Elvira isn’t her real name, but that’s what she asked me to call her. She chose it after Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. “That woman never said sorry for bein’ herself,” she told me. “That’s kinda what I’m on.”

She’s tall – about six-foot-one – with dirty blonde hair that’s usually tied back in a ponytail. Her lipstick, always slightly smudged, is a deep, Courtney Love red. She’s striking, though she’ll tell you herself she doesn’t always “pass.” 

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“Folks can tell,” she said with a shrug. “I know they can. Whatever. I ain’t hidin’ from nobody.”

She speaks slowly, weighing her words as she goes. The night I texted to tell her I forgot about the interview I’d planned to do, she simply replied, “Come eat. I made too much.” I threw on a hoodie and walked the five blocks to her house.

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Elvira lives a few streets over in Dallas. We met years ago, before her transition, back when she liked to start political arguments just to keep conversations lively. She served six years in the military, steady and disciplined, with a wife and a baby at home. “That marriage was already done,” she said. “Me comin’ out just made it official, you know?”

That baby at home was Iggy. He’s ten now – funny, restless, always drawing robots. One morning, he announced, “Mom, I’m a boy.” She looked up from her coffee and replied, “Cool. You want another waffle?” She laughed at the memory. “I probably shoulda said somethin’ deeper, but I didn’t wanna make it weird. He knew I was good with it.”

When I arrived, she was stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce, Nirvana playing on a Bluetooth speaker. Iggy ran circles around the table, the dog barking at his heels. Dinner was loud and ordinary – spilled juice, noodles on the floor, the nightly bedtime argument. “Stop actin’ like an a**hole,” she told him. “It’s nine-thirty.” He stomped off, muttering. She shook her head, smiling. “He’ll be fine. He just dramatic like his mama.”

After he went to bed, we sat on the couch. She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. HBO Max played a horror series based on It in the background. She exhaled smoke and nodded at the screen. “Gurl, I’d almost rather It be president than Cheeto Mussolini,” she said, laughing.

Then she grew quieter. “Right now we okay. I mean, I guess. But I keep a bag packed, got a gun too. If sh*t go bad, we out. I ain’t waitin’ around for nobody.” She flicked ash into the tray. “That ain’t fear. That’s just… that’s how I’m built.”

Texas gives her reason to stay alert. Since 2023, the state has banned gender-affirming care for minors, and the courts have upheld the law. In 2025, the Legislature passed another bill defining sex strictly by birth and penalizing schools that use a student’s chosen name or pronouns. “They always comin’ with somethin’ new,” she said. “They tryna erase us on paper first. Makes it easier later.”

When politics came up, she sighed. “Man, my parents act like it’s Christmas,” she said. “They got the hats, the flags, all that bullsh*t. And they got a trans daughter and a trans grandkid – me and Iggy – and still,” She paused and shook her head. “How the f**k you gonna vote for that motherf**ker and then call me talkin’ about, ‘We miss y’all’?’ Get the hell outta here.”

She stubbed out her cigarette. “They say they love us. Maybe they do. But you can’t love somebody and vote for folks that wanna make their life hell. That don’t line up. I don’t know. It’s messy.”

Her military training shows even in domestic life. “You get used to orders,” she said. “You know who’s in charge, what your job is. Parenting ain’t like that. I’ll start yellin’ like I’m in formation, and he’ll just look at me like, ‘Girl, you trippin.’”

She smiled, then sighed. “I gotta drive him two hours to therapy ‘cause I don’t trust takin’ him to nobody around here,” she said. “People talk too damn much. Down there, she cool. She gets it. He likes her. It’s worth the gas, I guess.”

She waved off any idea of activism. “I ain’t out here leadin’ marches,” she said. “I just work, pay bills, make dinner, keep him safe. That’s enough.”

The house smelled of detergent and tomato sauce. Iggy’s sketchbook was still open on the table, full of crooked robots. “He’s into machines,” she said. “I told him if the blender starts talkin’, I’m movin’ out.”

She looked down the hall toward his room. “I tell him the world’s weird,” she said. “People gon’ say stuff. Some gon’ get you, some won’t. You just keep goin’. Don’t change for ‘em.”

When I asked what it’s like raising a trans kid as a trans parent, she took another drag and thought for a long moment. “It’s good,” she said. “Hard too. You already know what’s out there – the looks, the laws, the whispers. But you can’t drop that on your kid. You just give ‘em somethin’ better to hold on to. That’s all I can do.”

Before I left, she peeked into Iggy’s room. He was sprawled sideways across the bed, one arm hanging off the side. “He sleeps wild,” she said. “Long as he’s breathin’, I’m good.”

At the door, she leaned against the frame and smiled. “People think bein’ strong means you don’t feel nothin’,” she said. “Nah. Strength’s just gettin’ up, doin’ what you gotta do, takin’ care of your kid. Same sh*t any parent does. I’m just a regular girl with a little extra. I work, I pay bills, I take care of mine. Who we are? That’s nobody’s damn business but ours.” She laughed, flicked her lighter, and added, “And you better make me sound smart in the article, gurl. Tell ’em I’m a transgender b*tch who don’t play about my kid.”

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