The next morning I got up at my normal time of 5:00 a.m. and was out the door by about 5:30. It was almost twilight; there was just an orange glow where the sun was coming up, quite mild for a late September morning. I put on my head phones and my new running outfit. I was feeling pretty good because the new Under Armor shirt was a snug fit showing of a pretty buff physique. I have very poor vision, and at night it is even worse, but the walk was well lit with nobody else on the path. I started running and I came to the building that my colleague mentioned; I thought I would just circle the building and head back. I proceeded to follow the sidewalk to the right along the building. As I ran I saw a dark area in the pavement ahead. Thinking it a just recently paved sidewalk, I kept running at full stride. The dark area of the side walk was not freshly paved. It just was not there—it had been completely removed and the only thing left were steel crossbeams and a very deep hole with rocks and metal debris.
The next half hour is not in my memory bank. I am really not sure what happened next. After visiting the scene multiple times, I have constructed a memory. The next thing I can remember is walking back to the hotel. I remember hearing the water of a fountain that I had run past earlier. My MP3 player was still playing Pink Floyd’s The Wall, my favorite album because it encapsulated my life, describing how I built up these walls and all I wanted to do was break them down.
I had walked about a quarter of a mile before I became aware of the warm blood running down my face and leg. I felt something but I really did not feel any pain right away. I just felt the blood, warm and sticky. The pain had started by the time I got back to the hotel. I just hurt— nothing in particular, I just started to hurt all over. The morning glow of sunlight just started to warm the cool morning air as I got to the door. It was easy to find because my window was the only one with a light on.
I opened my door and went to the bathroom to look at the damage. My face was covered in blood and still bleeding. Blood was flowing from a hole in my leg and had soaked my new running shoes. I knew I needed to call for help, but I had something more important to do. I had to hide something. I had gotten out some of my “Stephanie” clothes and I had to hide them. I may have been bleeding to death, but it would not matter if my friend came in the room and saw that “stuff.” So I quickly hid it all under the bed.
It took me several minutes to hide everything because my right arm was not working; I could not move it without excruciating pain. Once the secret was safe, I went next door to get help. All the blood I had wiped away had begun running down my face again. My friend is not a morning person, so a knock on the door probably woke him out of a deep sleep. A blurry-eyed man answered the door looking more like he was going to chew me out, but then he saw the blood and his eye just about engulfed his head as I politely asked for a band aid. He is a trained paramedic; I have never seen anyone’s face drain completely of blood before. I was the injured one, but I think he was the one going into shock.
He did recoup pretty quickly, and the paramedic in him took over. I was a U.S. citizen at the time and my insurance card was only good in the states. But he insisted that I go to hospital, which was what I had to do. We got to the hospital—they have a tendency to take you back right away when you are making a mess on the floor. I think I may have even scared a few little kids.
By the time we were taken back, I was starting to feel the shock of it all set in, and the pain really started to climb. In the emergency room a cute young doctor examined me. I had a puncture in my left shin, and the skin was completely removed from my inner thigh of my left leg, starting from my calf to almost my groin. I has a serious laceration over my right eye right in the eyebrow, and my right shoulder was shattered like an egg shell. Not a break but many small little fractures.
The nurse came in and began to wash me with disinfectant that hurt, but then it was the doctor’s turn to abuse me. He inserted his fingers into my leg wound about four inches and began to pull out the gravel and debris. All the while he was showing my friend were the metal had scraped the shinbone, and you could see the glimmer of the white from the bone amongst the red blood. Getting injured was bad but getting repaired hurt even worse, because you did not have the adrenaline from a fall to help with the pain—you get to enjoy all of it because pain med had yet to take effect.
I came out of the ER eventually and tallied up all the damage. I had 8 stitches in my head and the same number in my leg. I was still missing my skin from my left leg and my shoulder hurt so badly I could barely put on a shirt. My friend did not know about my secret, and I really wanted to say something to the doctor. A scar on the leg or the forehead is not as much a concern for a man as it is for a woman, and I think the doctor would have done a better job hiding the scar if he had known. But at that point I was in so much pain it did not matter.
