I was stationed at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi, in 1977 and it was an easy weekend trip to New Orleans for young airmen. The French Quarter was still filled with jazz bands and an eclectic mix of people from all over the country who came to find refuge from intolerance in their home towns.
Five of us crammed into a tiny Mercury Capri and headed to New Orleans for the weekend. We started to make the rounds Saturday night and ended up at Gunga Den, which to my surprise and well-hidden delight featured female impersonators.
After one drink and a few curious looks, my buddies decided to leave. They were off to seek the company of members of the world’s oldest profession. I opted out and inconspicuously made my way back to Gunga Den to watch the show. These were girls who were on HRT, their bodies soft, curvy and feminine. As others watched in lust, I watch transfixed with envy, amazement and awe. This was the first time I actually saw a transgender person. This was real, it was possible, it could be.
After the show I talked with a girl named Angel, who was from Indiana and was kicked out of the house by her father after being caught several times crossdressing. She told me her story, which is familiar to most of us – a little boy who just wanted to be a girl and tried to fit in.
When she was 10 years old, she was admonished by her mother for trying on her clothes and using her makeup. Her teenage years were filled with crossdressing, confusion and domestic abuse. After graduating high school, things boiled over, so she visited a friend who had went to school in New Orleans. In the French Quarter she found a job tending bar and the kindred spirits at Gunga Den.
I took in every word of her story as if she were a prophet. She was first person I ever met who was like me – a person from my home planet who spoke my language.
People didn’t come out as transgender in 1977. The word didn’t even exist then, but for the first time in my life, I could admit to another person my secret – that I wanted to be a woman. So just before leaving, I said, “Angel I am just like you.”
She smiled knowingly and replied, “You’re not alone.”
I left Gunga Den and wandered the streets of the French Quarter finding sanctuary from the roaming ne’er-do-wells. I watched the sun rise over the Mississippi River, while running through my mind were thoughts of fear, hope and possibility. I couldn’t find my buddies, but met up with another group of airmen from Keesler who gave me a ride back to base.
I had a lot to think about – and still do.
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| Wearing New York & Company |
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| Professional femulators performing at New Orleans’ Gunga Den, circa 1975 |
