Stlalice
11-24-2005, 09:44 PM
With some of the posts and commentary that came up in the original Day of Remembrance thread I thought that this piece written by Monica Helms, who writes a regular column for Transgender Tapestry, the magazine of the International Foundation for Gender Education would perhaps shed some light on the plight of many transfolk. What follows is both graphic and moving. It shows what can and does happen when the so called "safety nets" of society don't work because of prejudice,hate,or indifference. Let me also say that suicide is NEVER a viable alternative or way out of the pain that many of us live with. I know, for I've been there and that I'm still here to talk about it is in some ways a miracle. Please, if you or someone you know is dealing with these issues, help them, get them into therapy. The sad fact is that as many as 50% of transsexuals die by their own hand and of the remainder 60 to 80% will admit to at least having considered the idea if not attempted it. Shocking? Yes, but there is help out there - LGBT organizations, Churches like MCC, and forums like this one. Use those resources and live. The thing that I would most wish for? A time when there is no list of names to read or the need for it.
Friends,
The following was read by Pastor Paul Turner of the Gentle Spirit
Christian Church at the Atlanta TDOR. The title is simply "Alice"
and it was written by me. I wrote this for another purpose to give
my view of what I felt were the last 15 months of my friend Alice
Johnston and I didn't know he was going to read it. It is written in
1st person as if Alice was telling it, and I based it on some of the
things I knew that Alice went through until she took her own life.
I realized that this list is for those murdered, but I know of at
least one on the Remembering Our Dear list who did take her life
after a tramatic experience, which is what happened to Alice. The
only reason I'm posting it here is that it was read at our event and
Pastor Paul pointed out that what she went through can be related by
many transgender people. When He read it, there wasn't a dry eye in
the whole crowd of over 100.
Monica
***************************
ALICE
by Monica F. Helms
I stared at the television screen in disbelief as one of the World
Trade Center buildings crumbled into dust, then the next one. The
horror I witnessed would haunt me for the rest of my life and the
news estimated that over 3000 people lost their lives that day. What
they didn't say – or know – was how many more lives would be impacted
by that fatal day. I would soon find out that I, Alice Johnston,
would be one of them.
A few weeks after September 11, 2001, the reality of a less secure
world and a devastating disaster hit home for me. My boss told us
all that he would have to close the doors and let us all go.
Business had dropped to near zero and his small company couldn't
absorb the loss. My roommate also worked there with me.
This news scared both my roommate and me because we're both pre-
operative transsexuals. The prospect of finding a job for many
people after 9/11 looked grim at best, but for two transsexuals in
Georgia, prospects looked grim even in the best of times.
Discrimination runs ramped and is even seen as acceptable by most
politicians and employers in the state when it comes to gay, lesbian,
bisexual and transgender people. They would rather have us on the
welfare rolls putting a drain on the state's treasury than to have us
as employed, tax-paying citizens. Drawing unemployment was how my
roommate and I had to survive over the next several weeks. I have
learned over the years that out of the entire human race, transgender
people seem to be considered the most disposable in society. And
yet, we have a lot to offer if people would only give us a chance to
prove it.
Both my roommate and I had marketable skills to offer potential
employers. She has training in computer repair and has extensive
experience in warehouse management and I am a computer technician and
programmer, plus I have a degree in Library Science. On top of that,
I'm a decorated Army veteran of two wars. Someone was bound to hire
me, or so I thought.
Over the next several months, my roommate and I applied for hundreds
of jobs, but as soon as they found out – or guessed – that we were
transsexuals, all bets were off. No one would call us back for a
second interview. Even when we got that sacred second interview, we
would be told things like, "You're over-qualified," or, "We'll call
you," or, "We have other applicants to interview." What they really
wanted to say was, "Get yer sorry faggot ass out of my office!" I
would have accepted that much better than their lies and deceit.
The time came when my roommate and I had to move out of our apartment
and put our things in storage. We still had some weeks left on our
unemployment, so that would help a little. I planned on moving in
with a friend and my roommate decided to see if Iowa would provide
her better opportunities than Georgia. I love Georgia too much to
want to move.
