Chapter 18
It wasn’t Elliott’s first time in a women’s jail. It was the first time as an adult. And as a trans man.
The bus ride from the courthouse to Turner-Guilford-Knight Correctional Center was Elliott’s reintroduction to prison life.
TGK was the only facility in Miami-Dade County that held inmates of every stripe under one roof: men and women, adults and
juveniles, petty thieves and accused murders. Each morning, dozens of inmates—some still intoxicated or injured from circumstances
leading to their arrest—were bused to and from the justice center for court appearances. It was no easy task. The guards were
visibly on edge.
“Move along,” an officer shouted as Elliott stepped off the bus.
First stop was the intake office. Every other inmate on the bus had spent at least a night in jail, which meant they’d already
endured the indignity of a strip search and a guard-observed shower. But not Elliott.
“Stafford, this way,” the guard said.
Elliott was taken to a room and left alone with two female officers, both wearing body cams. The room had a table but no chairs
and, off to the side, a toilet and a shower with no curtain. Elliott had been dreading the strip search, but in a way he was
glad it was sooner than later, like ripping off the Band-Aid. There was no conversation. Just a stream of orders from the
officers, which Elliott followed without question.
Remove shoes, jewelry, body piercing, wristwatch. Empty pockets. Now, sweatshirt.
“No bra,” one of the officers said, noting it on the chart.
Take off jeans and hand them over. Socks. Underpants. The officers turned all clothes inside out and checked all pockets and stitches. Elliott was left standing before them, totally naked. All his belongings were packed into bags and labeled.
“Open your mouth,” the officer said.
She looked inside with a flashlight as Elliott, on command, lifted the upper lip with his fingers, then moved the lower lip,
tongue out, up and down. They checked the ears and nose too. Elliott closed his eyes, following directions, as the examination
became more invasive. He kept reminding himself that this had nothing to do with being trans—every inmate underwent the same
strip search—but it was not hard to feel like a source of morbid curiosity for the guards, a break from the routine, something
to talk about at the next coffee break.
Finally, it was over, except for the shower, which the guards observed closely. Elliott was given an orange prison uniform
and dressed quickly. Upon return to the intake room, he was grouped with thirteen women who, like Elliott, had been denied
bail by Judge Garrison that morning and were being held beyond their first court appearance.
“Everybody, take one copy of the Inmate Handbook and a pamphlet,” the intake cell unit manager announced. “Follow the guards
to the orientation room. Single file!”
A pair of armed guards led the line of new inmates down the corridor to a stuffy room with a polished concrete floor and walls
of painted cinder block. Elliott avoided eye contact with anyone, his gaze fixed on the pamphlet title: sexual battery abuse harassment awareness.
Welcome to TGK, he thought.
With thick concrete walls and fences topped with miles of coiled razor wire, TGK was equipped to house the most dangerous
inmates. The “worst of the worst,” Elliott had heard, were on the eighth floor in solitary cells, but there was no shortage
of intimidation in the orientation room. Elliott pegged at least two women as maximum-security veterans. The guards knew one
of them by name, a badass named Mona.
“Back so soon, Mona?” said one of the guards.
“Fuck off,” she replied.
Elliott chose a folding chair well off to the side, away from Mona, but for some reason, Elliott couldn’t get by her without
being noticed.
“Damn, girl. You got the flattest chest I ever seen.”
Elliott wondered how long it would take Mona and the others to figure out he was no “girl.” He moved all the way to the end
of the row, saying nothing for the rest of the orientation. They broke for lunch at noon and walked as a group to the cafeteria.
Elliott avoided any conversation while waiting in line to collect a soggy bologna sandwich. The cafeteria was about half full.
Seating at “Mona’s table” was by invitation only. Elliott hoped he wasn’t invited.
“Hey, Flatsie, get over here,” said Mona.
Elliott took a deep breath, then walked toward Mona’s end of the long table and stopped.
“Lemme hold your sandwich,” said Mona.
It felt like high school all over again. Elliott offered his tray, and Mona took the sandwich. No great loss. Elliott hated
bologna.
“Now get the fuck outta here,” said Mona.
After lunch was the final step in the intake process: cell assignment. The cell unit manager broke the new inmates into three
groups, assigned each group to a cell, and sent them on their way with the guard.
