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chiefbeck · 4 years

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Chapter 5: Things done in secret

There was nothing in the family dynamic that could put a blame for my being transgender as was alluded to in a past book; all of that Psycho blather holds no water and is based on assumptions of an untrained person. It was already in me to become who I am. There is no outside influence to cause this in anyone. The war didn’t do it; my dad didn’t do it. It was all inside of me the whole time.

One of the things I remember was that we moved around a lot as I grew up. It was akin to military life without the uniforms, guns and worrying whether or not dad was coming home that night. I am not sure why we moved so much; my dad changed jobs a lot, and that’s just the way things were. Back then, you didn’t ask any questions, and parents weren’t required to provide an explanation to their kids for why they did things. This moving around became part of our family. I started to not care about friends and isolated myself; there was no reason to get close to anyone because I knew we would be moving before too long. I also became accustomed to the moves and continue to feel that today. I cannot stay in one place more than a few years without getting the urge to pack up camp and move on; I always want to stay in one place in my mind. I wished I had a hometown to call my own, a bar that everyone called out “Norm” as I walked through the door. Ok, maybe not “Norm”, but they could call out “Kristin” or something.

Even though I was there for only a couple of years, there is one place that I do consider home more than any other place I lived while growing up: Lynchburg, Virginia, home of Liberty University. Lynchburg, Virginia is where we attended Jerry Falwell’s church, and I went to his schools. These were my very formative years, seventh and eighth grade. Lynchburg Christian Academy (LCA) left a mark on me that I am still struggling with today. LCA and Jerry Falwell had a very narrow view of Christianity, spirituality and organized religion. To this day they are part of the group that believes “God hates Fags.” Their interpretations and view are ones of intolerance and anything that is outside of their view is evil.

I still find it funny that America has over 2800 Christian denominations and they all think the others are the ones going to hell because they don’t believe exactly as they do. This is a problem that needs some cleaning up. I think a lot of Christians are going to be surprise when they get to Heaven and see Catholics and Protestants, and Jews and

Muslims and a chorus of others milling about. Part of me is hoping that God has a real good sense of humor, and when some of these wacko fundamentalists that are so quick to judge me for being transgender get up to Heaven, He greets them while in drag and an Elvis wig.

At this point in my life, I denied religion and spirituality, because in their worldview they see me as something to be despised and evil. I am not evil as the reverend says. If this was how their god responded to his creation, then they could have him; I wanted no part in it.

During this time at LCA, I was so beaten down by my own thoughts and what I was being taught at school that I had to really reset my life. How did I reset? I would dress up and be “myself” and allow my spirit a brief moment of sunshine.

During middle school years, I would fake being sick about once a month. It was important to spread things out so it didn’t look suspicious. My mother worked outside the home to make ends meet; my brothers and sisters would be at school and my dad was teaching at the school. I would do my whole sick routine, knowing that I needed the brief respite from pretending to be what everyone expected that I was. The waiting was nerve racking. I couldn’t be so ‘sick’ that it would require my mom to stay home and look after me, and I couldn’t look eager to see her leave either or I would be in trouble for faking illness. But once the house was empty and I was sure no one would be returning, I was able to be the real me, I was able to be Kristin even though I hadn’t named myself yet.

The house would be empty and still. It would be strange to be surrounded by so much silence; that wasn’t the norm of a house with five kids. As soon as I was certain the coast was clear, I went into my sisters’ room and would shed the disguise of Chris, all-American boy and put on a dress and shoes and get comfortable being myself once again. On some occasions, I would get the nail polish and do my fingers and toes in bright red. I couldn’t explain why I did it; it just felt normal, like that is what I was supposed to be doing. These times of respite were the only moments where I could reconnect with who I was, with myself and chill out. It was the way that I was able to keep my sanity. It was like I was in the middle of an ocean, drowning, and these days when I would play sick was how I came up to the surface for a gasp of air before I went back under and was immersed in a reality that said I was a male. This reminds me of drown proofing in the SEALs later in life. Our hands and feet are handcuffed tight

and we must survive in the pool doing swims back and forth or just floating for hours. I learned how to be extra careful and remember the exact placement of every item I borrowed so I wouldn’t get caught.

Staying home sick became my first clandestine missions. It was me shedding my disguise of going under cover in a world that expected me to behave a certain way, to talk a certain way, to walk a certain way. During those times I would sneak into my sisters’ room and wear her dresses and shoes and make myself up and walk around the house. These were the few times that I got to be my normal sense. Perhaps those who don’t understand what it’s like to be in a body that says you’re something that you’re not will have a hard time understanding the concept. My body was the ultimate deceptive device, fooling everyone around me into believing I was a male, and only I knew the truth. If my true nature was discovered, if my cover was blown, I could be expected to be punished like any spy, to be tortured to my breaking, whether in the physical sense, or mental. It is still that way today; I could never escape the punishment for not living up to people’s expectation. You have stories like Islan Nettles, from the fall of 2013, whose only crime was living the life of freedom as herself only to be murdered on the streets of New York, beaten to death by three guys who couldn’t accept the fact that she was who she was.

I also had a secret spot to keep my stash of clothing that I would snag from my sisters. My parents and siblings didn’t know about the place and it really was the perfect hiding place. The way the house we were living in was set up there was a dead space under the stairs that no one knew was accessible under the house. There was about five foot of clearance and I couldn’t stand all the way up while I was under there, but there was enough room to keep a choice selection of clothing and to change when no one was around. Part of me wonders what my sisters thought happened to all their missing clothes during this time, but I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up and “out” myself. I mean, if I brought it up, the obvious question would be how did I know that nice pair of white pantyhose was missing.

Yes, once in a while I would take a pair of my sister’s pantyhose and keep them under my mattress to wear as I slept. It was a risk, but I had security measures set up all around the perimeter that warned me if anyone was coming. I had mirrors set up so I could see around corners and I was able to make myself an early warning detection system from electronics

purchased at Radio Shack that would flash lights and buzz at me when anyone ventured onto my turf. Having an electrical engineer as a grandfather came in handy many a time in my life.

Wearing the pantyhose made me feel like I was connected with my real self. When it was cold outside I would wear the hose under my jeans to school or out shopping. If caught, I could always cite the cold weather, but I knew better. It was these times that I was able to be more in touch with my true nature. It was worth the risk.

Sometimes I would leave the nail polish on my toes for a few days taking the chance that I would not get caught in the bathroom or at school. At the same time, I was wishing I would get caught, and then I could profess my own inner struggle and my wishes to be a girl.

I was always torn and in anguish over my own inner self and the outside world. Throughout my childhood, I would have the same dream over and over, that my struggles would be gone and I could live life the way I was supposed to, that I wouldn’t have to live behind enemy lines and keep the disguise that I was something that I wasn’t. In my dreams, I would wake up and my body would be aligned with who I was. It was a nice thought, go to sleep and wake up with everything right in the world, including my anatomy. I would watch the sitcoms where people would switch bodies with someone else and would fantasize that one day I would wake up as the girl that I knew I was. It is a common way of thinking for transgender people. To transform into the right body is so much work, but I suppose that is why magic is so appealing. It was the thoughts of this magic that got me through those days.

Instead, I lived life as Chris because that is what I was supposed to be. My family was like any other family and I was like any other boy on the outside; I played football, fished and rode bikes, I acted like the boy that everyone expected me to be, and the world was none the wiser. I was a good spy, and I played the game as long as I could.

#Kristin Beck #Lady Valor

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