Packing my things was a terrible time for me. I enjoyed my video
collection and my music, but I wouldn't be able to take them to my
friend's house. When my roommate and I finished packing and moving
everything into the storage unit, we shut the door and locked it. I
had a strange feeling that I would never see my things again. Sadness
came over me and I began to cry. People I helped in the past
rejected helping me. The transgender community of Georgia turned
their backs on me. I lost my job and had no prospects and I would
have to rely on the kindness of a person I hadn't known very long.
My roommate and I hugged, then parted ways.
The woman I moved in with had a very interesting profession. She was
a Madam at an established bordello in the Atlanta area. One wouldn't
think a bordello could survive in the heart of the Bible Belt. But,
since hypocrisy abounds in police departments throughout the South,
the concept becomes a bit more plausible. The Madam probably paid
protection money to keep her business open.
At first, I survived by doing side computer work for several people
and to help keep the bordello's computer system running. I also
helped them maintain their security system and elaborate camera
setups. It felt satisfying for a while, but I wasn't making enough
money to get out on my own. Something else needed to be done.
I continued applying for jobs in the computer industry, but they were
getting harder to find, even a year after 9/11. The odd jobs I did
couldn't keep me in money, so I began doing something I never thought
I could do. I started working at the bordello as a hooker. At
first, the customers found it intriguing to have sex with a real live
transsexual. I didn't enjoy it, but the money was better than
nothing. However, the novelty of having sex with a transsexual soon
wore off with the regulars and the men stopped asking for me.
My personal relationships with the Madam also began to deteriorate.
I really liked her, but she stopped finding me interesting any
longer. One day, after a heated argument, she threw me out of the
house. Luckily, another friend took me in and he tried to help me
find a job. That never went anywhere. I began feeling helpless and
alone. Many of my friends had either stopped calling or turned their
backs on me. I heard from my old roommate that she got training as a
truck driver and found work with one of the large carriers. She
tried to talk me into going into the same business, but I could never
picture myself as a truck driver.
Not too long after moving in with my friend, he had to move and I
couldn't stay with him. In December 2002, I realized I would soon
become homeless for the first time in my life. The prospect of being
homeless frightened me. "Why is this happening to me?" I asked
myself. "I didn't ask to be a transsexual. If I didn't have a
choice then why are people treating me so badly?"
I felt truly alone. No place to go. No friends to turn to. No
hope. Only despair. I can do many jobs, but no one will hire me
because I'm a transsexual. Where can I turn to?
The last chance I had was to see if a homeless shelter would take
me. I began calling around to all the women's shelters in Atlanta,
but I had to be up front with them. Each time I told them that I was
a pre-op transsexual they would tell me I wouldn't be accepted in
their facility. I called a few men's shelters to see what they could
tell me and they said they would accept me only if I presented as a
man. They wanted me to deny my identity and lie to them and myself
before I would be accepted. Even then, I could easily become a
victim of rape or violence once they found out I was a transsexual.
My options had run out.
My friend gave me access to his computer one last time, so I put an
automatic message on my Yahoo E-mail address. The message said, "I
will soon become homeless and since homeless shelters won't take in
transsexuals, I'm a goner."
Where is my family? They have all abandoned me. Where are all my
friends? What friends? The transgender community here in Georgia
never wanted to help me. I didn't fit their narrow viewpoint of what
a transsexual is supposed to "properly" do to transition. Others who
still say they're my friends are either gone or in a situation no
better than mine. Is this what I have left after all the things I've
been through? Nothing? I was safer in Iraq during Desert Storm. At
least I was treated better there.
My car still worked, just barely. I have only one thing to do. Time
for a road trip. After driving for 45 minutes I arrived at my
destination, the Chattahoochee River. My jacket kept me from
freezing. I could hear the water moving and the moonlight reflected
off of the ripples. No one else would have dared to be out on a
night like this. But, I had a plan.
As I unwrapped the towel, I revealed my one last true friend, my
trusty .357 Smith and Wesson. I felt its cold steel and its well-
balanced weight in my hands. Out of everything I gave up in the last
fifteen months, I could never part with my .357. Now, it has become
my last piece of pleasure in my lonely, miserable life.
"Why am I a transsexual?" I screamed. The trees dampened my
voice. "Why am I a transsexual?" I whispered. I got no answers.
