A thick-lined and crudely-shaped stick-and-poke shoulder tattoo reading “FTW” embodied Bogle’s approach to life.

Bogle said the ink meant different things at different times. 

Fine taste in wine and women.

None of it felt right, though, and in May of 2021, at age 64 with an unexplainable sense of personal turmoil, Bogle ingested a dangerous amount prescription drugs and nearly died by suicide.

Recovery involved seeing a therapist, something Bogle was used to throughout a life marked by questions of identity and a strange presence that was always there but hard to understand.

Bogle said that presence made femininity alluring, but not in the same way most men are attracted to women. Bogle longed for women’s clothes, trying dresses on as a kid or buying blouses and jewelry at stores a few towns away from home in Beatrice. The therapist suggested the presence was a part of Bogle’s personality, another part of the psyche that could be felt but not identified.

Then the therapist made the suggestion that unlocked Bogle’s opportunity for fulfillment and a true sense of self: The presence is a woman.

Bogle went home and looked up the term bigender and sobbed — “bawled my balls off” — at the computer for more than an hour. Bigender individuals encompass two or more genders, some simultaneously and some at distinct times.

The identity can fall under the wider umbrella of transgender, but Bogle, who has since preferred to go by they and them pronouns, doesn’t necessarily feel trans because the feminine side has always been there. 

Since coming out, Bogle has become more political, advocating during the 2025 legislative session against an effort to restrict government bathrooms by biological sex and bar trans kids from playing on teams that match their gender identities.

They spoke with their state senator, Myron Dorn, who Bogle said listened and asked questions. Bogle also attended floor debate and sat in the chamber gallery with other opponents of the bill as Republican lawmakers ultimately advanced it. 

Regardless of legislation, Bogle said it’s important to be out and open with their identity to show that age shouldn’t be a barrier to finding yourself and to show younger people struggling that they can find peace. 

Bogle goes by Melissa when dressed in feminine clothing and makeup during Pride Month events or for the occasional girls’ night out. They also live with their partner Quinn Marquez, a trans woman Bogle got to know online.

Now 67 and a few years removed death’s door, Bogle feels happy and able to live life fully. 

As far back as Bogle can remember, they didn’t feel like a boy. 

They remember being about 5 years old and playing with a girl their mom was babysitting. Dressing up in the basement, Bogle tried on a sundress, and their mom saw. “She just utterly, utterly lost it and beat my ass all the way home,” Bogle said.

That was a lesson that those feelings were not right, and Bogle fluctuated for years between suppressing their attraction to femininity and acting on curiosity. At about 11 years old, they were putting on bras and underwear, and, “It felt good, it felt natural. It didn’t feel weird.”

Then after high school, Bogle said they were “acting pretty hetero.” They got into trouble in Kansas City, experimenting with drugs and getting thrown in jail. Bogle’s brothers were Marines and one had served three tours in the Vietnam War, so Bogle was drawn to the military to prove their own mettle and to stay out of trouble.

“I wanted combat. I wanted combat bad,” Bogle said. They became an air assault infantryman and thought they’d be part of the invading force in Grenada, but the 101st Airborne was called off. 

After the Army, Bogle again sought women’s clothes, going through a series of buying and purging. They also got married for about nine years and after getting divorced fell into the same pattern of buying and purging. Bogle felt guilty because they were doing something society said was wrong. They put the clothes on and experimented with makeup, all in “dead private.” The memory of their mom blowing a fuse and beating them stuck for decades. 

“I felt wrong. I felt sick. I felt demented. I didn’t fit in anywhere. When you’re locked in a closet like that, it’s very damaging to your psyche. I’m this person, but I can’t show it to anybody. It gets to you,” they said.

Sitting next to Bogle, Marquez agreed and said, “Hiding yourself takes away your authenticity. You suppress that. And later in life, you pull back the layers and you recognize yourself, but you don’t recognize yourself at the same time. It’s a weird sensation.” Marquez grew up in rural Idaho and started to transition in her mid-30s. Before coming out publicly, she was outed at work and badly beaten up by strangers leaving a bar. 

Bogle and Marquez sometimes wonder how their lives would be different if they learned about gender identity and got to take hormones at a younger age, but they don’t have regrets because their journeys brought them together. 

