“Leave all your hopes and dreams behind because you belong to me.” That’s what a guard said to me when I entered Missouri’s Fulton Reception and Diagnostic Center in 2014.
As a trans woman in a maximum security men’s prison, I didn’t have any hopes and dreams. What I had were feelings of fear and isolation.
During intake, it was humiliating to be stripped naked in front of a group of other prisoners. Being transgender made it even worse: A bunch of men were looking at me, some with hate-filled eyes, some with lust. My anxiety was rampant.
Finding a cellmate who was accepting was next to impossible. Fighting was just a way of life. It meant protecting myself from would-be attackers.
Six months into my sentence, I was raped by someone who I thought was my friend. I felt betrayed, and I began to question the intentions of anyone who showed an interest in me.
Back then, there was no help for someone like me. Unless you were on hormone replacement therapy (HRT) before incarceration, you couldn’t get it. Even with prior use, it was hard to get.
There was no access to gender-affirming clothing. And there was no such thing as a Transgender Committee to make sure you were doing OK as a trans person in the Department of Corrections. There was no help. No recognition. Just a lonesome feeling.
A 2018 lawsuit that Lambda Legal and an incarcerated trans woman named Jessica Hicklin won against the Missouri Department of Corrections changed everything.
Now transgender women can buy gender-affirming canteen items such as makeup, hair dryers, curling irons, bras and panties. The lawsuit also makes it possible to start hormone replacement therapy even if you weren’t on it in the free world. To say that I was excited for this change would be an understatement.
I finally had hope.
A few months after the Lambda Legal victory, I was allowed to order makeup. It took that long because the Department of Corrections had to create a policy for this new thing. The first time I put it on I nearly cried tears of joy. I did break down when I put on the bra and panties I’d received. I felt the sense of normalcy I craved for so long.
After receiving gender-affirming items, the next thing on my agenda was to fight for HRT. The first step was to obtain a diagnosis of gender dysphoria. It took a few months to get the diagnosis because the doctor kept rescheduling our appointments. Finally, a psychiatrist at Jefferson City Correctional Center did the four one-hour assessments required and diagnosed me with gender dysphoria.
The next step was to officially request HRT. I thought I would start it immediately. I was wrong. It took me three years of filing grievances and getting my attorney involved to get started. During this period, I was moved from prison to prison. I spent time at Southeast Correctional Center, Northeast Correctional Center and Jefferson City Correctional Center. I took my first dose of HRT in November 2023. I was jumping with joy. I couldn’t wait for my body to start changing.
Today, I am almost 12 years into my sentence, and things have changed for the better. I am no longer the meek version of myself. I am strong and full of courage. My body has changed a lot thanks to the hormone replacement therapy. My skin is softer, my fat has been redistributed to my hips, and I have breasts.
And things have changed for the better at the Jefferson City Correctional Center. People who have been in for a long time just don’t care about my trans identity anymore. We also have a correctional officer who is a transgender woman. That is very helpful because it makes trans women more visible.
But the biggest driver of the culture shift is the younger generation coming in. When young people come to prison they bring change with them. They actually celebrate differences.
Once, I had a 22-year-old cellmate, who I’ll call A, who identified as pansexual. He told me he went to school with a couple of trans girls. So being around a trans woman was nothing out of the ordinary. We got along so well. He never judged me. Not once.
In past years, I never would have been picked for activities like softball. Now I am. Showering is also different. I used to feel eyes on my body. Luckily, I have been issued a shower curtain. I actually have a sense of privacy while I wash.
Once every six months, I see the Transgender Committee, which consists of a deputy warden, medical staff and mental health staff. They ask questions like: “Are you and your cellmate getting along?” “Do you need more makeup?” “How is your hormone therapy going?” “Is anyone bothering you?”
And our new deputy warden has gone above and beyond, making sure I got a good celly and confronting staff who refused to use female pronouns.
I still find living in a men’s prison as a trans woman to be troubling. There are those who still display hatred toward people like me. And there are men who think people like me exist solely to please them. I am still strip-searched by male staff, which causes me trauma every time it happens.
My current fight is to get gender confirmation surgery. That’s something I want with every fiber of my being. Unfortunately, the state of Missouri passed a law in 2023 banning people in prison from receiving the surgery. Legal challenges have not been successful, but I won’t give up hope. One day, I will get the surgery, whether it’s while I’m in prison or in the free world.
While I may have had a rough beginning fighting to be acknowledged, I now live life happy, and for the most part, carefree. A typical day starts around 6 a.m. I shave, put on makeup and take my morning dose of hormones. I eat breakfast with my boyfriend, and we spend the day together, often watching TV and enjoying each other’s company. At night, I take my hormones again.
Along with my boyfriend, I have friends that I can turn to when things get rough. Although there are still instances of transphobia, I no longer let it break me down. I feel sorry for those people. I am an out and proud trans woman; hear me roar.
Lexie Handlang is a 38-year-old transgender woman incarcerated in the Missouri Department of Corrections for a sentence of 20 years for child abuse and neglect resulting in death. She has served 12 years of her sentence. She writes for a variety of publications.