We went back to the hotel room. I had to stay in town for twenty-four hours because I had a major head trauma. It was a nice warm September day for the Midwest, so my friend took me down to the scene of the accident. It was easy to find: we could follow the trail of blood. We got to the hole and it was right outside a law office. We went in to ask if they would put up a barricade so no one else would fall in. They were very quick to inform me that it was not their property and that the building was owned by the city. And we needed to contact them.
I own a business in Canada and I know that if someone got hurt on my business property, the government would be all over me with fines and litigation, so I thought I would hold them to the same standards and I had my attorney call them. I needed to do this anyway so that they would pay for my medical bills. Well that started a three-year legal process that almost turned me into a terrorist.
Throughout the legal process, because I had a head injury, the concern was long-term brain damage, so over the next few years I had multiple exams, with three neurophysiologist s administering several brain scans. During one such trip to London, Ontario, I had a brain scan at Victoria hospital. I flew in the day before my brain scan appointment. The next morning I got up early and headed to the hospital. I checked in, everything was fine, and I sat down in the waiting room. I waited my turn, and then at the end of the scan I was told that I would be fine as long as I was not going across the border.
Well I was flying to Manchester, New Hampshire in the morning, I explained. So the assistant returned to the desk for a card, then handed it to me while saying that I might need it. The print was too small for me to read ,so I put it in my pocket thinking I could read it later. I was currently dressed as “Steve” for the appointment because that is who the appointment was for, but had been flying as “Stephanie.” This was going to be trouble, because my passport still showed a fat. middle aged, white male who did not even look like me now even dressed as “Steve,” let alone “Stephanie.”
When I fly I like to draw the least amount of attention to myself as possible. I am already a very tall woman, standing 5’13,” which sounds better than 6’1.” I started to get concerned. I could see the headlines now: “A blind, radioactive, transgender woman tries to sneak across the border with a man’s passport!” This had CNN written all over it. I emailed my CEO and told him to watch CNN; I thought for sure I would wake up in Gitmo!
I was flying from London Ontario to Detroit and then on to Manchester, New Hampshire. The London Ontario airport is small and does not have any custom agents at it, so I would have to go through customs in Detroit. I got to the airport early so that I would have time if anything happened. It was pretty much uneventful. I got my ticket, went through security, and then had a cup of coffee while waiting for my flight. It was a routine flight: we took off when we were supposed to and landed where we supposed to, so all was good.
The plane that you fly from London to Detroit—about 100 miles—is a small twin-engine SAAB turboprop. It was a full flight; I shared pleasantries with the person sitting next to me, then nodded off. I was up at 3:00 a.m. to get to a 6:00 a.m. flight. We landed in Detroit and were met with the standard
security personal who escorted us to the reception center. The small planes disembark some distance from the reception center, so we had to a walk down a long hallway.
As we were walking down the hall way, alarms went off. Not the really loud type, but basically things that look like hazard strobe lights. I had never noticed them before. By the time we reached the end of the hallway, security had identified the tall, radioactive redhead, and I was met by two armed border patrol agents and politely escorted me to another room where I set off another alarm. I walked up to the booth and handed the agent my documentation passport, declaration paper, and airline ticket. I thought, Here it comes.
He looked at my passport, then at me, and then back at the passport. I am not sure what he was thinking, but he did not crack a smile or even change expressions. He looked me square in the eyes and asked if I had had any procedures done. He was looking at a male passport, and a transgender woman was standing in front of him with red hair instead of brown, no beard scruff or Adam’s apple, and he was asking me if I have any procedures done. I must have looked bewildered because he then said,” You know, like an X-ray.” I sigh of relief came over me because I could answer that question. I said yes I had a brain scan yesterday and pulled the card out of my purse and handed it to him. He took the card and told me to go have a seat. After what seemed like a very long time—I still had another plane to catch—he came back with another male agent and a female agent. Sometimes you speak before you think and this was one of those times. I said “Oh, looks like it is going to be a threesome”—not a very bright comment at the time, but they did not even crack a smile. The guy had a little yellow box with him that sounded just like a Geiger-counter. I asked what it was, and he said it was a radiation detector that told him what kind of radiation I was emitting—it had to match the type that was listed on the card that the technician gave me. I do have to admit they really treated me with respect: they used the right pronouns and were very courteous when they asked me to do things. Mr. Spock with the scanner left, and female agent asked me to have a seat. I did and waited again. Finally the male agent came back, saying that he needed to have his supervisor sign off on my release.
