Drag queens and transgendered men and women, in different stages of physical development, waltz into the church’s conference room. Most are undergoing hormone therapy and can’t sing in their natural register, or fake it by lip-synching. Together, choir founder Ashley Moore and choir conductor Yvonne Evans, are holding auditions for Transcendence-- the first transgender choir in the country. Later, after enlisting members, most drop out because they are homeless.

“I didn’t know what I was getting myself into,” says Evans. “They were a mess. Women coming in, in mini-skirts wanting to do showbiz. They weren’t in the Christian world, they were in the night life world.”

Transcendence is one of four musical ensembles at the City of Refuge Church, located in downtown San Francisco. Unlike other Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) choral groups, Transcendence has a strong religious base.

Miss Major griffin-gracy [sic], one of the original members and part of 12 active choir members today, laughs as she recalls the first audition in 2001.

“We sounded like a bunch of falsetto C’s with too much makeup, tight hair, and shoes that were too small.”

It’s 2002, and every Sunday for the past four weeks, Jamie Armstrong has hidden in the back of Glide Memorial church, humming along to Transcendence. Today, it’s her turn to sing. Jamie is off the streets, not selling her body, and has been off drugs and alcohol for two years. She stands nervously at the back door of the City of Refuge Church, until choir founder Ashley Moore asks her to take the stage. Armstrong’s lips part, and she sings: “aaaaaHHHhh!”: a high “E” note.

“Hallelujah, we got us a soprano!” yells Moore.

Although she was born male, Armstrong comfortably embraced boys and dresses because she had a lot of emotional support from her parents and ten siblings. Originally born in Kingston, Jamaica, Armstrong and her family moved to Denver, Colorado, where she wore her hair long and started taking estrogen pills at the age of fifteen.

"I never tried the other side of the road. I was born this way,” says Armstrong.
Jamie, who sang in her church’s choir as a child, has finally found a place where she can exhibit her talent without having to explain who she is.

“As a transperson, not everyone is going to be accepting, so I’m not always very trusting. Being around people that are of my own stature has helped me,” says Armstrong.

An MTF (male-to-female) takes the stage in a large shirt emblazoned with a graffiti dog illustration. Her dyed-red, hot-iron-curled bangs are the only loose ends that stand out against her painfully slicked back hair.

“I love the church, I love the family, I love my husband, I-love-it-all.” She pauses, gripping the sides of the podium. “Give me some clarity…I’m not here for popu-lari-ty.”

“That’s right. May He keep you,” says a grey-haired man in the audience.

“I’m not high off-a crack…And I’m-not drunk,” she says.

“Go ‘head, girl,” says a thin woman in the audience, who has a tattooed vine crawling up from inside her tank top.

She looks up, showing a black gap where two teeth should be on the left of her smile. “I got choices today. It’s been one month and two days since I have picked up. I feel, that I feel as great as Tyra Banks looks,” she says.

“Yeah!” someone shouts from the back, followed by loud chuckles and applause.

It’s Transgender Sunday, May 6, 2007, at City of Refuge. Standing on stage left, Jamie Armstrong stands in front of a white banner that reads “CHRIST TO THE CITY.” She smoothes down the front of her black and white swirled pancho dress, and looks out at the singers and her peers and says, “Why do we need a Transgender Sunday? Well honey, we’re not in Heaven, yet.”