She's On A Mission

T. Desiree Hines will change the way you think about trans Philadelphia.

by Carolyn Huckabay

Photos by Neal Santos

She knew that Mississippi would be the death of her.

Which is why, on the morning of August 28, 2001, T. Desiree Hines was leaving. She packed a suitcase full of skirts and dresses, carefully applied her makeup and prepared to take a taxi to Jackson-Evers International Airport, where she'd catch a 6:45 p.m. flight to Washington state by way of Memphis. She'd spent the last 21 years living, uncomfortably, in a male body. She was ready to be a full-time woman.

Leaving the stranglehold of the South may have been the single most significant moment of Desiree's life, but it was only the second most significant moment of that particular morning.

"I woke up that day and my mother was having the worst nervous breakdown that she had ever had," Desiree recalls as if that sweltering summer morning eight years ago were yesterday. It happened to be within days of the ninth anniversary of her sister Phyllis' death. Phyllis died of aplastic anemia in 1992, and Desiree's mother — a survivor of childhood and spousal abuse who'd struggled throughout her life with mental illness — had convinced herself that a second child was dying that morning, too. "Mama had started to, in her mind, construct that I was eternally gone, rather than just leaving home and spreading my wings. She was so sick, I had to lie on top of her to hold her down."

In a brief moment of clarity, her mother said she understood why Desiree had to go. There were no jobs for classical organists in Jackson and no place for a transsexual woman in the Bible Belt. As the ambulance whisked her mother away, Desiree grabbed her bags and ran straight in the direction of her new life, never looking back — and never returning to Mississippi.

In a way, Mama was right about her daughter: Part of Desiree did die that day. But a much bigger part was only being born.

That frantic Mississippi morning feels like a lifetime ago.

Today Desiree is comfortable in her own skin. A Gemini on the verge of 30, she lives in University City and keeps herself more than busy. She works a handful of part-time jobs — she's a church organist, caterer, site manager for Wilma Theater's subscription campaign — and surrounds herself with an ever-growing network of friends who can't help but gravitate toward her gregarious, larger-than-life personality.

Desiree identifies as a woman who happens to be transsexual, still waiting until the time is right and money is there — according to a University of Michigan study, anywhere from $30,000 to $40,000 in the U.S. — to undergo sex-reassignment surgery. But while it may take years for Desiree to raise the funds for a vaginoplasty, not much else keeps this woman — and from her done-up hair to her sensible heels, she is all woman — waiting.

Desiree's latest venture, this weekend's little-engine-that-could 2009 Philadelphia GLBT Arts Festival, is certainly her greatest undertaking, born out of a desire to give an underrepresented, misunderstood community the chance to shine.

"To have a festival with arts professionals who openly identify as gay, lesbian, bisexual or trans, and who could present to us what they feel is missing in the arts sector as a GLBT artist, is amazing," Desiree says of the three-day, 20-plus-performance festival presented by Philadelphia-based nonprofit Traverse Arts Project. She admits that, although she's had plenty of help, orchestrating the behemoth event has been far from a cakewalk. "It takes persistence before people see that you're serious about something in Philly."

That's especially true for members of the trans community in this city, where the word "transsexual" tends to conjure images of drag queens, transvestites, night walkers, freaks. Many trans women — and men — are simply living their lives and hoping to be taken seriously, no matter how hard they have to fight.

And Desiree knows fighting.

Sitting at her desk last week surrounded by three open bags of dollar-store popcorn, Desiree is simultaneously e-mailing a co-worker, texting her best friend and telling me about the time when, as a 3-year-old, she threw a hissy fit in a drugstore over a doll she simply had to have.

"I cried and screamed in the Super D until my mother bought me that doll," Desiree says between hurried bites. "That's the first time I remember feeling like something wasn't quite right."

Desiree spent her childhood praising the Lord in a liberal Episcopal church, respecting her elders — and feeling like a girl in a boy's body. And although her mother's mental illness played a huge role in her life — Desiree worked two jobs as a teenager to help pay the bills, since her abusive father was absent and her mother often struggled even to make dinner for the family — her unconditional support for her daughter is what Desiree remembers. "On Saturday afternoons, I wouldn't watch sports — I would watch cooking shows. I would watch the orchestra. When Mama saw that I liked those things, she didn't threaten me or punish me. She cultivated them. She got me a violin. She got me an Easy-Bake Oven."

