My Friend June

I met June at the local support group for women with mental health issues. She is a transsexual woman in her late fifties. Of course, June was the type to stand out, so I had seen her around our neighborhood for some time. Like most people, I admit I was curious. But unlike others, who taunted and tormented her, I was too polite to inquire. But over the weeks that attended our group therapy, I came to know and respect her. Her story is so indicative of many older gay, lesbian, bisexual and transsexual people that I simply had to share it.

June was what they consider a pre-operative transsexual or simply pre-op. She did take female hormones that had allowed her to grow small, but perfect breasts. After breastfeeding my children, I admit that one of the first things I noticed about June were her breasts that filled a B-cup. They were firm and full, bursting out of the top of her bra without any underwire support. I have a bit of a bi-sexual tendency myself and I adore other women's breasts. I confess I would love to feel her tits. Unfortunately, though, the hormones have not been sufficient to minimize the facial hair growth. June continues to sport a distinctive five o-clock shadow that makes it virtually impossible for her to truly pass as a woman.

The other thing that sets her apart from other women is her height. Although some women are tall, especially here in the UK, June stands well above six feet even in flats. Whether because of her lithe build or the hormones, she does have nice, soft, feminine curves. Before getting to know June personally, I could never be one-hundred percent certain that she was transsexual. Because of her figure, some part of me wondered if perhaps she did not just suffer from a hormone imbalance.

Over the weeks, I became June's best friend. I hate to admit it, but from the beginning I noticed that many of the other women were uncomfortable around her. June too had a bit of an angry streak. The other women thought that she was aggressive, but I had always felt that female friendships were more emotionally brutal than male bonding. I have had very few female friends in my life.

I saw through her protective outer walls to the pain beneath. I love being a woman. I love being soft and in touch with my emotions. I love having multiple orgasms. I love being a mother, bearing life and nurturing it at my breast. How would I have felt if all that I been denied me? If my own body was a betrayal of how I felt inside? I can only imagine the torment, especially in society that does not celebrate our differences.

Over time the depths of June's story flowed into my writer's heart and soul. It was obvious from her disheveled appearance that she lacked the means to truly be the woman that she was inside. Admittedly tall women often find it difficult to find clothes that will fit their bodies, but when one is relegated to shopping in second hand stores because of finances this becomes and almost insurmountable challenge. I learned that June lived in a small council flat, but had spent most of the past decade in various mental health facilities and half way houses, where she often had the same problems fitting in that she had in our small group.

But it is the day that I learned the rest of June's story that will haunt me for the rest of my life. She had been born James, the youngest of four children born to a mining family in the north of England. His father, his grandfather and his great-grandfather before him had all been miners. His older brother too would become a miner. But James always identified more with his sisters and mother. He preferred to play dolls and have teas than to play football or with cars. It caused a great deal of family unrest and eventually led to physical abuse at the hands of his father and older brother. His mother tried to protect him as much as she could, given that she did not fully understand her youngest child.

When he went to school, the verbal and physical abuse only escalated. He was labeled as gay or queer by the rough and tumble boys that were his peers. As a result he withdrew further. His best friends were the books in the library that he devoured. By the time, he reached secondary school his intelligence had brought him at least a modest amount of respect from his father and peers. Although he still endured the occasional taunt or beating, most often he was simply left alone.

In the end, the books offered him an escape from the strictures of that community. He won a place at a top university. It was the seventies and modern society was undergoing drastic changes. In the more open minded world of academia, James found the freedom to experiment with his confused sexuality. He had sexual relationships with both women and men, but neither provided a sense of fulfillment; something was missing.

He went on to earn a doctorate in sociology. He found a woman, whom he cared for and respected deeply. His family was shocked when they were married after university. They had three children over the years. James achieved some success as a consultant working with government and business to address the issues of discrimination. But despite the outer trappings of success, he was not happy; something was missing.

Over the next twenty years, he would seek occasional solace in temporary relationships with other men. His wife learned of these, but their lives were so comfortable that she choose to ignore it all. Their children grew up, excelled in school and moved on with their own lives. But something was missing.

Then a little over a decade ago, it simply happened. One morning as James was shaving he truly looked into the mirror for the first time in his life. What he saw shocked him. He did not see the successful lecturer, husband and father. He saw the woman that he was meant to be. The woman that had been trapped inside him all along. He saw June.

At first, he was not sure what to think. Of course, as an educated man, he knew the words transsexual and transgender. In his work on discrimination within the gay community, he had even met a couple of transgender individuals. But the mind knowing facts and the heart breaking free of chains that have bound it for a lifetime are two different things.

That morning began an awakening, a slow process of discovery and self-awareness. Eventually, James began to experiment in secret with the assorted array of make-up that he found in his wife's drawers. But as any young teen knows, without the expertise of a mother or older sister, those first attempts can be disastrous. But who could he ask for help? Certainly not his loving wife or adult daughters. He moved on to dressing in what he felt was drag and frequenting gay bars. But still he did not find fulfillment; something was missing.

He was not gay. He was June. A woman trapped in a foreign body. Every time, he went to the bathroom or showered it was a reminder. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The realization that he was transsexual rather than bringing the comfort of self-awareness instead began a downward spiral of drinking and depression.

June still has not said much about the next few months, but she tried to commit suicide. Her wife and children had her committed to a mental hospital. Even with a brilliant mind and the assistance of mental health professionals, June could not fully accept herself.

The past decade has been a continual battle to find herself. She has lost everything. Her wife divorced her. Her children do not speak to her. She has never seen her grandchildren. And just like that little boy in that mining town over half a century before, she cannot walk down the street without taunts or stares. She has endured occasional beatings and even rape.

June's story has changed me forever. I hope it will change you too. The next time that you see a transsexual walking down your street I hope like me you will find the courage to extend them the most basic of human dignities, a smile, a wave or a kind word. Do it for all the June's of this world for whom something will always be missing.