The Transgender Menace Next Door

When Phyllis entered law school, she hadn't yet begun taking hormones and still looked too male to "pass." The law students, younger and less tolerant than the ones at the business school, refused to accept her as one of their own. Whenever she tried to join a chattering group, it dispersed within 90 seconds. In March she skipped classes and went on a two-week crying jag.

But she also fought back with charm and persistence. She asked professors to give her seating charts so she could memorize her classmates' names. At every chance, she said hello and smiled. Most people were courteous only until they could escape, but a few came around.

Some classmates complained because Phyllis used the women's restroom, but everyone agreed that she shouldn't use the men's. During one such discussion, a friend rose to her defense: "Maybe you'd be happier if Phyllis just used a trash can and squatted in the hallway." Her detractors backed down. And eventually they stopped worrying what Phyllis was doing behind a locked stall door.

In her second year, Phyllis founded a law school group called Law Students and Friends of Gays and Lesbians*. The asterisk was meant to be inclusive, since the little group certainly was. (Most of its members were straight, since closeted gays were too nervous to join.) The Friends drove the campus's conservatives crazy. After the Friends dared to ask for $250 in student organization funds, the Young Americans for Freedom flew in Austin lawyers to argue against the request. That night, before Phyllis got home, a group of students drove to her house, banged on the windows and doors, and screamed rape threats. It took months for Trish to feel safe again.

Even so, it was the Christian Law Society that bothered Phyllis most. Why wouldn't they let her join? Weren't Christians supposed to be loving? Didn't Jesus champion outcasts? For all three years she was in law school, the CLS met in secret so she couldn't join their meetings. Once, at her invitation, they laid hands on her and prayed, but God chose not to change her transgender ways. The CLS blamed Phyllis's stubbornness.

Near the end of law school, she wrote a letter to the dean of students, describing the CLS's bigotry. Eventually an investigation found discrimination, and the university suspended the group.

Phyllis's letter to the dean circulated among the law students. Everyone had known that she was harassed -- one student goaded her by wearing a kilt to class -- but until the letter, most people hadn't realized the intensity of her misery. To her surprise, people who'd never before responded to her charm began to greet her by name. The change felt like a collective apology.

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Phyllis's law school grades weren't stellar, but her extracurricular activities ranged from civic-minded to history-making. While a student, she prepared engineering reports for the League of Women Voters. She was active in the Democratic Party, even elected as a representative to the state party convention. And almost single- handedly, she engineered the repeal of the city's cross-dressing ordinance.

She met councilmember Ernest McGowan at a UH candidates' forum, and when he invited her to volunteer in his office, she jumped at the chance. McGowan got her engineering and law expertise, and in return, she got a chance to lobby City Council from the inside.

After a few months, councilmember John Goodner bad-mouthed her during one of the council's "pop-off" sessions. Phyllis went to Goodner's office in tears, and Goodner was embarrassed. Later, prodded by her supporters, Goodner moved to repeal the cross-dressing ordinance.

But never mind that victory. Nobody -- not even gay law firms -- would hire Phyllis, and she lacked the self-confidence to launch her own practice. Passing the bar exam meant only that the neighborhood kids stopped attacking her house.

For the next five years, she supported herself by selling Amway cleaners to gay bars, and consulting as an engineer for a gay architect. During the recession of '86, when both businesses were languishing, her phone rang. "Are you a gay lawyer?" the caller asked. "Yeah," Phyllis said. She needed the money.

The man was in the air force, stationed at Bergstrom. While on leave in Houston, he'd been arrested for DWI outside a gay bar. He wanted to plead guilty, and to be sure that the news didn't reach his base. Phyllis thought, "How can I screw up a guilty plea?" She told the man to meet her at the courthouse and bring $300 in cash.

Phyllis wouldn't have known a good sentencing deal from a bad one, so she paid her old friend Ray Hill $50 to "consult" with her at the courthouse. Ray, whose business card identified him as a Fruit's Rights Freedom Fighter, was also a former felon, and he knew his way around the prison system. He waited in the hall until Phyllis came out. "Yeah," he told her, "that's a good deal."