, together!
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