The Great Elephant Ride

by Stephanie Timmer

  Even though I had a bedroom to myself, it was hard moving back home. No matter how I tried, I could not fit into the closet I had moved out of not too long before. I had to get out. I quickly enrolled in a local Catholic college of all places. Subconsciously, I think I was just trying to infuriate my parents: they do not believe Catholics are Christians. By this time, the guy my older sister had been dating at the restaurant was now my brother-in-law and was working at an ice cream plant. Shortly after I had returned home, one of the guys at the ice cream plant had a heart attack and was going to be off work for about eight weeks. They were looking for someone to fill in while he was out. Family connections got me into another job. Fortunately, this job paid fairly well for manual labor, and it gave me the incentive to stay in school. Every day I worked in the freezer picking up ice cream reminded me of why I was going to school. I soon moved out to an apartment. I had even more closet space, but I was still searching.

  In the process of finding a job, going to school, and moving out of my parents’ concentration camp, my paths kept crossing with this girl—well, she was a girl when I left for the Marines; now she was a young woman. I had met her several years earlier when I was a lab assistant in high school. The two of us finally got to know each other and started dating. She was not the girl I was trying to date—it was actually her best friend I was chasing. However, once I got to know her, she was great. Within three months after we started seriously dating, I proposed to her, and she accepted. That is what men do: they get married.

  I was married when I was twenty-one. I was in love and excited about the prospects of starting a new life. For the first year of our marriage, I kept the door shut to my closet. I did not even let myself peek into it. I knew that if I opened the door, something would come out. It was hard; part of me wanted to nail the door shut, but the other part of me wanted to crawl into it and hide. Lays potato chips had a commercial proclaiming that “You can’t eat just one.” It was kind of like that—I knew that if I opened the door just a little bit, Stephanie would get out. I guess somehow I always knew there would be a day that she would escape for good, and I would not be able to put her back. I fearfully longed for that day.

  Finally, I did open it and I did come out. This was just before that fateful night that I discovered the Tapestry Magazine in the coffee shop. The day I discovered the Tapestry Magazine, the door flew off the closet. It was at that point where the closet went from being a sanctuary where I could carefully hide myself to a place that I despised. Part of me, my favorite part, the good part, was never able to be free. You cannot ever say you are partly free. The day I had fearfully longed for had arrived.

  It was from that point on that I started working towards self-acceptance. It was not easy at first. When my first son was born, I made one last attempted to nail the door shut on the closet. It was an act of futility, but I tried it anyway. I threw away every piece of clothing, all my makeup, wigs, and jewelry. There is one thing I did not get rid of and that was me. Being transgender has nothing to do with cross-dressing. Clothes are just things you wear to express your gender. Transgender is something you are; it is not something you become. You can’t change your gender; you can only have surgery that makes the physical match your true gender.

  It was too late, I was out, and I knew who I was. There was a name for my struggle, and there were others just like me, I had met them and their stories were (and are) the same as mine.

  I will never forget two of theses girls and their stories. It is important to note that I attended these meeting in the late 1980’s. Overnight delivery and fax machines were the latest forms of instant communications. The internet was not available and 1200 baud modems were all the rage for accessing bulletin boards. I could not quickly do a Google search for the word “transgender.” The concept of YouTube was still a Star Trek fantasy. Going to these meetings was the first time I had heard other individuals tell me their story in their own words. I sat in awe listening to them, leaning in to hear every word. I am not sure if everyone gets to experience this feeling in his or her lifetime. The closest thing that I can think of that is this intense is to lose a loved one. You may be over it, but when you are with a friend who has just lost someone, you almost relive your own experiences. It is that emotional. One of the girls ironically was named Stephanie and Steve in real life. She had been dressing for years, and even though I could see her five o’clock shadow on her upper lip, I thought she was beautiful. She told about her childhood and how she would deliver papers to earn money and, unlike other boys her age, she used the money to buy clothes and make up. It was a long story because about every major milestone in her life, Sandra would tell her story. I could feel the story, the emotions, the laughter, the times they were caught or almost caught. In a short evening, you discover who you are—there are certain feelings or events in your life that you will never forget, and this is one of them.

  The closet stayed shut for a while, but I did not stop thinking about it. I kept searching for peace, but it is hell when the best part of you is locked away. The pressure builds and the anxiety mounts until one day you have had enough. A large number of girls make their transition in their late thirties and early forties. I am not sure if it is a midlife crisis, or if that is the point in your life where you are mature enough not to care what others think about you.

