Laura Jane Grace - Tranny: Confessions of Punk Rock’s Most Infamous Anarchist Sellout

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Copyright 2016 by Total Treble, LLC

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ISBN 978-0-316-26438-9

E3-20161006-JV-PC

For Evelyn

It was 1985 and I was five years old, still young enough to think the lyrics to Madonnas song Material Girl were I am a Cheerio girl. I stood in the glow of the television in my familys living room, watching her movements in stunned, silent awe.

My parents liked music, but werent fanatical about it. My father enjoyed country and in particular Willie Nelson, while my mothers favorite was Diana Ross and the Supremes. But something about this pop star spoke to me. Watching Madonna get into the groove, I was completely mesmerized.

Her dirty blond hair was moussed and frizzed to perfection. Her neon and black clothes were ripped and torn to accentuate her curves. Her chunky bracelets and necklaces sparkled and jangled against her arms and neck as she moved to the beat. I reached out my hand and touched her on the screen. Thats me, I thought, clear as day. I wanted to do that. I wanted to be that.

This sense of wonderment was cut short by confusion. Suddenly I realized that I would never be her, that I could never be her. Madonna was a girl; a confident symbol of femininity, singing and dancing onstage in a short skirt and high heels. I was just a small boy, living in a ranch house on an Army base in Fort Hood, Texas.

My fathers name was Thomas. My uncles name was Thomas. My cousins name was Thomas. And I was born Thomas James Gabel, the son of a soldier, a West Point graduate who never went to war. That was the name written on my birth certificate, but I never felt that it suited me.

I was born on November 8, 1980, in Chattahoochee County, Georgia, though I would never claim to be from the South. I was from Tobyhanna, Pennsylvania, and Cincinnati, Ohio, and Lago Patria, Italy. My family packed up our lives every few years and moved to a new station, wherever my father was assigned. Being an Army brat made me a traveling soul from birth, introducing me to new people and new friends, teaching me about different cultures around the world and how to adapt to new ways of life.

Even as a toddler, I was a naturally destructive force. When my mother took me grocery shopping, from my seat in the cart, I kept grabbing items off the shelves and tossing them on the ground. Tom! shed scold. Tom Tom! The stern older man working the register once watched my mothers plight and muttered, Tom Tom the Atom Bomb. After that, the name stuck.

My parents werent deeply religious people, but would occasionally drag me and my brother, Mark, who was six years my junior, to church. They were both raised Catholic, but our church denomination didnt seem to matter to themPresbyterian, Methodist, whatever was most socially convenient with other Army officers. As for me, I was fairly indifferent about religion, as long as I didnt end up burning in hell.

After church on Sundays, I would build forts with blankets and sheets, covering my bedroom from corner to corner. Underneath those bedding canopies I created a world of my own, my first experiences with privacy from my parents. To save space on storage, my mother kept her nylons in my bottom dresser drawer. I found them, and natural curiosity led me to try them on. I wondered what was so special about these shriveled brown socks that only my mom got to wear.

In the dark secrecy of my forts, I lay on my back, stretched my legs up toward the sky, and slowly rolled the nylons down over my legs. I was almost hypnotized by the sensation of nylon on skin.

This must be what it feels like to be a woman, I thought to myself.

My father would walk by and see the sheets and blanket tent tops I had constructed over the furniture.

Tommy, what the hell are you doing in there? hed bark.

Nothing! Id call back, and I would roll the nylons off my legs and hide them as quick as I could. No one ever had to tell me that what I was doing in my fort was indecent behavior. I could just feel that it was wrong, as if I was born with the shame. I had already been caught playing Barbies with a neighbor girl. My fathers reaction was a cold stare of disapproval and a new G.I. Joe. It was put to me bluntly that little boys dont play with Barbie dolls like little girls do, and that was that.

My father was a warm man grown cold through military service. Military culture adheres to strict standards on what is and isnt normal, and the troops are trained accordingly. My father was too young to fight in the Vietnam War, but if hed been old enough, he would have volunteered to go. Instead he enrolled in West Point Military Academy, graduating in the class of 1976. He wanted to become a soldier like his father, who served as a pilot in World War II. Dad made military school sound fun with his tales of bar fights and hazings, all-night escapades with friends, and driving fast cars across the country end to end with no sleep. He was a skilled mechanic and had rebuilt two 1967 Jaguar XKEs in his mothers garage, crashing the first spectacularly.

I loved hearing these stories about his wild youth, but they became less and less frequent as he ascended in military rank. He was a hard, stoic man, and while he intimidated me, I was proud on the occasions when he would pick me up from school dressed in full fatigues, shiny black jump boots, and aviator sunglasses. People saluted my father when he walked by. He was known as Major Gabel, and he wouldnt have tolerated his oldest son wearing his wifes clothes.

My confusion over my interest in womens bodies and clothing followed me throughout elementary school. Id see older women on the street and want to be as pretty as they were. At 8 years old, I caught an edited version of