“T4T” is where trans folks can speak with each other directly, from the heart, without having to make ourselves legible to cis society. Here, we will tell stories that center our joy and our pleasure, our rage and our resilience, our quirks, our dreams, our love. Here, no experience or idea is too niche or too wacky — we care about what you care about. Read more from the series here.
It wouldn’t have been possible for me to meet Frances Anderson, whose life spanned the five decades between 1871 and 1928, but in many ways, I feel that I know her.
From assorted newspaper archives, I can piece her life together: a sharp-shooting billiardist who accepted any opponent’s challenge and demanded her worth in national appearance fees. During the influenza pandemic of 1918, she worked nurse shifts for the Red Cross. Over her storied 40-year career, she amassed an estimated $150,000 in exhibition game earnings, according to Forgotten Madness L.A. (about $2.7 million in today’s dollars), and was often called the world’s champion “woman billiard player.”
Born in 1871 in Newton, Kansas, Anderson’s obsession with pool sprouted early, leading to a fight with her father over her fascination with the game. The fight could have held other unspoken thorns for Anderson, of course: she was being raised as a boy in a town of under 5,000 people, long before transness was in the public discourse. The fight proved to be a rupturing point, and she told her family at the time they would never hear from her again.
Years after running away, a woman began appearing in pool halls promising $5,000 to any person who could defeat her. The woman was Anderson, who led a life as a stealth trans woman. At the time, pool halls were a space reserved for men, so the idea of a woman billiardist was enough to draw a crowd. Men would suggest matches and Anderson would ably defeat them, collecting the men’s money by the end of the night. (She never asked her female opponents to pay anything.)
Anderson, rarely defeated, traveled to 48 states to make appearances that were advertised in newspapers and drew spectators from far and wide. Women were also welcome at Anderson’s matches, where they were provided a window into a social setting they were often excluded from. Anderson soon gained serious acclaim, and though she lived in Los Angeles, she spent most of her time on the road. Little is known about her personal life; friends, lovers, and chosen family must have been a part of her world, but they don't appear in the reports. One can gather her generosity with donations to the Red Cross and volunteer engagements. The newspapers from that time paint her as a solitary character, fueled by competition and her love of the game.
In 1919 The Gazette ran the headline: “Woman Billiardist Defeats Mere Man,” an obvious jab at the gender politics at play. In 1920, the Meridan Morning Record reported: “Miss Anderson Didn’t Perform In This City.” Apparently, there was a “misunderstanding” about Anderson’s fee. When she arrived at the pool hall she demanded “much more money” than was agreed upon, according to the pool hall owner. The snark of the article is obvious; all the more reason to love a woman who demands her worth.
In 1928, at age 57, Anderson took her own life. The existence of a traveling pool player was not easy — smoky pool halls had affected her lungs, her speech, and her eyesight. She checked into a hotel in Sapulpa, Oklahoma with a letter “yellowed with age” tucked into her stockings. Unsigned, and marked with pencil, it was speculated at the time of Anderson’s death that it had been written years ago. The note was folded within two five-dollar bills with the instructions: “Bury me as you find me, a woman. Do what you will with my body, but keep my secret.”
Anderson swore her family would never hear from her again, and six weeks prior to her death she returned to Newton for one last look at her hometown. Anderson competed in her former town without recognition from her family, performing her final exhibition and collecting her winnings.
Despite Anderson’s note, her wish to be remembered as a woman was not honored in death. Her family pieced together her life story and, using handwriting forensics, were able to identify her. The same newspapers that wrote glowingly of Anderson’s pool hijinks and tricks portrayed her as a man “masquerading” as a woman. Even Ripley’s Believe It Or Not maligned her in an editorial.
As I write Frances Anderson’s story, I am preparing for top surgery, for which I was asked to compose an advanced directive. As I do so, I think of her, of everything she did to be celebrated as a billiardist, and how quickly it came crashing down after her death. The tabloid-style reporting of her death contradicts the glowing appraisal of her skills from the very same publications. Indeed, even almost a century later, a blog post on her life brought relatives out of the woodwork suggesting she was disowned from her family for living as a woman.
Trans people have so little control over our lives when we’re alive — it often feels like we exist at the whim of a medical industry eager to deny us coverage or workplaces that we have to convince of our humanity. Anderson’s true self being denied in death illustrates a sadly familiar practice, and I offer up this belated obituary as a salve to that lack of recognition.
I can’t perform the tricks that Anderson could with a cue, but I’ve often appreciated watching sharks play at Long Beach’s well-worn lesbian bar, Sweetwater Saloon. Recently, I looked on as a lady billiardist challenged my friend to a match, which soon became a scene of communal humiliation as my friend was handily (though gently) defeated.
Frances, you would have loved it.
Get the best of what’s queer. Sign up for Them’s weekly newsletter here.