Could you start with your name, age, where you were born, and how you identify?

My name is Lori Song. I'm 65 years old. I was born and raised in Los Angeles. I identify as trans — trans feminine — which I didn't discover until I was much older in age. I'm mixed Korean and Japanese. My parents are from Hawaii. I'm a fourth-generation person on both sides. I don't have touch with either Korean or Japanese [languages], which I regret. I identify as — well, it's funny — if I'm with Korean people, I feel Korean, but if I'm with Japanese people, then I feel Japanese.

My gender identity has come to be female because years ago, I was a cross-dresser. Way back when we were called “transvestites,” but the language changed. Over decades, I realized that I'm trans. I started HRT — hormone replacement therapy — three years ago. But because I started so late in life, the physical changes are really slow to happen. The mental, psychological, [and] emotional changes happened faster, so I feel a lot better than I used to. 

I came out starting six, seven years ago to friends and family. I got involved in the community primarily through PFLAG (The nation's largest organization dedicated to supporting, educating, and advocating for LGBTQIA+ people and those who love them.) I joined a mental health group that really helped. I was diagnosed as depressed, so I got on medication. All these things just have helped me so much. So now I identify as a trans woman, although I still present as male. It's a hard thing for a lot of people to understand, but I don't get caught up in trying to overexplain, or really, I don't explain at all unless they ask questions. I've had good reactions, or at the very least, people are like, ‘Okay, whatever.’

Where did you grow up?

I grew up in the Crenshaw area of L.A. and attended the local public schools. Thank you, LAUSD (Los Angeles Unified School District)! [It] didn't do a thing for me. I didn't understand the value of education because I knew that as soon as I graduated, I would never sit in another classroom again. I pretty much didn't, so my goal was accomplished. 

I became a plumber. There was a local plumbing shop where some of my buddies worked, so they got me a job. I stayed with plumbing, and it turned into [a] career, which was not the best for me. But it provided me with [an] okay retirement and terrific health benefits. My coverage is great. So, the Crenshaw area, the Westside — I gotta give a shoutout to the Westside!

What is your family like?

My folks came from the [Hawaiian] islands in the late ’50s, so I was born here. I have a twin brother; we look alike. I have a younger brother who's still in the old neighborhood in Crenshaw. I plead with him to move, and he says, ‘Oh, don't worry!’ I say, “I'm not worried about you. I'm worried about me when I drive to visit you!” There are a lot of uninsured motorists; it's a poorer area, so a lot of people don't have insurance. Mom was a clerical; she worked in the insurance department for what is now Transamerica. Dad didn't have one particular job, but he mainly was in sales: cars and furniture. 

Growing up in the ’60s as a little kid and then the ’70s as a teenager, I never thought we were poor. I never [emphasis added] thought of us as poor. But Mom was, for all intents [and purposes], a single-working mom. Dad was never around. I never really had a relationship with him. He was just this rolling stone kind of guy. That put a lot of pressure on Mom [because she had] three little kids and, oftentimes, didn't have a car. That meant riding the bus to and from downtown every day. She's the strongest person I know because she never complained. I never saw her down, and she never talked bad about anyone else — family members, anyone. I never heard her say a negative thing about anyone, and she had a lot of cause to do that, but she didn't. She got divorced when we were teenagers because she thought we were old enough to handle it, which we did because Dad was never around anyway.

How do you think having this strong female role model shaped you?

When one is a kid, you're not thinking about that. You're just wondering what's for lunch or dinner [or] what kind of games you'll play outside. As I grew older, though, I started realizing the impact that she [my mom], my grandmother, and my two aunties had on me because they were all these strong women [with] very different personalities. They were all nurturing and supportive. I never felt judged or not good enough. I was lucky; I grew up with a lot of praise and positivity around me.

Part of my process of being transgender is that in society, women are allowed to be more nurturing, more giving, and just more human — even as far as clothing and self-expression, whereas men are expected to be pretty linear and to conform. I mean, women are expected to conform as well, but they're also expected to be that extra bit. I felt that women are the backbone of the family, which means they're the backbone of any society. That's why I strongly feel that the patriarchy, combined with religion, is maybe the worst thing that could have ever happened to the world, to humanity. Men took over because they're just so — I like to think of it as they are testosterone-poisoned, so they can't think or see straight. That's why they're so linear. It's easy to think of it in terms of, Well, that's the way it is. And that is the way it is, but that doesn't mean I have to accept it. So I try to fight against it whenever I can by talking to people, hearing other people's ideas, or reading and just thinking, What can I do? What might be a good strategy to make whatever change I can make?

Part of my transgender journey is an act of defiance, just by me being so different from the so-called norm. That's one small way I can make a difference in a person's life or [in a] group of people — just to be unafraid of being different. As an Asian American, I'm always going to be different. I'm always going to be the other. So now, at 65, I'm pretty much able to say, “Fuck it, it doesn't matter.” You know? I don't care what you think. As a matter of fact, fuck you [laughs].

You have so many different aspects of your identity. For example, you're a fourth-generation Asian American, you’re a native Angeleno, and you’re a transgender woman. How do you think those aspects of your identity have interacted with each other throughout your life?

Different times in my life at different ages fit. Those elements were always there. But now they're more in balance. I spent a lot of time trying to identify more with the Japanese community, the J.A. (Japanese American) community. That was because there were no other Korean families [when I was] growing up. There was one family, the Kims, but we just never … Young Kim and I in elementary, junior high, [and] high school, we just ignored each other. It was this weird thing. I wish I could take those years back and get to know her because I was kind of lonely. I mean, I had friends, but the ethnic pull is very strong. Besides that, she was pretty, and she was smart. I started meeting other Koreans here and there. My Uncle Art was a pioneering lawyer. So he opened his office on Wilshire; he started in Crenshaw Square in the ’70s, and because his mom — my grandmother — was fluent in Korean, he was the number one lawyer for the whole Korean community, which was just starting to grow.

