It is no surprise that coming out as a trans woman at age 63 drastically reshaped my view of the world. Now I plan my days based on what shoes I want to wear and the pain they will cause. More significantly, I think I am starting to believe in the devil.
I grew up attending Sunday School but only because I idolized the cute high school girls who taught there, and because I feared God would turn me into an arthritic dung beetle if I didn't go. Gradually, I came to believe there is no heavenly attendance chart. Go to church or don't; there was no smite in sight. I stopped worrying about pleasing God or avoiding the devil.
However, since I began openly living the life I always wanted, I have been convinced that Satan does exist. Who else could make people so deliberately hateful toward a group they won't even speak to or try to understand?
As a trans woman, my life is now a haunted house. I know demons and ghouls are constantly coming for me; I just don't know when or how they will appear.
The TSA Gauntlet
I recently flew to San Francisco for vocal feminization surgery to stop customer service reps from calling me "sir." At Newark Airport, I walked through the TSA scanner and expected to head to my gate. Instead, the agent stopped me, asking what I was hiding in my groin area. Apparently, the agent pushes a button based on perceived gender. If marked as female and a red dot appears near the crotch, you get stopped.
The agent explained she needed to pat me down. Our conversation went exactly like this:
- Me: Just so you know, I am not hiding anything. I am trans.
- TSA agent (looking disgusted): I still have to pat you down. This is gonna be way worse for me than it is for you.
- Me: I highly doubt that.
- TSA agent: You think I enjoy this?
- Me: I hope not.
- TSA agent: I told you. This is way worse for me than it is for you.
- Me: I assure you that is absolutely not true.
- TSA agent: There are two sides to this. Respect mine.
After stewing about this for six hours, I arrived in San Francisco. Exiting the subway at Union Square, a tattooed, jacked-up man began ranting at me with a bullhorn. "How dare you blaspheme the Lord with your appearance!" he screamed while his buddies and passersby laughed. He launched into a tirade about mentally ill people not knowing the difference between men and women. As I slipped away, a woman asked for change. When I declined, she shouted, "You fuckin' trannies! You can't fool me! You should be ashamed!"
After all that, I felt ashamed. At the airline check-in counter on my way home, an employee sized up my best Stevie Nicks look and asked, "How can I help you, sir?" I explained I was not a sir. Without changing expression, she said, "Sorry about that, sir. So did you need help with something?"
Another Encounter
Two weeks later, on my way back to San Francisco for a post-op appointment, another TSA agent stopped me, pointed to the red dot on my crotch, and asked what I was hiding. I was under orders not to use my newly surgically altered voice, but I rasped that I was a pre-op trans woman. She said I gave her "attitude" and called her boss. That woman patted me down in front of everyone, and when she reached my groin, she stepped back upon realizing what I was packing. For the rest of the trip, I thought only about getting back to my trans bubble, Manhattan. It is not perfect there either, but it is New York.
Still, even New York City cannot always save me from the pain inflicted on trans people. Often that pain comes from elected leaders. The Republican Party constantly vows to eradicate our existence. Even Democrats, our strongest allies, recently approved a military spending bill banning funding for gender-affirming care for minors, despite less than 0.1% of American youth receiving such medications.
A Plea for Understanding
I realize this may sound whiny, but I am not seeking sympathy. I am aware other trans people have had worse experiences. I am trying to show what a minefield being trans is, hoping people who know little about us might reconsider their thoughts and feelings.
It has been mind-bending because I never expected the courtesies and benefit of the doubt I got as a white adult male to vanish. That was naive, but that is how privilege works. Still, I do not miss it. If the tradeoff is being my true self, losing privilege is worth it. At least I hope so.
I cling to that belief as I trudge through the haunted house. Donald Trump recently sent my community a jump scare with an executive order stating there are only two sexes. Too many responded with "Too bad, sucks for them."
Trans people are the latest "others" that politicians and comedians love to punch down at. We are perfect targets because we do not fit into neat boxes. We make up only 0.6% of U.S. adults, so we lack numbers to fight back. Hence, we need allies.
I grew up hiding this secret inside me because it brought shame. It was easier to hide than go public. I spent most of my life feeling alone and unable to find acceptance. Until I came out at 63 because my desire to be free overcame my fear. My life has not magically transformed into a Hallmark movie, but I am finally on the path I always wanted. This is not a choice; it is following our destiny.
Unfortunately, not all of us make it. Countless trans people lack financial means, emotional support, or physical safety to come out. Many face violence or death. Over 40% of trans people in the U.S. have attempted suicide. Trans youth and their families are bullied, and more states make gender-affirming care impossible. That is an American tragedy.
I have no idea where we go from here. I do not know which bathroom I will be allowed to use next year or how many monster trucks flying Trump flags might try to run me down. But I have created this new, wonderful identity that I am learning to love every day. It is better than living the identity I was mistakenly handed at birth.
So like me or hate me. That is your business. But before you judge me for being trans, talk to one of us about our lives, struggles, hopes, fears, and joys. You will discover we are not what Donald Trump convinced you we are. Given the terrifying things in the haunted house we creep through each day, we need as many voices of support as possible to keep us safe.
A Glimmer of Hope
A few weeks ago, I flew back to San Francisco to check my voice recovery. I ran the TSA gauntlet again. Upon exiting the scanner, I made peace with the humiliating pat-down. When the agent pointed to the screen and said she had to search me, I said, "Let's cut to the chase. Do what you have to do, but yes, it is a penis." She smiled and grabbed my hand instead of my other parts. "Dear, I am the proud mom of a trans son. I understand. You are beautiful. Have a safe trip!" she said before sending me on my way.
Walking to my gate, I cried. But this time, the tears were the happy kind. I think I may have to start believing in angels.
Caragh Donley is a writer and producer who has worked for outlets including People Magazine, TV Guide, The New York Times, and Vanity Fair. She is the author of "The Can't-idates: Running for President When Nobody Knows Your Name." She is currently a senior producer with "The Kelly Clarkson Show" and the star of the one-woman show "He Said, She Says."
