Depending on who conducts the research, between 0.5% and 1.6% of American adults identify as transgender.
No one knows how many of them are behind bars.
In 2020, NBC News tried to find out. But it could only obtain records from 45 states and the District of Columbia. Still, its reporters estimated, “There are 4,890 transgender prisoners living in state prisons.”
That’s just shy of 0.5%, although it doesn’t include trans inmates in federal prisons.
NBC News also wanted to know how those trans inmates were housed. Only 37 states shared that data. Even so, NBC could confirm a mere “15 cases in which these prisoners were housed according to their lived gender.”
If there’s one easily available statistic about trans inmates, it’s this from the Department of Justice back in 2015: In the prior 12 months, 35% of trans inmates reported being sexually assaulted. As NBC News concluded, “These housing decisions can have dire consequences.”
If researchers and reporters are struggling to tell the story of trans inmates, maybe those inmates can tell it better. That’s what you’re about to read.
Why now?
Three years ago, OutSFL publisher Jason Parsley was president of the Florida chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists, the nation’s largest journalism organization. Parsley wondered why there were journalism awards for seemingly everything except prison journalists.
Because of the pandemic, it took until this year to launch the Stillwater Awards, the first national prison journalism awards since 1990. The awards were led by Mike Anguille, a formerly incarcerated journalist in New York who has written for OutSFL.
SPJ partnered with the Prison Journalism Project, and through that relationship and the 165 entries, something became obvious: Trans prisoners were eloquently writing about their unique circumstances behind bars.
Here are three of those voices, in their own words, reprinted with permission.
The Anguish of a Transexual in Prison
Serving time in prison does not get more formidable than being a transexual in prison. Being a transsexual woman in a men’s prison is something right out of the Twilight Zone.
In the cell, the dayroom, on the yard, at work and in the clinic, there’s no refuge. The rapes, beatings, robbery, threats, and sadly the killings of us transsexuals continue.
The cops don’t care. They look the other way and blame us for being trans. But some of them are drawn to us as well, male and female. Men and women doctors inspect my genitals. There are daily strip searches, in front of others. I wear baggy clothes to conceal my bumps and curves. Still, I’m so obvious.
I am constantly under the microscope. The guys and cops stare at me everywhere I go with curiosity, disgust and awe. Guys regard me with lust and with aching love. Lovesick men, women-starved for decades, coo and give me gifts. It’s less the ones who don’t like me than those who do that I have to watch out for. I get letters that vary from love at first sight, poetry, praise, explicit sexual fantasies and personal histories. Flirting, ogling my body, unwelcome caresses, attempted kisses, peeping toms at my door, it never ends.
I have transitioned transexually in prison. Through four decades, I mutilated my genitals to get rid of them, once requiring treatment in a community hospital. One of a number of gender identity-related suicide attempts also required community hospitalization to keep me alive.
Start with the premise that I am female. Transgender specialists hired by the state prison department to evaluate transsexual inmates and recommend treatment diagnosed me to be a female psychologically. (This evaluation occurs statewide due to a federal lawsuit by a transsexual prisoner.) Until then, I had tried to get hormones and Sex Reassignment Surgery (SRS) for 20 years.
The prison agreed with the diagnosis and approved the recommended treatment with female hormone therapy. I am provided with sports bras, which are inferior to cup bras. I send and receive mail in my female name. There is no policy for this, it is just allowed, though at times the mailroom will cross it out and write in my birth name. Haters.
After my latest hospitalization for gender mutilation, I was placed in the state’s department of mental health, which recommends SRS [Sexual Reassignment Surgery]. The prison refuses to respect the recommendation made by a panel of mental health experts.
In a court petition, I succeeded in having the prison castrate me, for an unrelated medical concern, which was a big step toward my complete medical transition. My request to transfer to a woman’s prison was denied.
I am not allowed makeup, but I invent it. They don’t seem to mind when I wear it. My arching eyebrows are tattooed on. Some girls tattoo eyeliner, eye shadow, lipstick and rouge quite expertly in different colors. Although it’s against the rules to tattoo, we are not cited for it.