Unlike children with a wild hare to play a sport or ride a horse, Desiree's interests never faded. By the time she was 15, she'd traded in that Easy-Bake Oven for a working stove top, and went from one of the most common instruments to the most unusual.

"I discovered the pipe organ when I was 15, watching a TV program of a world-renowned organist, Diane Bish. I was transfixed." She took on odd jobs to pay for lessons, and — despite the doubly dreadful throes of transsexual adolescence — she always stuck with the instrument. Her fingers scaling stacked keyboards, feet steady on the pedal board, Desiree knew it was her calling to play the pipes.

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On that emotional day back in 2001, two weeks before 9/11, Desiree arrived at Pacific Lutheran University (PLU) in Tacoma, Wash. Despite having just seen her mother carted off to a mental institution, Desiree recalls an overwhelming sense of excitement. She could continue embracing her spirituality while expanding her musicianship. More importantly, she thought she could finally be who she always felt she was. For a religious school, PLU's student body and faculty were noted for their progressive stance on GLBT issues, which put Desiree — testing out her new life as a full-time woman — at ease.

Only it wasn't so simple. Because she hadn't undergone sex-reassignment surgery and was technically still male, she wasn't allowed to live in a female dorm. "'We'll have to house you on the male wing, and you'll have to use the male facilities,'" Desiree remembers being told by the vice president of student life. Dumbstruck by the news and unable at the time to put up a fight — "I didn't like to stand up to authority; it's not the way I was raised" — Desiree opted instead for studio-apartment housing, which was far more expensive. "Things were really hard that first semester. I had no money, and the little money I did have with financial aid was going toward housing. I had to borrow money from the school just to buy groceries."

But the final straw didn't come until the following winter, when she was told — after successfully auditioning — that she would not be allowed to participate in the women's choir at PLU, despite it being a requirement for graduation. The women's restrooms in the music building were off-limits, too.

Something snapped in Desiree, and she spiraled into a depression that deterred her from practicing and, eventually, passing her performance exams. "They messed with my emotional toolbox," she says. "It's as though they had gone into my toolbox, taken my tools and brought them back to me dirty and bent up."

Desiree picked up and left again — but not back to Mississippi. "It would have caused purging," she says, describing the phenomenon in which trans people, midway through transitioning, revert to their birth sex when faced with their old, familiar routines. "It's not healthy at all, and I knew there was nothing at home for me." Fearful of returning to the closet, Desiree applied to the Chicago College of Performing Arts (CCPA), was accepted, and headed east.

"You hear people talk about the South Side of Chicago, and how rough it is," says Desiree, remembering Harmony Village, the LGBT-friendly homeless shelter where she would spend the next eight months of her life. "But being a very spiritual and religious person, I think God gave me this experience to make me a stronger person and to humble me."

When Desiree arrived in Chicago in 2002, she owed PLU $700 before she could get her transcripts sent to CCPA. (She points out, in an uncharacteristically bitter tone, that if it weren't for the administrator who'd banned her from the women's dorms, she wouldn't have racked up a debt to PLU, and would have been able to start classes at CCPA. As it happened, she was never able to attend.)

Not one to let a bad situation stop her, Desiree embraced the unique shelter's dorm-style housing (she was placed with another trans woman), counseling, medical care and subsidized hormone therapy. She got back on her feet, sent out resumes to churches across the country and began to rebuild the spirit that had been crushed at PLU. "It was a period of my life that I needed. I had so much drive and motivation to elevate myself. Who would have thought that being homeless in Chicago would make someone grow so much?"

Desiree developed her church-organist chops in Chicago, utilizing public libraries' practice rooms, auditioning, touring and meeting folks who praised her for her talent, rather than judging her for her birth sex. "I came to terms with myself that I am a real musician, and I am capable of this."