I didn't identify as a West Sider mainly, which is to say, J.A., Japanese American, West Side kid. I tried to conform to that ideal: be a tough kid, play sports, and get a reputation, like a street reputation. I got a little of all that, but it was all a shield to protect myself from who I really was. I knew I was different, even as a preteen. There wasn't the language, and there certainly wasn't the dialogue [about the LGBTQIA+ community] with anyone. But going into my teenage years, I knew I had to hide that because that was just something that wouldn't be understood; it wouldn't be accepted, and I just couldn't bear that.

Teenage years are hard. It doesn't matter what the era is — it's always hard. So I hid myself away until I was in my 40s — late 30s, early 40s — somewhere around there. I got back into cross-dressing and had a lot of fun with that. I had a circle of friends. Then I thought, Well, I'll just give it a last try to be a man, you know, have a family and pop out two kids, a boy and a girl. That didn't work, but that [also] cemented it. I knew then that I couldn't do that, that I wouldn't do that. So that's when my trans journey began. Now I'm here, being interviewed, and I hope this interview helps somebody.

You mentioned that there wasn't much dialogue about the LGBTQIA+ community in your younger days. Because of this, were you able to come out to your immediate family?

Well, about seven or eight years ago, I got on Facebook and used it to come out gently. Everyone's on Facebook, [so] I posted pictures of me all dressed and made up and used my real name, Lori, and so the word got out. That was like an intro to coming out in person, which I did — I'm still doing it today. That process is ongoing. I've had very few rejections. The reaction that is fairly common with my relatives, like my dad and my brothers and some of my cousins, is that they just don't want to talk about it. They won't initiate conversation. So if I say something like, “Yeah, I got this event coming up,” they're like, ‘Oh, cool,’ you know, they don't show an interest. So [with] my friends, and it's funny, all the women were just instantly accepting, and all the kids, who [are] my friend's children and my immediate family's kids, because they're young and the world is a different place for them, they're accepting. They call me Auntie Lori.

I never had the courage to come out to my grandparents when they were alive because I was afraid of their reaction. I wish I had more courage, but I didn't. I try not to put too much pressure on myself. My coming out with people, different people, no matter who they might be, happens pretty much organically. If it feels like the right moment, then I open up to them. 

I've just finished a four-week writer's workshop. I like to read but don't know the first thing about writing. I was hoping to get just the basics of possibly telling my story as an Asian American transgender person. In the first class, the teacher stressed that if we don't tell our stories, they're gone when we die. That struck me. [If] you pick out a book at the library or wherever and read it, that’s someone telling a story. Even if it's nonfiction, it's still a story someone wrote. So I feel a certain obligation [to write] because all the people [who] helped me are leading me to a point where I can help [others]. It's almost like I'm getting a small platform to spread a little education, a little understanding, and maybe a little compassion. 

[In] the times we're living in, I feel strongly that, with the book banning and the rise of the Christian church — I'm talking about the far, far right — I have to try to counter that through education and communication. I grew up reading and knew about the history of Germany’s book burnings. One of my favorite stories was Ray Bradbury's “Fahrenheit 451,” about book burning in an alternative place. I just can't believe what's happening: burning books, telling teachers and librarians what they can and cannot teach. It's just beyond comprehension to me. All this affects all of us in society, but in particular, the LGBTQIA+ community or any marginalized community. We're going to feel it; we do feel it; we've always felt it, but in these polarized times, a lot of people feel that it's okay to hurt us, to kill us, to act out against us or anyone they feel is different or don't like. And to them, I say the same thing: “Fuck you. You don't own the world. You don't own us. You don't even own yourself because look at the way you're behaving.” I pity them in a way, but I can't change them, and I don't want to change them. I just would like them to try to listen, even if it's just with one ear, and then maybe something will go in their little washing machine [brain], and it either gets spit out or maybe, just maybe, they'll think, ‘Hey, that was a different thought.’

How do you stand up to these types of people when you encounter them?

I rarely encounter them in person. What I occasionally encounter, like at the coffee shop I go to or in a grocery store, [is] a political comment, and I don't engage. So what I do is I try to be visible. I wear pride gear and pins and stuff that if you're in the community or an ally, you see it and know you're not alone. I have a lot of anti-Trump shirts. And I know, I live in Alhambra, so it's fairly liberal, but that's my way of showing that. Sometimes, as I go into the coffee shop, I see vehicles outside with [certain] bumper stickers, but it’s fine; it's America. I can fly my colors, too. And I do. They're fun shirts. My favorite is a cartoon kitty cat. He's holding a sign that says “Cats against Trump.” That gets a reaction.

Can you describe your evolution as a “cross-dresser”?

As a young boy, I had a fascination with my auntie’s undies. I wanted to know what they felt like and would look like because they were so different from [what I was wearing] at the time. I was wearing those tighty-whities. BVDs (a ’90s term for boys' underwear, particularly the "tighty-whitey" style). Mom's panties were so different — the fabric — and they were just like this simple piece of cloth. Whereas mine was like this heavy cotton, you know, it had a little fly on them. That fly always made me laugh because I never used the fly. Why did they put this on there? I knew it was like something bad; it was unacceptable. I had to keep it hidden away when I would try on their undies. Over the years, my curiosity [grew] more and more. By the time I was a teenager, with great trepidation, [I would] buy my own panties, bras, slips, [and] shoes. I had a big fascination with shoes. At that time, it was heels. So I guess it was like a shoe-fetish, foot-fetish kind of thing.