The humiliation in the aggregate is overwhelming. There is no relief ever. It is a daily ordeal. Often I’ve been on the verge of taking my head in my hands and screaming, covering my mouth to prevent it. I’ve had rivers of tears, mountains of anguish, valleys of sadness and self-imposed isolation. The constant stress and strain led to periodic housing in psych units.
As charges of the state, the prison department is responsible for our health care and effective mental health treatment, including SRS for those diagnosed with a medical condition. The international standards of care for the treatment of transexualism have established that “the only effective treatment” for the category of transsexuals who mutilate their genitals is SRS. The standards of care categorically hold that SRS “is not cosmetic.” Not all transsexuals desire SRS, in fact only a small percentage wants it.
Prisons nationwide need to shed their old-guard mentality and get in the 21st century and provide SRS for prisoners diagnosed with a need for it medically, as well as psychologically. They must update their housing policy to create safe trans-only housing in men’s prisons or housing in women’s prisons for those who want it. They should use feminine pronouns in reference to us and allow us feminine clothing and accessories. Transgender responsive prisons are a must today, especially in California, which has over 300 transsexuals in its prisons. Until then, trans women in men’s prisons will continue to suffer as the subjects of confusion, ignorance, hate, and sex objects to be intimidated and used.
Originally published by https://prisonwriters.com/
Excerpt from ‘What Being Trans in Prison is Really Like’
By Ronnie Fuller
I’ve identified as a male since I was a kid, but I didn’t understand why. I’d never even heard of the word “transgender” until a few years into my prison sentence, and that started in 2004. I can’t say that I needed to change my appearance at all, because I’d always looked masculine. But now I understand why I always felt different, and now I can live my truth.
Around 2016 I found out that the state had started giving testosterone shots to inmates. I went to my mental health counselor, and she put in for me. It took them over a year and a half for me to even go see the endocrinologist to start the shots. Every time I would have an appointment scheduled, it would be canceled. That was really stressful because I knew other people going out and seeing the endocrinologist. I just didn’t understand what was taking so long with me to get it.
In 2018, I finally saw an endocrinologist for exactly 10 minutes. I started my shots a week after that. That’s also when I started asking for top surgery to remove my breasts.
Once you start the transition process — when your voice changes and hair starts growing on your face — you’re left feeling like a bearded woman because you still have breasts. You feel like something from the circus.
Prison staff have said that the Georgia Department of Corrections (GDC) won’t pay for the surgery. Or they’ll say that they’re already giving me hormones, the treatment that’s within GDC standards.
A few years ago, after I wrote to the assistant commissioner in charge of health services, I really thought it was going somewhere. But it seems like they’re stalling. They’ve said my surgery is before the gender dysphoria committee. Now they’re saying a physician is reviewing it.
When you think the process is moving, you just get excited. And then it doesn’t happen. And the more you ask, it kind of makes you seem like you’re a troublemaker. And they treat you differently. The grievance process is a part of the policy, and it says you’re not supposed to be retaliated against. But you know, that’s just a piece of paper with some words. Because they will retaliate. And then when you do need help for something — it could be as simple as wanting to change your room or anything like that — it’s hard to get help.
I know three women who’ve had breast cancer. It was medically necessary to have their breasts removed. But then they were approved to get their breasts reconstructed. That’s really a cosmetic surgery. When prison officials talk about it, it’s like they want the woman to feel “whole and complete.” So my argument is, the removal of my breasts will make me feel whole and complete. And so this should be no different.
I’m a big believer in my relationship with God. I want to be the best person that God created me to be. But I’m also human too. And it’s really difficult when you’re surrounded by so many people who are hateful. This might sound crazy, but it seems like there’s a requirement for a lot of staff to come and work in an environment like this, that they have to be hateful. They kind of laugh [at me]. Or they’ll be like, “This is a women’s facility.”
Staff who treat you like a human being, they’re considered the outcasts or “inmate lovers.” Other staff members think that they’re doing something personal with you.
Sometimes even inmates still say “she.” So I’d rather just isolate myself. But then that gets lonely. Put aside the gender dysphoria diagnosis, being transgender — just being a human being in corrections is hard. I miss my family. I want to go home.