He then said I was free to go but had to escort me out because I would set off more alarms. We went to the baggage belt, and I did set off another alarm because there are detectors looking for radiation in luggage. He was so nice to me; he grabbed my luggage for me and pulled it to the drop-off point and put it back on the belt for me. I then set off another alarm that automatically locked the door and the agent showed the paperwork and they let me out. I had made it. I figure I can do anything now as a woman if a blind, radioactive woman with a male passport can make it across the border without ending up in Gitmo. I can do anything.
I have flown hundreds of times since and have not even been placed on the watch list. I did get frisked by a male agent later, but that was just the luck of the draw and not because I was radioactive. I t was the only time in my life I was truly radiant!
Coming Out:
Transitioning and coming out are two different things. Transitioning is about physical aspects such as surgeries and name changes. Coming out is about the emotional part, where you have exposed the deepest, darkest secrets that you have hidden so hard from everyone all those years. You are very vulnerable and are subject to severe rejection by people who have professed their love to you. The first part of coming out is self-acceptance. If you are not comfortable with yourself before you come out, it could be devastating.
Why would anyone go through transition? It is a man’s world. I was the quintessential American success story. I had an OK marriage with beautiful children, I had a large home in a wealthy suburb in a good school district, and my business had taken root and was quite successful. Siblings and family where calling me on a regular basis to use my boat that I had slipped at a Yacht club on Lake Michigan. The family took a nice vacation every year, and the children had almost everything they wanted.
People looked at me as a success story. I had a high level of education, and I was developing distinction amongst my peers. On the surface everything looked great. However, many individuals would have loved to live the life that I lead, but would not have wanted to be me: I was blind. Many people think being blind is one of the hardest things one would ever have to contend with. I assure you it is not even close compared to being transgender. Blindness never really got in the way of anything—I just lived life like everyone else. In the long run, I think I made blindness look too easy, and since I was so successful, people forgot just how hard it is to be blind. I think my wife was the first to forget.
Blindness was difficult to deal with; however, I was always dealing with the harder subject of accepting the fact that I was transgender—there is no amount of success that will make you feel complete. Dealing with blindness compared to dealing with being transgender is like having a hangnail verse having a finger cut off.
You never escape being transgender; it is just who you are. Trying to pretend that you are not transgender is like pretending you are not hungry: eventually you will have to eat or die. But back to the question, “Why did I transition?” The short answer is “Freedom.” Freedom from the daily struggle of not being who I was, the struggle of living a dual life. Freedom from lying about who I was and living a pretend life. I wanted to be honest to myself so I could be honest with my children.
When I was seventeen, I signed up for a six-year tour of duty with the U.S. Marine Corps. I needed to get out of West Michigan, the capital of discrimination, hypocrisy, and bigotry of the Midwest. I grew up different, not fitting into any mold that was acceptable for that area. Like any other transgender individuals, we know we are different from an early age. I had loving, caring parents—they were just blinded by religious dogma and plagued with narrow-mindedness,; anything that did not fit in a black and white world was religiously wrong.
Not only did my parents put themselves above other people, they belonged to the chosen ones. They believed they were better than all other Christians. The Catholics were wrong, Baptist did not have a clue, and the Unitarians were just plain evil. Like most extreme rightwing religions, you dealt with diversity through ostracism: conform or leave. To question your faith was to be unfaithful. To think differently would require immediate repentance.
