by Renee James
I get a lot of stares as a transwoman, but this cabbie is making my skin crawl. I’m outside the safe cocoon of Boystown, the neighborhood where I live and where tolerance and acceptance are the universal language. I’m in the real world now. And I’m being eyeballed by an ethnic hailing from a country where it's just fine to kill people like me. Thank goodness I'm wearing designer jeans and not a short skirt. It's bad enough that my blouse shows off the plumpness of my breasts.
“Did you want to ask me something?” I say finally, making eye contact in the rear view mirror.
Embarrassed, his eyes dart back to the road. He shakes his head no, but a few minutes later he starts staring at me again in the mirror.
When he pulls to the curb in front of my destination, he pivots to look at me directly. As I dig in my purse for money, he tries to peer down my top to see if my breasts are real. My lacy top reveals just enough cleavage to answer his question.
He says something I can’t understand. I beg his pardon. He repeats it slowly, his lips moving in exaggerated fashion, like a kindergarten teacher working with a student on a new sound. He is asking me if I want to pleasure him sexually in lieu of the fare.
It’s the only offer I’ve gotten today, so I guess in that respect it’s the best offer I’ve had. But it still makes me want to vomit.
I shake my head politely and hand him the cash and tell him to keep the change. It includes a nice tip. His overture was crude and I suppose I should be insulted, but I’m not. He was just asking.
***
IT’S A BEAUTIFUL MAY DAY in Chicago, with temperatures in the seventies, a whisper of a breeze and clear skies. We only get a few spring days like this so you have to bathe in it while it’s here. People are outside gardening, strolling, washing windows and cars, tossing footballs. A neighbor straightens up from his spading and takes a long look at me as I walk to the door. I start to get that creepy feeling I get when someone reads me as a transgender woman. But then he smiles and waves. I wave back.
I’m heading up the walk of this bucolic, family-values tri-level house to attend a backyard barbeque. It will be cops and their wives. And me. I’m not looking forward to the experience. Most cops consider people like me an alien species, and I suspect most cop wives feel the same way. One doesn’t. She’s the one who invited me.
Marilee Sinowski isn’t exactly your typical cop wife. She has a PhD in psychology, teaches at the Chicago School of Psychology, and maintains a small practice. She’s tough and smart and has a great heart. She’s also beautiful and I’ve had a crush on her ever since we met. Yes, I find women attractive. Men too. If you’re a church-going Christian conservative, I’m probably everything you hate.
I’ve been doing Marilee’s hair for years. She has this beautiful gray hair that falls to the middle of her back. It’s almost white. And thick, with a nice wave. I fell in love with her hair before I fell in love with her.
She had come into the salon because she was sick of her life and wanted a change. Her husband had been involved with another woman. She had been feeling estranged anyway. He was a super-macho, tough guy type whose life revolved around police work and television sports. She was a refined woman with an intellectual life and an interest in the arts.
She might have just left him and started over, but there were children and marital equity involved. Hubby treated her well—no screaming or hitting, lots of respect, brought the paycheck home, took care of the house, cared about her. He even respected what she did, which is probably rare among cops. And he was repentant about his fling.
So Marilee came into a beauty salon for the first time in decades, and she came looking for a change. I had an open afternoon and I spent it working with her—a lovely cut, lots of styling tips, then a makeup session accompanied by a monologue on femininity and attraction.
That was almost seven years ago, back when I thought I was just a gay man, which seems like middle-American normalcy to me now. Anyway, she thought that was cute. She liked the cut. She stayed married and she has been coming to me for hair and makeup ever since. We also meet regularly for coffee. She is my friend so she can’t be my shrink, not officially, but I have confided in her every step of the way in my strange journey. She has had a number of trans clients in recent years, most of them younger, thrown out on the streets by shocked parents, trying to understand themselves and how to cope, too broke to afford a shrink. Marilee sees them for nothing. She works with their minds and tries to get people from the community to work with their situations.
***
MARILEE’S HUSBAND answers the door. He is a massive presence, towing over me by several inches, huge shoulders and arms, the face of a drill sergeant. His big smile freezes for a fleeting moment when he sees me. It’s a reflex, not malice. I get it all the time. I just don’t match people’s expectations and they get put off balance. Bill and I have met before, but he’s never been comfortable around me. It was bad enough when he thought I was just gay and a little swishy. Now, as a transsexual, I’m sure I give him the total willies, but I have to say he really works at it. He’s painfully polite and respectful.
“Hello, Bobbi.” He reaches out for a handshake. I grasp his thick palm with my fingers. We press each other’s flesh gently and he ushers me in the door.
“Most of the party is on the patio,” Bill says. “Can I get you something to drink?”
I opt for a glass of white wine, the perfect yuppie selection. Not that anyone here is going to think of me as a yuppie.
As Bill pours I survey the milling group on the patio, an imposing gathering of testosterone freaks and the women who love them, soon to be invaded by a one-person freak show.
Bill hands me the wine and delivers the bad news. “Marilee had an emergency session with a client,” he says, “and she’s running a little late. She’ll be here in a half hour or so. Meanwhile, I’d like to introduce you to some people.”