Tears flowed from my eyes as I cocked the hammer. "All I wanted to
do was to live my life as me." My .357 seemed lighter somehow. "I
didn't ask for this life." I lifted the gun. "I just wanted to
live." I felt the cold steel barrel pressing against my
temple. "But, they wouldn't let me." My hand shook and I lowered
the pistol. "This is what they wanted me to do." I raised the .357
once more. "They're getting their wish." My finger tightened around
the trigger. "They got what they wanted." I pulled my finger
back. "They got me. . . "
Friends,
The following was read by Pastor Paul Turner of the Gentle Spirit
Christian Church at the Atlanta TDOR. The title is simply "Alice"
and it was written by me. I wrote this for another purpose to give
my view of what I felt were the last 15 months of my friend Alice
Johnston and I didn't know he was going to read it. It is written in
1st person as if Alice was telling it, and I based it on some of the
things I knew that Alice went through until she took her own life.
I realized that this list is for those murdered, but I know of at
least one on the Remembering Our Dear list who did take her life
after a tramatic experience, which is what happened to Alice. The
only reason I'm posting it here is that it was read at our event and
Pastor Paul pointed out that what she went through can be related by
many transgender people. When He read it, there wasn't a dry eye in
the whole crowd of over 100.
Monica
***************************
ALICE
by Monica F. Helms
I stared at the television screen in disbelief as one of the World
Trade Center buildings crumbled into dust, then the next one. The
horror I witnessed would haunt me for the rest of my life and the
news estimated that over 3000 people lost their lives that day. What
they didn't say – or know – was how many more lives would be impacted
by that fatal day. I would soon find out that I, Alice Johnston,
would be one of them.
A few weeks after September 11, 2001, the reality of a less secure
world and a devastating disaster hit home for me. My boss told us
all that he would have to close the doors and let us all go.
Business had dropped to near zero and his small company couldn't
absorb the loss. My roommate also worked there with me.
This news scared both my roommate and me because we're both pre-
operative transsexuals. The prospect of finding a job for many
people after 9/11 looked grim at best, but for two transsexuals in
Georgia, prospects looked grim even in the best of times.
Discrimination runs ramped and is even seen as acceptable by most
politicians and employers in the state when it comes to gay, lesbian,
bisexual and transgender people. They would rather have us on the
welfare rolls putting a drain on the state's treasury than to have us
as employed, tax-paying citizens. Drawing unemployment was how my
roommate and I had to survive over the next several weeks. I have
learned over the years that out of the entire human race, transgender
people seem to be considered the most disposable in society. And
yet, we have a lot to offer if people would only give us a chance to
prove it.
Both my roommate and I had marketable skills to offer potential
employers. She has training in computer repair and has extensive
experience in warehouse management and I am a computer technician and
programmer, plus I have a degree in Library Science. On top of that,
I'm a decorated Army veteran of two wars. Someone was bound to hire
me, or so I thought.
Over the next several months, my roommate and I applied for hundreds
of jobs, but as soon as they found out – or guessed – that we were
transsexuals, all bets were off. No one would call us back for a
second interview. Even when we got that sacred second interview, we
would be told things like, "You're over-qualified," or, "We'll call
you," or, "We have other applicants to interview." What they really
wanted to say was, "Get yer sorry faggot ass out of my office!" I
would have accepted that much better than their lies and deceit.
The time came when my roommate and I had to move out of our apartment
and put our things in storage. We still had some weeks left on our
unemployment, so that would help a little. I planned on moving in
with a friend and my roommate decided to see if Iowa would provide
her better opportunities than Georgia. I love Georgia too much to
want to move.
Packing my things was a terrible time for me. I enjoyed my video
collection and my music, but I wouldn't be able to take them to my
friend's house. When my roommate and I finished packing and moving
everything into the storage unit, we shut the door and locked it. I
had a strange feeling that I would never see my things again. Sadness
came over me and I began to cry. People I helped in the past
rejected helping me. The transgender community of Georgia turned
their backs on me. I lost my job and had no prospects and I would
have to rely on the kindness of a person I hadn't known very long.
My roommate and I hugged, then parted ways.
