My Brother’s Keeper
April, 20000
The recent murder of a transgender acquaintance here prompted some debate on issues that are important to the transgender community. How safe are we? What kinds of choices do we have? Questions that reflect on the world around us.
Before the police were able to figure out what events took place that night, issues such as domestic violence and trans-hate crimes were being discussed. And then it turned out that Steph had to die because some guy wanted the money in her wallet.
But what I found myself thinking about, and getting frustrated over, was how unprepared the transgender community was to be able to help Stephanie and to truly support her in ways that might have helped change her fate.
That’s a strong statement to make, and maybe I’m taking on a certain amount guilt that niether I nor anyone else deserves. Maybe I’m pathetically vain for even thinking that anyone could have made a difference. I don’t know if I knew her well enough to say.
You see, as I got to know Stephanie, I found myself pulling back a little bit, withdrawing. I could see that she was in need, but I was afraid of that need. Afraid of my own inability to somehow satisfy that need, and in the end, be rejected for not satisfying that need.
Stephanie’s story is not an uncommon one in the transgender community. She was almost forty when she first experimented with crossdressing, and she hit the ground running, so to speak. By the time I met her several months after that, she was attending weekly meetings in Albany, and was out to her family, friends, neighbors and co-workers.
Because of medical conditions, she wasn’t allowed to operate a motor vehicle, so she would ride the bus from Schenectady to Albany on Thursday nights to be with the girls. She told me that she was harassed on several occasions during these rides, mostly teasing.
At first I really admired her for what I perceived as courage. Her family was very much against her transgender expression, yet she was determined to assert her independence. Her employer also, she claimed, was not pleased with her life style, although Steph never went to work as Stephanie. And she had mentioned something about a long term relationship with a woman that had recently ended.
Yet, in spite of the negative feedback, she lived her life the way she felt she had to. And she always seemed to be in a pretty good mood. She used to love to talk about the great bargains she got shopping for clothes, something I had no problem relating to.
It was a few months after I first met her at Your’s, back in mid-1999, that she told me she was going to start electrolysis in the coming year and hormones the year after that. She had decided to transition. And I think that’s what started the voice in my head cautioning me to be careful.
From that point on, there were things I should have said to Stephanie that I didn’t. I didn’t because I didn’t think she’d like to hear some of it. It would have been more negative feedback, and I don’t think our friendship was such that I was in a position to be so critical.
It was a situation I resented a bit. She continued to tell me personal, almost intimate details of her life, yet I didn’t feel free to speak frankly with her. She was an open book, yet I didn’t understand why I was so "privileged" to share in her revelations. I found that I was never so open with her in return. It wasn’t mutual. It wasn’t balanced.
Years ago I fought the fight to be myself, and the wounds are still fresh. I confronted my worst fears, battled the demons who lived with me for most of my life, and I emerged whole. I questioned everything I ever believed in, examined everything I was feeling, put them under the microscope, held them up to the sunlight. It was hard work, and it’s not the kind of work you can do in your spare time. The pleasures of life and love would have to take a distant second place until I could find my way to solid ground. And I asked for no directions.
And when I got there, I knew I was there. I didn’t have to ask anyone for their opinion, their approval, their praise or their consent. I didn’t ask for permission to be there. And I refused to leave.
I began to wonder if Stephanie was dealing with the issues in her life, or using transgenderism as a way to avoid dealing with them. She seldom spoke of anything else. Often, when she would tell me of some unpleasant scene between her and her parents, or her employer, I’d try to offer some advice. But it didn’t seem as if advice was what she wanted. And I wasn’t sure if I was willing to give her what I perceived she did want: unconditional love.
So the conversations became more and more one-sided, with me the designated listener. Stephanie was happy when she had a willing ear, so what was it that stopped me from doing this least little thing? It was, I think, the sense of doom I felt about her, that this would come to no good.
Because it seemed she was going too fast, and trying too hard. Because I felt she needed too much approval, and was trying too hard to fit in. Because I thought she was trying to put a roof over her head before she put a foundation under her feet. Because I felt she was trying too hard to live someone else’s experience and not her own.
I knew that whatever happiness she found, it would be transient at best, so when she told me how she had found love in her life, I smiled on the outside and cringed on the inside. It wasn’t long before the other shoe dropped. Happiness would be at the discretion of others.
It’s been said that Stephanie died because she engaged in risky behavior. I think not, because I think she lived with greater fears and her needs outweighed the risks.
In spite of everything right in my life, I still find that I occasionally slip into a quiet state of calm despair, where I find myself walking in between the moments, alone, unobserved, seeing all, surrounded by the deafening silence. It is here that I weep for The Lost Child.
Stephanie and I were both conceived around our 39th year, but Stephanie still waits to be born. Perhaps I’ll meet her again someday, and if I do, I’ll try to hold on a little tighter the next time.