Nausea and panic flare in my body. I thought I would have Marilee to cling to as I run the gauntlet of super-straight cops and ultra-orthodox wives. Being introduced by Marilee as her hairdresser somehow makes it seem easier to be so flamboyantly strange looking, a man with toned arm muscles and full breasts, wearing women's clothing and makeup.
I follow Bill out to the patio and go through introductions with a dozen or so people.
It goes better than I thought. The cops might not have expected a transsexual at a cop gathering, but they have no problem with me. One after another they shake my hand, ask me how I am, try to keep the conversational ball rolling. Enjoying this weather? What a day for a barbeque, huh? Where do you live? Chicago is a city of neighborhoods, and cops know pretty much all of them, so one-liners about Boystown come easy. Oh yeah, nice place. Wish all our neighborhoods were so safe. And so on.
One cop, I don’t catch his name, actually engages me in a short conversation. Asks about my activity in the LGBT community, what my neighborhood is like, how valuable the Center is. It turns out Boystown is his beat. His job is to build bridges between the Chicago Police Department and the city’s lesbian-gay-trans population, the nerve center of which is Boystown. He asks if he can look me up. I agree, but mostly to get rid of him. He's a good looking guy, really good looking, actually. But I feel ill at ease here, not up for any scrutiny. Plus, cops have always made me nervous, even though I’m not a criminal.
The wives are a different story. Several gape at me as we are introduced, while others stare at me from afar. I shouldn’t be sensitive to these reactions, but I am. I feel ten feet tall. My breasts feel like watermelons. My body feels like it’s sprouting forests of male body hair. My official shrink, who has to sign off on me getting a sex change operation someday, says I have to overcome this or it will cast doubt on my suitability for gender reassignment surgery.
As this painful round of introductions continues, one wife regards my outstretched hand with open disgust, as if it were dog poop on her front porch. Unable to overcome the barrier, all she can do is stare at m
e, mouth open slightly, without saying anything or offering to shake hands. The woman next to her grasps my hand, a gracious act to help me save face. The others are less traumatized, but not sure how to speak to someone so clearly on the fringes of society. No one is rude, but the conversations don’t go beyond the “nice to meet you” stage.
This is my life when I go out in the real world. In some ways, the polite awkwardness of many genetic women when they see me is as painful as outright bigotry would be. Bigots remind me that I’ll never be accepted by everyone; polite ladies like these remind me that I’m strange and will be so for the rest of my life.
Many of my transgender sisters have overcome this sensitivity. The best of them have outgoing personalities and blithely work crowds like this as though they are in the mainstream of society. It puts people at ease and helps acceptance. I’ve seen it. I just can’t do that myself. That’s not who I am.
As I try to bolster my sagging ego, we approach two women chatting at the edge of the patio. They are overtly friendly as Bill and I approach. The nearest is a large African-American lady, as tall as I am and heavier. Her face lights up with a big warm smile.
“I know who this is,” she says, before Bill can introduce me. “You have to be Bobbi! I’ve heard so much about you, honey. I’m Barb.” She engulfs me in a hug, a real one with some muscle to it. Her huge breasts press against mine, and her arms wrap around my torso. I feel a little like a child again, when my grandmother would embrace me just this way. And I feel like a sister. I’m warm all over. I hug back.
“Aren’t you just beautiful!” she says as we break the embrace. “Debbie and I were just talking.” She stops. “Where are my manners? Honey, this is my good friend Debbie. She’s married to that good looking Daniel over there with the sideburns and baby blue eyes.” She smiles. “I’m with the big guy who looks like a bouncer, Joe.” Debbie is smiling and shaking my hand. Barb turns to Bill, “We’ll get this girl around, honey. You get back to your cops and keep them out of trouble, okay?”
Bill leaves with a grin, no doubt as relieved as I am.
Barb and Debbie are friends with Marilee. They must be good friends, because they know where Marilee was emotionally when she came into my salon the first time. I don’t know if they know everything, but they know enough. “Bobbi, honey, you saved a soul when you became her hairdresser. Do you know that?” Barb asks.
Before I can answer, she goes on. “We were worried about her. She had the weight of the world on her shoulders for the longest time. Then one day we get together for our coffee klatch and in walks this hot North Shore socialite. It’s Marilee, with a new hair-do, new clothes, a bounce in her step and a twinkle in her eye! And she said it all started with Bobbi, her new hairdresser.”
Debbie is just as warm, but in a quieter way. She's 5'7" with short auburn hair and she is absurdly fit, like one of those super women who get up at five to run for an hour then put in ten hours at the office. She is a creative director at an ad agency. Barb is an attorney. Most of the other wives are stay-at-home moms, so the three professional women often end up together at these functions because they have things in common. Debbie asks me where I got my jeans. She’s interested in getting a pair like them. It’s a compliment. Maybe the ultimate compliment a genetic woman can pay a transsexual—not only does she approve of my feminine attire, she’d be willing to follow my example.
We chat about clothes and hair and makeup. They make me feel special and my inhibitions evaporate. This is fun.