  The decision to transition is not a single step but a multi-step process that occurs at different times for everyone. It starts when you leave the closet and then return, finding that you would rather die than go back into the closet. You become consumed with thoughts on how you are going to be free. That is why depression and suicide are so common amongst members of this sorority, because the thoughts of having to live in the closet the rest of your life can be more than one can bear. I often wonder if I would be here today if I were unable to transition.

  This is when I started the transition part of my Great Elephant Ride.

  Pink Fog

  The pink fog is a phenomenon that is experienced to some degree by all male to female transgender individuals. The pink fog starts out as a liberating sensation that drifts into an annoyance because of its persistence. The pink fog eventually becomes a motivating factor and a comfort for the hardest part of the journey towards womanhood. It is now an integral part of my personality landscape —without it I would not be me.

  In September 2008, I purchased a second house with a beautiful view of Sydney Bay in Coxheath, Nova Scotia. The house is two stories and sits on top of a 30-foot tall wooded bluff. The house faces east, and being a morning person, I see spectacular sunrises over the Atlantic Ocean. At night during the spring and fall when the leaves are off the trees, the lights from Sidney reflect on the bay. Full moons reflect off the water, lighting the hillside with an eerie ghost-like glow.

  Many times this beautiful view is obscured by a dense, blanket-like fog. Some mornings I cannot even see out the back door. Because of the cool ocean temperatures, this fog can roll in at any time of the day. Things that you could see clearly ten minutes ago vanish from sight as they slowly lose definition and fade away. You can walk out in the fog and people can be 100 feet from you and you would not see them. On a quiet morning when you are walking along the bay, it is so still that you feel as though you are alone in this small, tranquil universe, which is interrupted only by the occasional gull or the bellowing of a distant foghorn. I would say that half of all accidents in Sydney occur during these times of thick fog, so when you are out and about in dense fog, you have to exercise extreme caution.

  Coming to terms with being transgender can often leave you in a pink fog. This fog can roll in at a moment’s notice. It can be so thick at times that it obscures everything, or it can be just a light mist that makes things blurry. The pink fog can be triggered by almost anything. Sometimes it passes right on through, and other times it will linger for days, making life very difficult. During these times in the transition journey, caution must be taken so that accidents do not occ
ur. I have experienced pink fog my entire life, but it was not until my twenties that I realized what it was and was able to tie it back to being transgender. In retrospect, I experienced the pink fog a lot as child: every time I would go out in the woods and be myself. In the early years, I did not know it as pink fog—instead, it was just the warm feeling of contentment.

  I knew that I was transgender for as long as I can remember. I did not know what it was until later in life, but I did know. It is funny how you know but you don’t. I was so worried I was weird, particularly growing up with parents who thought that everything they did not understand was perverse. Fortunately, I was intelligent enough not to mention my feelings to my parents. When I was a child, my parents told me I could tell them anything or be anything I wanted to be. I think they would have been very happy had I told them I was going to be a plumber or an electrician or pursue any blue collar career—college was not something that they encouraged or talked very highly of. However, I have no doubt that if I had told them I wanted to be a woman, they would have had me committed at some bible-thumping, ultra-conservative religious interment facility, where I would have been forced to spend hours on my knees repenting for sins I did not commit. Or they would have an ultra-pious pastor perform some type of Christian exorcism to expel the girly cooties from me. I knew better than to tell my parents, but during times of intense fog, I nearly made that mistake.

  I was in my early twenties, attending night school, and I was searching—but I was not sure what it was I was looking for. I was employed at a local electrical engineering firm at the time. Working my way up from draftsman to electrical systems engineer, I quickly realized I was about as high as I could go with my career and that the only way to move up was to delve into the computer systems. I already had a MS degree in electrical engineering, but realized I needed a BA degree to move on, so I enrolled at a local college and was working on my degree in information technologies/programming. Three days a week when I left work I went right to school. There was a quaint little bookstore along the way that had a coffee shop. I would stop there before class for a cup of coffee, or go there if I had time to do some studying between classes. It was a gay bookstore specializing in material not carried by the traditional bookstores in the early 80s.

  One day I was browsing through the books, not sure if it was because I did not have anything to study or I did not feel like studying anything—probably the latter. I picked up a magazine, not really paying attention to the content, but instead to the woman on the cover who wore a stunning, white dress. I looked closer. It was a Tapestry magazine published by the International Foundation for Gender Education (IFGE), www.ifge.org. It felt like I had a one-of-a-kind manuscript that contained a map to a secret treasure. I had never skipped class, but that night I did. I read that magazine from cover to cover and drank coffee until the proprietor said it was closing time. Between the cover of that magazine I read all about myself. You could have put my name in many of the coming-out and youth stories.

