Matt Kailey

Loren Cameron’s Body Alchemy: Transsexual Portraits is really a classic. It was published in 1996, but it’s message is timeless, and it’s still one of my recommendations to new trans guys.

This was the first “trans” book that I ever purchased, right before beginning my transition, and it remains a favorite. It was how I was introduced to many of the trans guys in the larger community, and how I was able to see what I might “become.”

Since Loren Cameron is a photographer by trade, the book is filled with beautiful black-and-white photos of trans guys, before and after, as well as of Cameron himself. And I think, in these pictures, and in the words of Cameron and his subjects, many new trans men can find themselves.

But this book is not just special to me because it was my first (and isn’t the first always special?). It actually has a story behind it. What’s that, you ask? Read on.

The book was recommended to me by both my therapist and the leader of the FTM group that I finally attended for the first time. I wanted to buy it for myself, and so, with my anchor-woman hair, full makeup, and heterosexual background, I headed for the bookstore.

As soon as I walked in the door, I was sure that everyone in the store, from the gray-haired lady flipping through cookbooks to the clerk with six piercings in the top half of his face, knew why I was there. At first, I pretended to browse. I glanced idly at books that were of no interest, suddenly fascinated by antique cars and Southwestern decorating schemes.

I was inching my way to the gay and lesbian section of the store, ever conscious that the back of my blouse was darkening from sweat and that I looked so suspicious that the clerks were probably eyeing my oversized purse. As I reached my target, I froze. They’ll think I’m a lesbian. That is, if they don’t figure things out right away.

My hair was perfect, my makeup flawless, my heels high. I was so stiff and prissy that even lesbians wouldn’t want to claim me, but that made no difference. I was pretty sure that everyone was looking, making their assessments, rendering their judgments. I tried to look confused, as if I had stumbled on the queer books by mistake and was too baffled by them to move on.

And then I saw it — one small shelf above the gay men’s erotica, one short stretch of books labeled “gender studies.” But it wasn’t there. I read each title, each author, I glanced around, I turned back — it wasn’t there. But I knew they had it somewhere, which meant that I either had to leave without my purchase — or I had to ask.

There was a line at the checkout counter. I walked up and patiently waited my turn, glancing behind me to see who might overhear my question to the clerk. When I got to the front of the line, I leaned forward, as if I were going to tell the clerk a monumental secret — and in a way, I felt that I was. I thought he might take my body language and my lowered voice as a clue on how to conduct his own responses, but I was wrong.

“I’m looking for a book,” I said, my voice and my chin dropping.

“What?” He was young, the one with all the piercings, and he was using his reserved-for-old-ladies voice.

“A book,” I said, raising my head a little.

“Well, they’re divided by subject. What’s it about?” His voice was so loud that he could have been talking to the person at the back of the line, who was quite a distance away now. I turned my head to see that several people were shifting impatiently behind me.

“Um. Transsexuals.”

“What?”

“Transsexuals,” I said more forcefully, my perspiration level rising with my voice.

“Gender section,” he called out. “With the gay and lesbian.”

“It’s not there.”

“Oh, well, go ask that lady over there.”

He motioned to a desk with a computer, and I edged my way by the people in line, ignoring the glares of disgust that were obviously due to my gender flaw. If I had asked for Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, they probably would have assumed that I was really a giant cockroach.

As I approached the woman at the computer, I decided to pretend that I was a sociologist or a psychologist or a professor. I wanted this book to study or to present to my university class. I didn’t have to tell her that — as long as I was pretending it to myself, I could walk up to her desk and ask for the book.

“I’m looking for a book by Loren Cameron,” I announced, my head up, my eyes focused, daring her to find me repulsive. “It’s called Body Alchemy.”

She was white-haired and hunched in her paisley-patterned dress, and I was embarrassed that I was subjecting her to this. But she didn’t know yet. She punched at the computer keys.

“Oh, here it is,” she chirped. “Let’s see. It’s down in the photographers section–first floor. Just tell them you want…” She put a finger to the screen and read aloud as it moved along the words. “Tell them you want Body Alchemy: Transsexu –” She stopped reading for a moment, then fluttered her hand in the air. “Oh, just tell them it’s a softcover.”

I was done telling anyone anything. I found the book myself and stood in line for several fretful minutes, afraid that sirens would go off and lights would flash when I got up to the checkout. “Oh, a transgendered person,” the clerk would say, flashing the book around for everyone to see. “Come over here a minute, Martha. Here’s a transgendered person.” But he didn’t, and I managed to pay and slip through a side door to the safety of the street. I finally had my book.

It’s easier now. I walk in and buy a book. But time — 12 years — has made it easier. And all the books along the way have made it easier. Each one has its own story, inside and outside of the covers. What books have stories for you?