Twenty minutes later, Marilee arrives. She looks flushed, her hair is in disarray and her expensive business suit is just a little askew. In a woman who always looks just so, these little deviations are a sign. The emergency session has not gone well.
She makes her round of the guests, the gracious hostess, hugging, smiling, laughing, and exchanging witty repartees. She is especially warm and effusive when she gets to us.
“I’m not surprised to see you surrounded by these ladies! I’ve been telling them you’re my secret weapon for years. Just don’t give any of them my time, okay?”
She hugs me and whispers in my ear, “I need to talk to you for a minute. Can we break away for a while?”
“Of course,” I say, worried.
***
MARILEE LEADS ME to her bedroom. It’s the safest place for a quiet, private conversation, and Bill knows I’m no rival for Marilee’s affections. If Marilee weren’t so clearly upset I would have made a joke about it.
Marilee sits in one of two stuffed chairs in the corner of their bedroom. I take the cue to sit in the other chair. A small tea table separates us. I cross my legs and wait silently as Marilee breathes deeply, looks up, looks away, begins to speak several times and halts. I have never seen her so anxious.
“Bobbi, I have to talk to someone,” she says finally. “I have to talk to someone I can trust completely. Not a word of this can ever be spoken to anyone. Ever.”
I nod.
“Not ever!” she repeats. She is making her point, but she’s also telling me to speak. She needs reassurance.
“Your secrets are safe with me,” I say. I want to say something funny about my whole life being about secrets. I mean really, you wouldn’t believe what you pick up as a hairdresser. But this is not the time or the place.
“I’ve been counseling a very special transwoman for several years.” Marilee pauses, considering what to say, what to leave unsaid.
“She has always had doubts about her worth as a human being. As a woman.” Another pause. “She measured her value according to the men in her life. She went for big breasts, tiny skirts, elaborate makeup. Anything-goes sex. She was a prostitute when I first met her.
“For the last year or so, she’s been seeing someone and trying to get a grip on her life. At first, it seemed like a breakthrough. Mr. Wonderful was a professional man, an executive with a big company downtown. He gave her presents. Brought her flowers. Helped her pay for her transition, helped with the rent.
“But it wasn’t a normal relationship. It was secretive.
“Seems like…George…let’s call him George…anyway, seems like he wasn’t ready to settle down. He wanted to see other women. And he wanted her to service his friends when he brought them around. He said it turned him on and that she liked it too.
“My client found this both exciting and abhorrent. The sex was exciting, but she knew that George was rejecting her, too. He had come to think of her as just his whore. She’s been trying to get herself ready to break it off with him for the past month or two. It wasn’t an easy decision for her. Part of her considered herself George’s property because he’s been so generous. And part of her was afraid to go back out on her own.
“I got a call from ‘George’ this morning." Marilee takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. . "He wanted to be seen, as a patient, as soon as possible. Today. I knew something was wrong. My patient had been trying to get him to come in with her for months and he wouldn’t do it. In fact, I’d never talked to him before. I asked him if everything was okay and he said yes, this was something he needed to do for his girlfriend. So I met him at my office. He was very careful to frame it as a psychologist-client meeting."
She breaks into tears. "As soon as we finished the formalities, he told me he had killed my client and he wanted me to know that nobody walks out on him, that whatever I did to convince her to leave him had gotten her killed. It was my fault, not his.
“And he knew I couldn’t tell anyone. If he had told me he was going to kill her, I could have gone to the police. But when someone confesses a crime to a psychologist or a priest after the fact, it’s confidential information. He knew this. It was fun for him, telling me this. Thrilling to know he was getting away with it and someone else knew.”
She breaks into tears. “What can I do Bobbi?” she repeats over and over again, crying and wailing into a pillow on her lap so the sound won’t carry. What a mind-fuck! She can’t share this with her husband because h
e’s a cop. It would make him crazy. So she unloads to her hairdresser.
I move to her side and hug her. There is nothing for me to say. All I can do is let her know I am there with her. And for her.
When she gets control of herself, she takes a deep breath. “I want so badly to tell Bill, or make an anonymous tip. Or throw my career away and just come forward. But I’ve heard all the stories about how these things can go wrong and the murderer ends up getting a not guilty verdict and a lifelong pass.
“And,” she adds. “I took an oath. I actually thought about exactly this circumstance before I took it, too. So…I need to live with it.”
We are quiet for a while.
“You can’t tell anyone about this, right?” she says at last.
“Right,” I respond. Tears are streaming down her face. Mine too. She stands and we wrap our arms around one another and hug as if the world was going to end in the next minute.
“I will keep your secret,” I whisper. “When you need to talk about it, I will be there, wherever you need me.”
***
THE SUNDAY AND MONDAY newspapers have nothing about a murdered T-girl, which isn't as surprising as it is disappointing. Only a fraction of Chicago's murders get reported in the newspapers, fewer still on television. Coverage favors big names, horrific circumstances. The loss of a transwoman only gets a paragraph on a slow news day and nothing on an average day. At least, that's the word in our community.
