Growing Up Trans: Now and Then

Criticism by young LGBTQ activists in recent years of The Rocky Horror Picture Show (turning 46 this month) has made me realize just how different being a young trans person is today compared to when I was growing up. 

Their critiques aren’t misplaced. “Just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania” contains two archaic terms, both now considered to be derogatory. The movie conflates cross-dressers, trans women, and drag queens (although the lines can be blurrier than often acknowledged). The unholy alliance of feminism-appropriating reactionary transphobes and the religious right does use the specter of characters like Dr. Frank-N-Furter to tar trans women as scary sexually predators.

Though they may nod to the queer-friendly spaces created by RHPS’s midnight showings, these critics don’t fully grasp what a lifeline this film was when there were few other celebrations of people living outside of society’s gender and sexual norms. Even 15 years ago, when I started going out in public as a woman, the world was extremely different — let alone in the 1970s. Young adults today simply can’t comprehend what it was like to grow up in an era without social media, without the internet, and without role models. 

Obviously there were trans women in the ‘70s. Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson, among the first to fight back at Stonewall, raised hell in New York City, fighting against trans discrimination and the gay and lesbian activists marginalizing trans people. Professional tennis player Renée Richards transitioned, setting off a panic about her supposed competitive advantage from being assigned male at birth. And Sandy Stone — the sound engineer who was an essential part of the Olivia Records collective, a pioneering women’s music record label —  received death threats from gender essentialist radical feminists who denied she was a woman. 

But none of that filtered down to elementary-school me. I felt I was “different,” but didn’t know exactly why. I knew I enjoyed wearing girl’s clothing — and also knew enough to keep my mouth shut about it. Like many of my fellow late-in-life transitioners, I was extremely good at appearing to be a “normal” boy. I was admittedly more on the nerdy, artsy, and gentle side, but I was never overtly femmy.

It was a problem without a name. I didn’t know that trans people even existed. The closest were Flip Wilson’s Geraldine character and Bugs Bunny, neither of whom were actually trans (although Bugs definitely seemed to enjoy cross-dressing).

Amid that dearth of role models, The Rocky Horror Picture Show was one of the few examples of not only gender fluidity, but also pan-sexuality. Frank and his merry band of Transylvanians were gleefully transgressive, gave zero fucks about what anyone else thought, and were unabashedly themselves. It was eye opening. Finally, someone was doing publicly the sort of things I only dared to do in private. And while the audience participation was mostly queer cosplay for straight people, for some of us it struck a far deeper chord.

There were now words to describe the “difference” I’d felt. Like a number of my peers, I furtively looked them up in the library card catalog, sneaking peeks at the books on the shelves to try to help me better understand who I might be. While I wasn’t brave enough to take to heart the movie’s challenge of “don’t dream it, be it” until far, far too many years later, the refrain remained in the back of my mind, competing with the gender static that was constant background noise.

Knowing other trans people existed was one thing. Actually meeting them was a far different matter. The internet enabled trans activism and gave many trans people the courage and support to transition to their true selves. Finally, you could meet with others who might be like you. I marvel at the ease at which today’s trans kids are able to connect to each other and support each other, as well as at the number of high-visibility trans people such as Laverne Cox, Elliot Page, and numerous stars of YouTube, Instagram and TikTok. 

Trans people have made more progress towards visibility and acceptance than I’d dared dreamed of as a teen, or as the adult who compartmentalized that part of herself from the outside world, or as the woman who, in her middle age, finally ventured forth in public as herself (at least for short periods of time). More than I’d hoped when the realization hit that I needed to transition and live full-time as a woman.

However, the current visibility of trans people cuts both ways — more visibility has also made trans people, in particular trans kids, a target. While I never had children of my own, I’m in full mama bear-mode when defending our trans kids from those who want to deny them necessary medical care or eradicate them from public existence. Because I’ve lived that story.

I’m glad that today’s trans activists, full of piss and vinegar and the moral certitude of the young, have so many more public trans role models to choose from. I appreciate that they’re able to critique aspects of our history that have aged badly. But I hope that they can also learn to take the good from flawed stories, and to recognize their impact in their historical context. For all its faults, Rocky Horror was a lifeline for many of us when almost no others were available.

Plus, if you look closer, you might discover it’s genuinely subversive. In this science-fiction double-feature picture show, it’s the trans person in charge of gender and sexuality, transforming cisgender bodies into gender-bending ones, transforming chaste heteronormative people into sexually liberated, sexually-fluid ones. Even if we didn’t recognize it at the time, that undercurrent resonated deeply. That we had the power remake ourselves. To not just dream it, but to be it.