Bogle said once they realized they are bigender, neither the national climate around trans people nor legislation in Nebraska ever gave them pause about embracing their identity. They still pick and choose where to be Melissa, but they never deny being bigender. Bogle said young and old people alike have hidden struggles, so being willing to share their story may have unknown impacts.

For younger people who feel confused or conflicted or have been rejected, Bogle and Marquez hope the community — and the government — around them don’t make their path so arduous that they find themselves despairing. 

“I want to fight,” Marquez said. “For young people who are here and can’t move, people who don’t have those options. I want to advocate for them as much as I can.”

Bogle was in the Capitol for the first-round debate on LB89, a measure that ended up passing the Legislature and officially required students to play on sports teams that match their assigned sex at birth. It included provisions about bathrooms and locker rooms in government spaces, but one Republican opposed those rules, forcing the bill sponsor to remove them. 

“To legislate that these kids can or can’t do something I think is an overstep,” Bogle said. “They just want to participate, just like anybody else.”

Bogle is glad that people may have the opportunity to explore their identity at a younger age because information is more readily available and because LGBTQ+ individuals are more visible. They said maybe kids won’t feel crazy or made to feel ashamed, like Bogle did for so long. 

Soon after realizing they were bigender, Bogle called to tell their family members.

The brothers that Bogle followed into the military hung up and haven’t been in touch. Bogle’s sister, with whom they were closer, has also been more distant.

Some of Bogle’s nephews were skeptical because they were close as young adults, and Bogle seemed “all man” when they would go out to the California desert together to shoot guns. But being younger, they were more open-minded.

Bogle told their niece Dawn, who also lives in Beatrice, and got the cathartic reaction that didn’t come from calling the siblings.

“She just stood up and hugged me right away, and it’s all sorts of tears and everything,” Bogle said. They showed her the closet of women’s clothes and wigs and jewelry accumulated over the years, and she was grateful to be let in. She later accompanied Bogle to Pride events. 

Finding acceptance in Beatrice is a scarier prospect, so Bogle doesn’t dress in their feminine clothing in town. But their therapist said Bogle shouldn’t be closed off and encouraged them to tell their friends about being bigender.

That made Bogle nervous. A former coworker — a solid Republican — had become a close friend, inviting them over for weekend cookouts and treating them like family. At one of those gatherings, Bogle came out, and their friend expressed without hesitation that their family cared for Bogle no matter what.

Bogle will go to Lincoln and Omaha to visit gay bars and attend LGBTQ+ events, but going out can be difficult because of Bogle’s knee problems from years of blue-collar labor, service in the Army and general wear-and-tear from some hard living in their early 20s. Their body forced Bogle into retirement from their job as a machinist. 

So Bogle and Marquez, who has lingering issues from being severely beaten up in Idaho, spend most of their time sitting on their porch. Marquez said “Nebraska nice” is a real phenomenon, and she doesn’t carry the same fear she did in Idaho. Health professionals haven’t been judgmental, and it’s much easier for her to access treatment. 

Still, legislation like LB89 and lawmakers who dismiss trans identity and have pledged to keep pushing for a bathroom bill give her pause. “I don’t want to see Nebraska become like Idaho,” she said. Idaho has a total ban on gender-affirming care for minors and also passed a law to protect teachers and other public employees unwilling to use someone’s preferred name and pronouns. 

Bogle, who at one point abhorred both political parties, said they considered moving to a Blue state after President Donald Trump’s second election but chose to remain in a place they know. 

Bogle said the time they were most politically involved was when they lived in California and fought against gun control. Bogle was a National Rifle Association member and said they’d be on protest lines “nose to nose with anti-gunners.”

Gun rights are still close to Bogle’s heart, though their firearms are mostly locked away, hardly being shot. “The Second Amendment is the only thing keeping this country from falling into utter chaos with what we have going on in Washington right now,” they said.

Bogle feels like they’re in a new fight: “Now that I found out who I really I am, I’m fighting, it feels, for my right to exist.” 

Sitting on their front porch on the edge of Beatrice, they don’t have to think about that fight all the time. Bogle said they admire Marquez for her resiliency. “She’s been knocked down and kicked hard, but she comes back over and over again.” Marquez said Bogle’s sense of strength makes her feel safe, a feeling that’s been unfamiliar for a long time. 

Finally, they’re both who and where they’re supposed to be.