Growing up transgender, you question everything. I knew I was different, but I did not know why. It was the mid 1980’s, and where I lived there was not much information. A book that dealt with being transgender probably would have been banned from our local library. I did not know enough to even ask for help, and approaching my parents surely would have put me in a position worse than I already was in.
With those prospects, the Marine Corp did not sound all that bad. So I chose self-ostracism and enlisted. I was gone days after I graduated from high school. I went from a 99-plus percent white, conservative environment to a world where everyone was green. There was no black, no white, no Asian, no Hispanic, just marines. People counted on you to do your job. They did not care about race, religion, or gender as long as you did your job. I even know a few Marines who were gay, but they did their jobs and did not let their sexual orientation interfere with their work. Ironically, I would later meet up with someone from our company who transitioned as well.
I soon made friends of all different backgrounds. It really felt good to know other people who did not grow up in west Michigan. I made friends with one of the first African Americans I had ever met. We were taught in the Corps that we all bleed red, and we never leave anyone behind. As long as a Marine is in need of help, you must help even if it means giving up your own life. I still live by that creed and work hard to level the playing field for all individuals, especially those with disabilities.
When you enlist in the armed forces, you swear an oath to protect the land of the free “America.” I took that oath to protect freedom, even though I only had a vague idea of what it actually meant at that time. I was willing to gi
ve my life for a concept that at that point I knew little about. The meaning of freedom came later in life, and so did its value. Freedom is expensive and you must be aware of the price tag.
Having a Type A personality, I do not sit still for very long. Over-committing seems to be the norm: I find myself running from one thing to another, without much time to sit down and watch a movie. I was in the hospital several times over my transition recovering from surgery, which provided me with the time to watch movies in their entirety for the first time. During one of my recoveries, I watched a movie with a dialogue line that I now understand; prior to transitioning, I might not have appreciated its meaning. The story was about a transgender girl caught on wrong side of the Berlin wall. She falls in love with an American GI, and the only way she can go to America is to marry the GI. In those days, marrying required a physical, and she still had not had sexual reconstruction surgery. The line in the movie that caught my attention was said by the mother to her transgender daughter: “Sometimes you have to give up something for freedom.”
Transitioning will give you the freedom and peace you desire, but you may have to give up something. I had, too, and every girl I know who has transitioned has given up something for her freedom. The cost will vary depending on your circumstances. The older you are the bigger impact that it may have on your life. The price tag for transitioning goes well beyond money.
What I tell girls who are thinking of transitioning is to list things that are the most important to you. If you could lose those things when you transition, are you willing to live without them? I do not regret my decision to transition for a minute, but it took me a long time to get over my losses, and I still am dealing with them today.
I cannot tell you what your price tag will be, but here is what it cost me. First, it cost me a twenty-year marriage. I had been in denial or had purged, however you want to put it, for nearly ten years and then I fell off the wagon, so to speak, and got caught by my wife. Purging is done by most transgender individual; it has happened to everyone I know, and in most cases more than once. Purging is where you gather together all your female clothes, makeup, jewelry, and anything that is feminine and get rid of it. You just want to stop, so you make a valid effort to get rid of everything, thinking you can change if your feminine bounty is not around. This is very expensive because you build up your wardrobe over time and in a few minutes, it is all gone. The trouble with purging comes after you have you have purged only the physical things, but the feelings remain. The time between purges varies by individual, but one thing is certain: eventually you start up again. It may be as simple as buying a single pair of underwear to wear once in a while just to feel the slightest bit feminine , and then soon you add a skirt or a pair of shoes to your collection. You cannot stop being yourself, and you keep coming back to being you. It was a bittersweet moment being caught by my wife: it felt good not to have lie or hide anymore, but I knew the outcome would not be good. What I did not expect is her reaction. She basically never wanted to talk to me about it—she wanted to end our marriage right then and there. I was devastated. I understood her reaction, but she did not have a clue how hard I had fought this to make the marriage work, and she was not willing to do anything to fight to make it work.
The Great Elephant Ride Page 8
