I Came Out As Trans at Age 3

It was 1965, and my identity wasn’t supposed to be an option.

When I was a toddler Mama and I had an argument. She said I couldn’t be a girl because I had a penis. I shouted back, “Of course, little girls can have penises! I have one!” I made her cry. She went to a therapist who told her it was a phase and to let it play itself out, but it had to be a secret.

In that era, it was probably the best advice we could have received.

There was never a moment in my life when I didn’t know I was female, despite the pesky protrusion that suggested otherwise. The concept of being transgender (they called it transsexual back then) was not in the societal vocabulary. There were a couple of folks in the news who got a “sex change” but they were mostly considered freaks and inherently ungodly.

I was precocious and could read well at age three. I read Mama’s Cosmopolitan magazines and the instructions in her box of tampons. I literally read those instructions every time I went to the bathroom. I didn’t understand but I knew it was a part of being the woman I hoped to become.

Fortunately, Mama let me play with dolls and play dress up. A few times my dad would come home and catch me. He’d fly into a rage, yelling at both of us and sometimes punching a hole in the wall or breaking something. I learned to hate him. My viewpoint then was that he hated me — the real me. He tried to make me do boy things, like baseball. I sabotaged all his efforts.

I was grateful when my brother was born. He was a rough and tumble, mischievous boy. My dad moved his hopes for a son to him, which was fine by me. Then, I was sad when my sister was born. Mama’s desire for a little girl to dress up and play with was finally fulfilled. Yes, I was jealous. I just disappeared into being as perfect and as invisible as possible.

Content Warning: Sexual Abuse of a Child

When I was four and five, I was put in an ultra-conservative Baptist kindergarten. Two men there, I don’t recall their role in the church, molested me on many occasions. They told me that what I was doing was shameful and that I couldn’t tell anyone, especially my parents. I told my Mama I was afraid of the “Apple Head Man” (the bald one) and the “Banana Man.” She would oblige me by looking under cars and under my bed to make sure they weren’t waiting to pull me under.

I know now that these men observed my feminine spirit and thought I was gay — at five.

In school, I made friends with the girls and had little interest in hanging out with the boys. I was teased and bullied over this. The more I was shamed for who I was the more I understood the need to keep my identity as a girl a secret.

My only solace was to disappear into books with a female protagonist. Books like The Wizard of Oz. In the second book of the Oz series, a little boy is magically transformed into Ozma, the Princess of Oz. I was transfixed by that and decades later I’m wondering what was going on with L. Frank Baum that he would write about that experience.

I don’t know how I survived puberty. I wanted to disappear. I would lay on my bed and cry and beg God to fix me. I’d lock the bathroom door and put on Mama’s bra and panties. I’d put a plastic bowl over my genitals so I’d be smooth like a Barbie. My fantasies were always about waking up from a coma and being female or finding some hidden zipper that allowed me to reveal my real genitals.

As much as I tried to hide my truth, the kids in middle school thought I was gay. This got infinitely worse with my eighth-grade algebra teacher who was a flamboyantly gay male and would openly flirt with me in class. The other kids were unmerciful. One guy in particular, Donald, would hit me and kick me every day. Once he knocked out a tooth.

In that same year, my Mama made and gave me a pair of Ruby Slippers just like Dorothy’s in the movie. She told everyone it was because I loved the Wizard of Oz, but secretly she told me it was so I’d know she loved me exactly as I was.

I was never attracted to men. Generally, they had hurt me and couldn’t be trusted. Even though I was secretly female, I was attracted to women, which does make me gay — but not in the way folks thought.

For the decades that followed, I simply survived. I played the role of a man as long as could.

As I got older there were other coming out stories — other people who could be trusted with my secret.

At age 57 I hit my tipping point where I couldn’t live another day in my survival guise as a man. Thankfully, the world had changed its attitude about transgender folks, not completely, but enough that I felt safe. I went on hormones and began my journey towards being authentically me, inside and out.

August Writing Prompt: Stories about Coming Out

About Kelly

I’ve had an amazing life and I’m anxious to tell you more poignant and amazing stories. I’m also a retired attorney who worked with over 2,000 families in crisis and transition. Please follow me for more pieces of my life and helpful advice I learned the hard way. I’m poor because I was an honest attorney. Please consider buying me a beverage at Kofi. I’m a simple black with cream girl — I’m already sweet. Thank you.