Originally published by www.themarshallproject.org
Being a Trans Woman in a Men’s Prison
The battle for equal rights has been long, but fruitful
By Alisha Ward
It was so hot on the prison yard in South Florida, my sweat was sweating. I looked in the mirror to check my hair and makeup to the chuckles of some of the gawking male inmates standing around watching me. I am one of about 50 trans women housed in this men’s prison of around 1,500 people.
I had just run two miles, and was heading for my yoga spot. That’s my normal routine Monday through Friday when we get recreation time.
Out in the field, one of the girl gangs were squabbling about some drama. They are one of the three or four girl gangs we have here. Like most gangs, I’m told they started out under a noble premise, to protect the vulnerable LGBT community here. But like the others, they quickly descended into debauchery: robbing, stealing, assaults, illegal enterprise and drug abuse.
On my other side, a bunch of hot, sweaty guys were battling it out on the basketball court. A cop yelled at them to put their shirts on. Damn! So much for THAT yoga meditation.
Florida has jumped by leaps and bounds in its treatment of transgender women. Unfortunately, inmates have put the program in jeopardy through their idiocy. My counselor told me the program is in danger of being shut down because of the overwhelming amount of security problems caused by the girl gangs, here and across the state.
I arrived here at Dade Correctional Institution in January 2019 for evaluation, diagnosis, and treatment for my gender dysphoria. Here I sit, wearing my female undergarments, with makeup, long hair, and now two months on my hormones. It still amazes me that I’m here.
I began pursuing treatment for my gender dysphoria in 2017, two years before I arrived at Dade Correctional.
In July 2017, the Florida Department of Corrections came out with a procedure for dysphoria and provisions to send qualifying inmates to Zephyrhills Correctional Institution (ZCI), east of Tampa, Florida for diagnosis and treatment. ZCI decided they were not prepared to handle us and the program was temporarily suspended. Due to the diligence of the American Civil Liberties Union in concert with some of our heroes in the fight, such as Reiyn Keohane, Mom Kat, Jamie B., Sara M., and Claire Wakulla, some rights have been restored.
I went through some challenges with medical and mental health staff at first, but when they realized I was for real, they tried to do what they could. At that time, and maybe even now, ignorance of the procedures prevailed at many prisons.
At one point, I was told that there were around 260 transgender inmates in the Florida prison system. When I arrived here, the program was still in its fledgling state. Staff and inmates alike were trying to adapt to our differences in presentation. It was a little rough going with some of the more bigoted ones, but overall things smoothed out once some of the girls began receiving approvals. Misinformation reigned for a time, however.
For example, the counselor at my previous camp said I would be sent to Dade for 14 days to undergo my evaluation. I would be placed in group therapy while I was here. Then, if and when approved, I would be sent back there with passes, prescriptions, and instructions. That didn’t happen. It was a waiting game for all of us, and still is for many.
It took from January 30 to May 23 of 2021 for me to get my evaluations. My approvals came on June 28, four days after my birthday. I saw the endocrinologist on September 6 and started my meds on the 18. I’m still going through the process to get my follow-up.
But over this past year, things have become more streamlined. It now isn’t taking as long as it did for some of the first trans women here.
I have to give kudos to all the mental health staff here. They have worked tirelessly, advocating and fighting for our rights. They have endured criticism from all sides, not to mention ungrateful and impatient women. Yet they persist in trying to help. The staff and administration here have been helpful as well, weeding out and chastening bigots who were harassing us.
The Florida Department of Corrections and Dade Correctional, in particular, have gone out of their way, for the most part, to accommodate our needs. There are a bunch of us who fought to get some rights and privileges we currently enjoy.
But the gang problem may bring this to an end. I have love for all my trans brothers and sisters, but it seems a lot of them were raised in a generation where they think it’s all about them. That mentality continues to victimize the rest of us.
No one lives by themselves, and no one dies by themselves. We all affect everyone else with our actions, whether positive or negative. Like dropping a stone in a pond, the ripples reach the farthest shores.
Still I rise.
This is my meditation as I sit in the not-even-close-to lotus, under the beautiful blue sky polka-dotted with puffy white clouds. Namaste. God Bless You.
Originally published by the Prison Journalism Project.
To see the winners of the inaugural Stillwater Awards for excellence in prison journalism, go to spjflorida.com/stillwater-awards.
