Trapped!

By Mariah Lopez

Being transgendered isn't always easy, especially when you're in a straight group home and you're the only one.

First of all I want to start off by telling you what a transgender is. Yeah, I know the first thing that pops into your head is a man with a sex change and a dress. Wrong! What it really is someone who lives his or her life as the opposite sex. It doesn't mean that they have a sex change (that's a transsexual) or that they like having every man in sight. In fact, some transgenders are women who live as guys.

Trapped in a Boy's Body

But enough of the technicalities. Let me tell you a little about myself. If you haven't got it by now, I'll fill you in. Yes, I'm a transgender. I'm a guy but I've felt like a female my whole life. And when I dress the part, I look a lot like a female, too. I can choose what bathroom I go into, male or female, and I even get numbers from guys. (But I always tell them right then and there that I'm a guy, or I don't call them. Sometimes they're not even worth it.)

I know a lot of people are uncomfortable with who I am, but I hope the fact that I'm transgendered doesn't stop you from finishing the article. After all, you're learning… aren't you? So let me continue.

Well, here are the facts. I'm 14 years old and before my grandmother (she raised me) told me, at around age 6, I didn't know I was a boy. I felt and thought like a girl. I walked with my chest sticking out and I liked to wear my hair in a pony tail. I even liked dressing in girl's clothes.

When I was growing up, everyone knew me and my family, so they didn't bother me. But when I went into foster care, at the age of 8, it was a different story.

Group Home Hell

The first group home I was in, and where I stayed for three years, was terrible, and so were a lot of other group homes I've been in. It wasn't terrible at first, because my grandmother was still alive and when anything happened to me, she would report the staff to the social worker and complain.

But after she passed, things got worse and worse. I had at least two fights a day, and the boys used to do stupid things like throw rocks at me or put bleach in my food because I was gay. Once I was thrown down a flight of stairs, and I've had my nose broken twice. They even ripped up the only picture of my mother that I had.

Often the staff were bad, too. If I had had a fight with one of the staff earlier in the day, they would start conversations with the other boys in the group home about the argument just to get them riled up, and then the boys would come up to me, challenging me and calling me names like f-ggot. Sometimes the staff would even stand there while the kids jumped me. One time one of the staff jumped me with the kids.

'You Deserve It'

My grandmother always told me to be myself and be proud. But all the time when these things were happening, I didn't know what to do or who to turn to. Most of the time it was usually all the same. “You deserve it.” “Oh well.” “Fight back.” “Don't be gay then.” One time a staff member asked me, “Don't you like men beating on you?” Another staff even told me to kill myself to be out of my misery.

After these things happened, I would make fierce nasty faces, or I would just ignore people.

And later, when I got to go to my room, sometimes I'd just sit there and cry. Or I'd read a book or listen to music to block things out of my head. I slept a lot, too, so that the days would go by faster. I used to get mad and think, “What's so bad about me?”

But sometimes I would think it was me that was the problem, not them, and I would pray and ask God why He didn't make me a girl or a straight boy. I'd ask him why He didn't make me straight, period, so I wouldn't have to go through this. Sometimes I would cry all night, asking Him to change me.

But I never really felt like I could change. I felt like I was who I was and that I couldn't change that.

Through all of these things, I had one similar feeling. At first I didn't know what I was feeling. But then I realized it was the feeling of helplessness, the feeling that no matter what I did or didn't do, it would always be the same and that somehow it was my fault and no one else's.

On the Lam

I stayed at my first group home for three years. Then one day I went AWOL with only three dollars in my pocket and nothing to lose. I just decided that day that I had to get off of that campus.

When I got to the train, I talked the conductor into letting me ride for free. And when I arrived at Grand Central Station, girl, let me tell you, I hadn't been so happy since I don't know when.

I tried to stay at Green Chimneys, one of two group homes in the country for gay and transgendered boys. But they didn't have room for me and I was too young.

Eventually, I wound up at Laight Street, where kids go temporarily when they're waiting to get placed in foster care, and that got me back in the system. From then on for about a year I was bouncing around from group home to group home. I was in at least six regular group homes. I always left because I was transgendered and that was always a problem. I knew I'd be bouncing around always until I could come to Green Chimneys or until someone opened another group home for gay kids.

In that time, there were a few staff and kids who made me feel really good about myself. Like at one group home I was at, 148th Street, some staff taught the kids that they should respect me, and that helped the kids to be more open-minded. I was even able to date openly.

Safe at Last

But at most of the group homes I was in, people were constantly harassing me. After about a year, I finally got a phone call from my law guardian telling me that I had a bed at Green Chimneys, so I packed my bags and hit it to this home.

When I got here, I still couldn't believe it. For the last three years of my life all I had wanted was to be here. I used to dream about how it would be—the smells, the sounds, the tastes—and when I got here, I finally felt content, and that I could be myself and unique at the same time.

Sure, there are plenty of things that get me plucked (mad) at Green Chimneys. Just living with a bunch of other teens in care, period, can be a nightmare (not that I'm always such a little sweetheart myself, because I'm not).

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