“Not you,” the manager told Elliott. “You need to see the doctor.”
Elliott didn’t question it, and the reason for the medical examination didn’t need to be spelled out for him. The guard came
and led him down the hall to the infirmary.
“Sit here,” the officer said, and Elliott settled into the chair near the door.
Elliott didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but the inmate waiting area felt more like a normal doctor’s waiting room than he would have guessed.
Rather than “institutional beige,” the walls were painted a more soothing tone with a hint of peach.
There was even tile on the floor. A framed photograph sat atop the filing cabinet in the corner.
The young boy in the photograph looked to be about a year old. Probably the doctor’s son.
Elliott stared at the photograph. It made him think of Austen. He shook off that thought, but another memory came to mind.
His doctor, too, used to keep photographs of her children in her office. Or rather, Elle Carpenter’s doctor. Her gynecologist,
Olga Lopez, MD.
Elle and Dr. Lopez had discussed children on one of her office visits—her last visit as “Elle.”
“You aren’t my typical patient,” Dr. Lopez said.
“What’s so different about me?”
“Honestly, most women I see—at least the women your age—have never given birth to a child.”
“I didn’t keep the baby. I gave it up for adoption.”
“I understand. But the very fact that you’ve experienced pregnancy and given birth puts you in a slightly different category,
in my opinion. I’m not trying to talk you out of the gender-affirming treatment you need. I just want to make sure you understand.”
“Understand what, exactly?”
The doctor paused, as if to consider her words. “Some women come to me under the impression that gender-affirming medical
treatment, including surgery, is completely reversible.”
“I’m not doing this to see what it’s like to be a man. I know what it’s like to be a man.”
“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”
“I’m here because I want my body to match the person I am.”
“I respect that. And the overwhelming number of my patients never have any regrets about their decision. But, on occasion,
I meet a patient who finds the courage and strength to make this decision only because they’ve heard stories about trans men
or women transitioning back.”
“I realize I’m not buying a shirt. I’m not interested in the return policy.”
“Good. Don’t even let that factor into your decision-making.”
“I won’t.”
“Mind you, a small number of people do detransition. It’s medically possible, but not in every respect. I’m only raising this
because you have gone through the experience of giving birth.”
“You’ve made that clear, Dr. Lopez.”
“For a woman transitioning to a man, the time to consider the impact on fertility is not just somewhere down the road, when
you choose to have your uterus, ovaries, and fallopian tubes removed. Hormone therapy alone won’t necessarily have a permanent
effect on your fertility. But it can.”
“So, you’re saying that even if I change my mind very early in the process and decide to stop—”
“You may never have children again. That’s what I’m saying. I want you to know that from the start.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“Not to belabor the point, but this means that the baby you gave up for adoption will probably be the only baby you ever have.”
“I get it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, Dr. Lopez. I’m sure.”
The infirmary door burst open and two officers rushed inside with an inmate on a gurney. Elliott was suddenly back in the
miserable present.
“Out of the way!” an officer shouted.
Elliott jumped from his chair and moved to the corner. The gurney whizzed past him. A bloody towel was wrapped around the
inmate’s head, and she groaned in misery as the gurney disappeared into the examination room. The door slammed shut. Elliott
didn’t move. A minute later, another guard entered.
“Change of plans,” he said. “The doctor is unavailable.”
No kidding, thought Elliott.
The officer led him down the hall, back to the intake center.
At his direction, Elliott took a seat. The cell unit manager was seated behind his desk, typing away at the computer.
Elliott sat and waited, nothing to do but watch the manager work.
Finally, the desk telephone rang. The manager answered, grunted a few words to whoever was on the line, and then turned his attention to Elliott.
“That was the warden’s office,” he said. “The strip search was inconclusive, but your lawyer confirmed that you’re undergoing
gender-affirming treatment.”
Elliott didn’t answer.
“Our policy manual categorizes trans inmates as ‘high risk.’ High-risk inmates are supposed to be assigned to a single cell.”
Swyteck’s objection to solitary confinement notwithstanding, those words came as a relief to Elliott. But it didn’t last.
“Unfortunately, we haven’t had a single available since George Bush was president.”
The manager wasn’t laughing, and it clearly wasn’t a joke. It was his own cynical way of expressing his frustration with the
system. He handed Elliott a blanket, bed linens, and a pillow.