There's a world of difference between that moment in the Super D, when nothing felt right, and today. Desiree's been in Philadelphia for three years after a brief stint in New York studying organ at Mannes College conservatory, and for once she isn't itching to city-hop. "Everything I've ever wanted is actually starting to happen," Desiree says triumphantly as she sifts through pledge letters and e-mails from GLBT Arts Festival sponsors. She's just secured a $3,000 gift from Tavern on Camac, which will cover getting the lighting hung and floors laid down at 119 Arts Center, the South Street spot where most of this weekend's performances will be held.

She hasn't done it all alone. Traverse Arts Project artistic director Mark Dahl, whom she met while working at the Kimmel Center three years ago, is her right-hand man for the project, providing the fundraising yin to Desiree's marketing yang. Dahl, formerly of Philly's Uncut Productions, is also a good friend. In between fits of laughter and plates of Southern-style ribs, the duo's been busy these past few months, gaining sponsorship from Rain Vodka, Crowne Plaza Center City and QUEERtimes, hosting fundraisers and networking like crazy. "It's a lot of hard work, and a lot of me soapboxing," Desiree says. "I bet everyone sees me coming and goes, 'Oh, God, here comes that damn Desiree Hines, talking about that arts festival again.'"

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In its infant year, the GLBT Arts Festival — and its Festivus! theme (see "Best of the Fest" for highlights) — isn't likely one you've heard of. Yet. "Even if we don't have huge audiences, we've got a damn good lineup," Desiree says of the myriad performances planned for this weekend, including opera, dance, storytelling, live music — and really, really experimental theater.

Billed as "part chaotic battlefield, part jerk-off fantasy," Canadian playwright Ian Mozden's Obscene in particular is meant to raise eyebrows. The story of a man driven to self-castration, Obscene comes with its own warning labels: "Botched drag, graphic imagery, splosh, frequent full-frontal nudity, profanity." The subject matter may be cringe-worthy, but it's also painfully relevant to members of the trans community who feel they were born with the wrong body parts. "It's a very powerful show," says Desiree. "It's one of those shows that will bring up in people a lot of what they don't like about themselves when it comes to transphobia."

Fully aware of the stigma that surrounds the trans community, Desiree hopes her festival sheds some light on a group of people who are grossly misrepresented in this city. She also hopes to reach the huge percentage of trans people who fall into certain traps.

"I think a big part of escorting among the trans community is fear. Fear of loss, of support structure, of losing their jobs, of being picked on. A lot of times people find that to be a very easy way to have a lucrative living, but there are a lot of men out there — many of whom are latent homosexuals — who objectify transsexual women. I just wish they would have a sense of hope and pride in themselves and consider a better route out."

Desiree hopes her story — and her festival, and her faith — reaches those who struggle with self-acceptance and self-love.

"I want them to know that if they need help finding their way, I'll help them. It's easy to sell yourself for $1,000, but it's degrading. You can have your life just like anyone else."

She's on board with the idea of mentoring individuals who feel lost or afraid. But her vision is much bigger than that. "Even though there's separation of church and state, I think there should be protection for those of us who work in religious orders. ... While he's still living and spry and kicking, I'm gonna go up to New Hampshire and have a meeting with [openly gay Episcopal] Bishop Gene Robinson and say, let's do this."

There's a Hines family reunion this August in Colorado Springs, and Desiree is planning to attend. Though her mother has always been supportive and the two have spoken often on the phone, it's been eight years since they've laid eyes on each other. It may as well have been a lifetime. Surprisingly, Desiree says she's not nervous to introduce herself to her family for the first time as T. Desiree Hines.

"The name Desiree was a tribute to my sister, Phyllis, whose middle name started with a D," she says. "And the T stands for Toni, a derivative of my birth name." It's the closest Desiree ever comes to revealing the name she answered to as a child. Though she's endeavored to leave her past behind, she knowingly carries a bit of it around with her. Mississippi may have very nearly been the death of her. But it's also part of who she is. The reunion, much like her festival this weekend, will be like a coming-out party. And her transformation will be complete.

(carolyn.huckabay@citypaper.net)