The woman I moved in with had a very interesting profession. She was
a Madam at an established bordello in the Atlanta area. One wouldn't
think a bordello could survive in the heart of the Bible Belt. But,
since hypocrisy abounds in police departments throughout the South,
the concept becomes a bit more plausible. The Madam probably paid
protection money to keep her business open.
At first, I survived by doing side computer work for several people
and to help keep the bordello's computer system running. I also
helped them maintain their security system and elaborate camera
setups. It felt satisfying for a while, but I wasn't making enough
money to get out on my own. Something else needed to be done.
I continued applying for jobs in the computer industry, but they were
getting harder to find, even a year after 9/11. The odd jobs I did
couldn't keep me in money, so I began doing something I never thought
I could do. I started working at the bordello as a hooker. At
first, the customers found it intriguing to have sex with a real live
transsexual. I didn't enjoy it, but the money was better than
nothing. However, the novelty of having sex with a transsexual soon
wore off with the regulars and the men stopped asking for me.
My personal relationships with the Madam also began to deteriorate.
I really liked her, but she stopped finding me interesting any
longer. One day, after a heated argument, she threw me out of the
house. Luckily, another friend took me in and he tried to help me
find a job. That never went anywhere. I began feeling helpless and
alone. Many of my friends had either stopped calling or turned their
backs on me. I heard from my old roommate that she got training as a
truck driver and found work with one of the large carriers. She
tried to talk me into going into the same business, but I could never
picture myself as a truck driver.
Not too long after moving in with my friend, he had to move and I
couldn't stay with him. In December 2002, I realized I would soon
become homeless for the first time in my life. The prospect of being
homeless frightened me. "Why is this happening to me?" I asked
myself. "I didn't ask to be a transsexual. If I didn't have a
choice then why are people treating me so badly?"
I felt truly alone. No place to go. No friends to turn to. No
hope. Only despair. I can do many jobs, but no one will hire me
because I'm a transsexual. Where can I turn to?
The last chance I had was to see if a homeless shelter would take
me. I began calling around to all the women's shelters in Atlanta,
but I had to be up front with them. Each time I told them that I was
a pre-op transsexual they would tell me I wouldn't be accepted in
their facility. I called a few men's shelters to see what they could
tell me and they said they would accept me only if I presented as a
man. They wanted me to deny my identity and lie to them and myself
before I would be accepted. Even then, I could easily become a
victim of rape or violence once they found out I was a transsexual.
My options had run out.
My friend gave me access to his computer one last time, so I put an
automatic message on my Yahoo E-mail address. The message said, "I
will soon become homeless and since homeless shelters won't take in
transsexuals, I'm a goner."
Where is my family? They have all abandoned me. Where are all my
friends? What friends? The transgender community here in Georgia
never wanted to help me. I didn't fit their narrow viewpoint of what
a transsexual is supposed to "properly" do to transition. Others who
still say they're my friends are either gone or in a situation no
better than mine. Is this what I have left after all the things I've
been through? Nothing? I was safer in Iraq during Desert Storm. At
least I was treated better there.
My car still worked, just barely. I have only one thing to do. Time
for a road trip. After driving for 45 minutes I arrived at my
destination, the Chattahoochee River. My jacket kept me from
freezing. I could hear the water moving and the moonlight reflected
off of the ripples. No one else would have dared to be out on a
night like this. But, I had a plan.
As I unwrapped the towel, I revealed my one last true friend, my
trusty .357 Smith and Wesson. I felt its cold steel and its well-
balanced weight in my hands. Out of everything I gave up in the last
fifteen months, I could never part with my .357. Now, it has become
my last piece of pleasure in my lonely, miserable life.
"Why am I a transsexual?" I screamed. The trees dampened my
voice. "Why am I a transsexual?" I whispered. I got no answers.
Tears flowed from my eyes as I cocked the hammer. "All I wanted to
do was to live my life as me." My .357 seemed lighter somehow. "I
didn't ask for this life." I lifted the gun. "I just wanted to
live." I felt the cold steel barrel pressing against my
temple. "But, they wouldn't let me." My hand shook and I lowered
the pistol. "This is what they wanted me to do." I raised the .357
once more. "They're getting their wish." My finger tightened around
the trigger. "They got what they wanted." I pulled my finger
back. "They got me. . . "