Post-Tribune |

‘Semi Queer’ book reveals lives and struggles of gay, trans truck drivers

At a truck stop in South Holland, Ill., a man looked at Dana Rose Gropp and asked, “What’s a pretty thing like you doing here?”

Gropp, who’s been hauling loads for 13 years, replied, “I’m paying on my mortgage.”

The man’s compliment made her day, possibly her week. She’ll never forget it.

The 35-year-old professional trucker from Hammond is a transgender woman who formerly identified by the name of Ben. At 21, Gropp came out of the closet as a gay man, marrying another man in Cook County, Ill. The marriage lasted two years.

Since childhood, Gropp thought of herself as Dana, not Ben.

“I always knew I was different than everyone else,” Gropp told me. “I was in a classification all my own.”

Raised in what she described as a “strong Lutheran family,” Gropp repressed her female identity for much of her life. She didn’t talk about it with her parents, who are now both deceased.

As an adult truck driver, Gropp would catch her image in a mirror. She saw herself wearing men’s clothing for what’s considered a masculine career. It didn’t feel right to her. It never felt right.

On weekends, she was Dana, the woman she had been repressing all her life. About three years ago, she became Dana during the week, too.

She gets some double-takes from strangers. And some curious questions.

A guy once asked her point blank, “Are you a man?”

“I used to be,” Gropp replied without taking offense.

I was introduced to Gropp by Anne Balay, the former Indiana University Northwest professor of gender and sexuality studies who authored the book, “Steel Closets: Voices of Gay, Lesbian, and Transgender Steelworkers.” She has written a new book, “Semi Queer: Inside the Lives of Gay, Trans, and Black Truck Drivers.”

Gropp is one of the many truck drivers profiled in “Semi Queer,” to be released in September.

“This book tells the story of truckers and trucking in the 21st century, with a focus on the gay, trans, and minority truckers who are now gaining a foothold in the industry,” writes Balay, a licensed commercial truck driver. “Long-haul trucking is linked to almost every industry in America, yet somehow the working-class drivers behind big rigs remain largely hidden from public view.”

Balay, who lives in Upper Darby, Pa., just outside of Philadelphia, discovered that gay and trans truck drivers are routinely subjected to prejudice, hatred and violence in their hometowns and in the job market. Trucking can provide an opportunity for safety, a welcomed isolation, and a chance to be themselves, even though the work is fraught with regulations, constant surveillance, danger, and exploitation, writes Balay, a visiting assistant professor of gender and sexuality studies at Haverford College in Pennsylvania.

“What I learned is that there’s some magic in trucking – such as time alone to think and the feeling of being useful – that fits queer and trans people really well,” Balay told me. “They experience a lot of growth and discovery in their truck, and they have adventures. But the job is so over-regulated and micromanaged that it becomes almost impossible to do it right, and to make money. So it’s a contradiction.”

Balay spent years talking formally and informally to this intriguing demographic of truckers in an effort to understand their personal lives, their professional jobs, and their daily struggles. She learned that trucking is a tough, thankless job.

“It’s dirty, underpaid, and demeaning,” Balay said.

Gropp, however, finds value and purpose in her job, driving two loads a day from a trucking terminal in Glenwood, Ill., to Belvidere, Ill., in her 53-foot rig. She comes across as cheerful, friendly and open to explaining her transgender life.

I’ve written several columns on transgender residents living in Northwest Indiana, often in the shadows of society. Each time I came away impressed by their spirit and determination. Yet I understand why critics of their complex identity issues and atypical lifestyles simply don’t get it, or don’t approve of it.

“Some people are afraid of misinterpreting us or making mistakes about our gender,” said Gropp, who’s engaged to another transgender woman.

“When I came out as Dana, the initial response of people who knew me was not as shocking as I thought it would be. My experience of coming out has gone so much better than I expected,” Gropp said.

“Twelve years ago, when I first started driving a truck, I never thought I would be able to do so as Dana,” she added.

A lot has changed in America over the past dozen years regarding the transgender community. I would like to think that my columns help educate readers to a complicated and controversial topic by introducing them to transgender people in our own community.

“It’s a tough world we live in, but I’m tired of being afraid every day about who I really am. I don’t want to hide my true self anymore,” said Gropp, who co-founded the Facebook group Rainbow Wisdom Circle, an LGBTQ support group.

She is in the early stages of the male to female transition process, both physically and emotionally. Gropp plans to undergo the full transition, including sex reassignment surgery at some point.

“Our world is changing in amazing ways, and I want to be a part of it, including my job as a truck driver,” she said.

Balay noted, “Though the industry continues to present itself as white, male and socially conservative, that’s more a nostalgic fantasy than a representation of current reality.

Balay and some of the truckers in her book will be in Northwest Indiana and Chicago in late September for book release events. For more information on her book, visit www.uncpress.org/book/9781469647098/semi-queer/.

“The narratives of minority and queer truckers underscore the working-class struggle to earn a living while preserving one’s safety, dignity, and selfhood,” Balay writes in the book’s introduction.