  I did not find the treasure that night; I actually found it three days later, after reading the articles multiple times. You have to remember this was in the early 90s; the internet was really in its infancy and was not even mentioned in my computer classes yet. Near the back of the magazine was a resource guide that listed all the groups by state. I started with Alabama and worked my way down to Michigan. I expected a big city like Detroit to have one, but I could not believe my eyes when I found one right in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Conservative West Michigan had a support group for transgender people. I had just learned the term “transgender” from the magazine; up to that point I only knew of the word “transvestite,” the term I learned from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

  The next day when I got home from work I called the number listed. Nervously I waited for someone to answer. Soon a sweet lady answered the phone—I guess I was not sure what I expected because she had to say hello several times before I responded. I was a bit nervous, worried how I sounded, hoping she would not think I was a weirdo. I had not come out to anybody before. I had never whispered a hint to anyone, let alone openly talked to a stranger about it. Diane was the wife of the president of the support group called “IME”: I am ME. We talked for a few minutes; I felt like I was at the confessional and just started to spill my guts. Finally, I had found someone who actually knew what I was talking about.

  Due to security reasons, new members who wanted to join the group had to meet with a board member of the group before they were allowed to attend a meeting. Diane and I agreed to meet at a Denny’s Restaurant the following week. It was a long four days. This was the first time I was able to link my feelings to being transgender to the feelings I had as a child—it clouded my thoughts, and even though these feelings had long been with me, I had never felt it so strong and had it so thick: this was the Pink Fog. As a child I would have called this a pink haze, thin and wispy, but this was thick, dense, and very intense—definitely a fog. I could not believe I actually talked to someone about being transgender. I was on Cloud Nine. My eyesight had not degenerated much at that point, and I rode my bike as a way to relieve stress. That weekend I had my best time ever for a 100-mile bicycle-training ride: just less than 3.5 hours. My mind was racing, and I could only focus on one thing. Fortunately, I did not have finals to study for.

  The day of the meeting finally arrived. It was a cool April day, and I was thankful for it because I was already breaking out in a nervous sweat. I had no idea what to expect. Was she going to think I was a freak? Was she going to be way over the top? Arriving about 45 minutes early, I sat in my car for about 15 of the minutes trying to decide if I wanted to go through with the meeting. I finally got the courage up and went in and sat in the waiting area. After about 20 minutes, a nondescript elderly lady came up to me. She really was not old, but when you are 20 everyone over 30 is old. She introduced herself and I did likewise. We then waited for the hostess to seat us.

  I was feeling just a little better, but I still was not sure how much of my deep, dark secret I should tell her. We sat down and she ordered a soft drink and I ordered a coffee. Food was not an option; my stomach was tied in such a tight knot I am not sure anything would have gotten down. Diane broke the ice by telling me about herself, just general background stuff, and I returned the pleasantries. She then talked about the “Group” IME and what it stood for. Due to security, I had to sign a confidentiality agreement that I was not allowed to talk about any other member outside the meeting. The meeting was a support group and not a dating group. This helped set me at ease a bit more.

  She told me how the group was formed, and that she was the one who started it. She did it for herself: she was not a cross-dresser but her husband was. She had issues and wanted to talk to other spouses who had similar challenges; her husband wanted to meet other transgender individuals. With the help of their therapist at the time they formed a support/social group. This group met once a month on a Saturday night. It was always in a safe place, where girls could dress on site. The group session would begin in the afternoon, and then after the group session they would have a potluck dinner and social afterwards until about 10 or until people went home. Some girls also liked to go out after the meetings to some of the local gay bars, and once a year they had a larger social, “a prom” at the Dunes resort.

  Diane went on to tell me about her husband and how she had discovered his “cross-dressing”; she had come to accept him for the female that he felt he was. Diane realized that it was an absolute need for him to express his feelings, and how it is about gender and not sex. Now it was my time to talk. The first question she asked was, “Why are you interested in me?” I guess she could see how difficult it was for me to talk because she said, “Let’s refill our drink first.” This gave me a chance to collect my thoughts. Even though I could think of nothing else for the last week, I could not think of a word to say. My heart was racing, and I could feel the drops of sweat rolling down my back.

  T
he waitress came over with our refills and when she left, in a voice not much more than a whisper, I started to talk. I began by telling Diane about my black velvet dress in detail, how I felt when I wore it and how comfortable I felt in women’s clothes. She reached out and touched my hand, giving me just that little bit of assurance that I needed. I continued to tell her about my childhood and growing up, how I borrowed my sisters’ clothes and spent a lot of time by myself in the woods behind our house.

  Finally, she interrupted me to say that she had another appointment. She handed me some pamphlets that contained information about the group and a calendar of meetings and locations. I thanked her, placing a $10.00 bill on the table for our drinks. As I got up to leave she hugged me and said it would be OK.