"I do this work so people don't have to be lonely; so they don't have to be devastated. When I came out as trans, I was devastated. Within in a few months, I lost my marriage, my job, my career. But out of that came TransGender Michigan. And if my crisis hadn't happened, there probably still wouldn't be a statewide organization." – Rachel Crandell
Rachel Crandall seems to never leave home without a smile. She wears it as an almost-permanent accessory, like a brooch or bracelet she never takes off. It is her trademark.
But life hasn't always been smiles and sunshine for Crandall, the founder and executive director of TransGender Michigan. And Rachel hasn't always been Rachel. This week, she celebrates 10 years of living honestly – and the anniversary of introducing the woman she always knew she was meant to be to the world.
It began at 12:30 p.m. on Nov. 5, 1997.
"I was fired from my job as a psychotherapist at a small-town hospital," Crandall said. That's because Richard, the married man the hospital had hired, had begun growing his hair out and dabbing on a bit of rouge and shadow.
"They figured out what was going on," Crandall said. "I was beginning to transition. Then, at 3:30 p.m. the same day, I put all my male clothes in the back of the closet and became Rachel full time."
It was a metamorphosis long in the making.
"I'd always known," Crandall admitted. "But I'd go through moments of denial."
Exposed, though, the strong-willed social worker saw her options as few.
"I was so pissed off," she said. "I wanted to do something to make a difference … to make sure that what happened to me didn't happen to a lot of other people. I remember feeling very lonely. So, I thought of an idea for a statewide organization to bring together all the transgender people feeling the same thing, so we didn't have to be so lonely."
The first thing the agency did was to launch a Web site and list a calendar of events happening throughout the state.
"We found that some people were doing good work, but no one three miles away knew about it," Crandall said. "So we started with that."
Next, they established a helpline, which exists today in the form of Crandall's cell phone.
"I talk right to the people who need help," she said. "There's no bureaucracy involved. There are no reams of paper involved. There's just people in crisis and they say, 'What do I do?' And I say, 'You know, I was in that situation and I didn't think I'd be able to make it through, either.'"
To date, Crandall has taken calls from people as far away as Australia and Hong Kong. And it's become more than just a tool for people in crisis. It's also become a resource for professionals.
"We get doctors, nurses, attorneys, parole officers – all sorts of people use us as consultants to help with their transgender clients," said Crandall, who once even was flown to Atlanta by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to consult with the national public-health agency.
"I do this work so people don't have to be lonely; so they don't have to be devastated," Crandall explained. "When I came out as trans, I was devastated. Within in a few months, I lost my marriage, my job, my career. But out of that came TransGender Michigan. And if my crisis hadn't happened, there probably still wouldn't be a statewide organization.
"There's an old Jewish saying that says, 'Save one life and you save the world,'" she added. "And I believe in that."
Crisis work comes naturally to Crandall, and she's been doing it for nearly 30 years – since even before she earned a master's degree from Michigan State University. In that time, little has deterred her – least of all the Tourette's syndrome she has battled her entire life.
Crandall said it's taught her "real dogged determination. I think it made me realize that no matter what the challenge, I could handle it. I've just always focused on what I can do about a situation, not the situation itself. I don't get bogged down in all the sadness. But I can also wear myself out, because if I'm always doing something about something. Oy vey!"
In her precious free moments, Crandall enjoys watching movies, writing poetry and spending time with her partner, Susan Crocker. But mostly, she enjoys helping others and continuing to build the agency she helped found.
"I think one reason why we've lasted is that we've done something a lot of people thought we couldn't do," Crandall said. "We've gotten support from the gay community – Michigan Equality, Triangle Foundation, Affirmations (Ferndale), the Ruth Ellis Center (Highland Park). I am frustrated by some things in the gay community – that they sometimes don't see that we're in the same boat they are. But people overplay that, too. They've really embraced us and made us a part of them.
"See, I view myself as trans, but I'm also a lesbian," she continued. "I consider myself a part of the gay community. I'm gay. I've always been attracted to women – I just wanted to be one, too."
Little quips like these cause the smile on Crandall's face to widen even farther, if that's possible, and she seems to emit a special glow.
"I have so much in my life now," she said. "If someone had told me when I lost everything that my life would one day be like this, I'd have said, 'Impossible.' But I have to admit that I love my life. And I don't think everyone can say that."
