(Copyright 2013)

Chapter 5: A Whole New Life

My concern over Rosa (a/k/a Enrique) briefly overshadowed my own concerns with the question of revealing my gender situation to the general public. It was bound to emerge soon. The question of just who Gerianne continued to be lurking in the background of media speculation, particularly among some of the alternate newspapers that were found in piles free for the taking throughout the Chicago area. Periodically, the entertainment columnists in the major two dailies in the city published rumors of just who was writing Gerianne.

Meanwhile, Women’s Place magazine sales continued a steady, though slower, increase in sales, as did the numbers of hits onto the website.

When I returned to the office late in the afternoon after seeing Rosa safely aboard a bus back to the shelter, Cecily bounded out of her office and ran up to me:

“Good, you’re back, Vicky. We have to talk,” she said, beckoning me into her office.

I had never before seen her so flustered; usually she was the coolest person I ever saw in the midst of the almost daily crises that develop in the daily publishing business. She held the door of her office open for me, then shutting it after I entered, leading me to sit on the wing chair in the lounge area of her office. Two bottles of water and glasses were placed on the coffee table, obviously one for me and one for her.

“There’s been a leak, I think. We’ve been told something’s coming out in tomorrow’s Sun-Times about Gerianne,” she said.

It was what I feared; no one could expect that among the dozens of editorial department staffers at Women’s Place that such a secret — which had become a popular topic of conversation — could be kept for long.

“What do they know?” I asked.

“We’re not sure, but my contact at the newspaper said they might even give it a big front page splash. You know how trashy that paper has become in its struggle to survive.”

I nodded, since I had seen the once-respected tabloid come into hard times.

“I bet they know it’s me,” I said.

“That’s my fear, and it’ll destroy the great reputation that Gerianne has created, and ruin the credibility of our publication,” she said.

Just then there was a knock, and I looked up through the glass wall, seeing Phyllis Frazier, the publisher, and a severe-looking woman (I knew her as Katrina Reynolds, the company’s general counsel) standing there; coming up from behind was Helena, my former partner and current financial officer for company.

We all moved into the boardroom, gathering at a broad, walnut table; I had never before been here, but was amused to see that this publishing company (supposedly owned and run by women) had all the trappings of the most heavily masculine boardrooms typical of corporate America.

My amusement was short-lived, however. Without any preliminaries, Ms. Frazier, as stylish as ever in her dark blue skirt-suit, opened the meeting once we were all seated.

“We all know each other here, so we’ll get started. We need to do something now to head off this awful publicity, and we’ve made a decision.”

Cecily immediately spoke up. “Who’s made the decision?”

“I did, Cecily,” Ms. Frazier said, giving the editor a steely look. “With advice of counsel of course.”

“I think such a decision should have considered the editorial considerations, Phyllis,” Cecily countered.

“You don’t think I thought of such things, Cecily? You and I have been together for 12 years and we both care for the publication, so don’t second guess this decision,” the publisher said. Her words were not unkind, but they were direct and seemed to brook no opposition.

“What is your decision then?”

Phyllis Frazier looked directly at me: “Jeremy, or Victoria, or whatever his name is will have to go. Immediately.”

“Right now?” I asked, incredulously. “Why can’t we just issue a public statement giving the truth. I’m willing to tell everything. I only cared for the well-being of our readers.”

I was proud of myself for not crying; I was also proud of the Gerianne story, of her successful record of revitalizing the magazine, and of winning millions and millions of new and loyal readers.

“Besides, Vicky and I have a contract with you,” Helena piped up, always the businesswoman, and I was grateful for her continuing practicality.

“I suggest both of you get your lawyer on the phone and get her involved,” interjected Chief Counsel Reynolds.

I didn’t cry until I got to my office; I was given 30 minutes to gather up my stuff and leave the premises. The Security firm had been alerted and had sent over an extra guard, who stationed himself outside of my office, ready to inspect what I was taking from the office and to escort me off the premises. Fortunately, after less than five minutes of sitting dumbly in my chair, holding my bear tightly and sobbing, my anger overcame my tears.

One fact was clear: My life as a lovelorn columnist had ended.

*****
The Sun-Times the next morning headlined: “AN EXCLUSIVE: Lovelornist Gerianne a guy!” A tagline at the bottom of the page announced: “Magazine dumps columnist.”

“Now the world knows! The popular lovelorn columnist Gerianne, whose advice to women and girls for the last 8 months has taken over the world, is actually a young man.

“His identity as Jeremy Sullivan, a 23-year-old Chicagoan, was revealed by the Christian blog site, God’s Word, written by Paula Trowbridge, a former staffer with ‘Women’s Place,’ the popular women’s magazine.

“Sullivan’s identity had been a deep secret, sealed by non-disclosure contracts forced upon Women’s Place employees and others, until revealed by the blog site.

“’Women’s Place’ immediately dumped Sullivan upon learning that the Sun-Times was about to disclose the closely held secret. (See statement on Page 2) . . .”

There was even a picture of me, obviously taken surreptitiously of me the previous day as I left the office to walk Rosa (Enrique) to the diner. It was not flattering, since I seemed to be scowling at Rosa, although the picture showed a young lady (me) walking with a wisp of a young boy in the gray Chicago winter afternoon. The caption read:

“Jeremy Sullivan (left) in women’s clothing is shown with an unidentified teen boy leaving Women’s Place offices yesterday.”

You can’t imagine how devastated I was; my entire life was there, plastered in huge type on the front page of the Sun-Times. I felt I was the most humiliated person in Chicago. And, all this because I felt compelled to help women and girls with their personal problems. It all started so innocently, but now I was being portrayed as one big lie. And, I felt angry because they had shown a picture of Rosa (Enrique), exposing the child to unneeded publicity that might just scare him back onto the streets and away from those of us who were trying to help him.

My anger at Phyllis Frazier and the top management of “Women’s Place” grew as I read the magazine’s self-serving statement in the newspaper:

“We deeply apologize to our readers who have made ‘Women’s Place’ magazine a trusted friend in American homes for 80 years for the deception perpetrated by the young man who portrayed himself as a woman.

“It was an oversight by our management staff that permitted this fiction to develop. We want to assure our readers, however, that while ‘Gerianne’ was a pseudonym, the final columns published in our monthly magazine and on the daily blogsite were carefully edited and researched by a trained staff of three experienced women.

“’Gerianne’s great popularity attests to the strength and basic correctness of the answers provided in the columns.

“We summarily terminated ‘Gerianne’ on this date. The column written under that name will continue to be written as before, with a trained staff, and will carry the title ‘Affairs of the Heart.’

“We pledge to continue publishing with the same high standards that have made ‘Women’s Place’ a ‘must’ publication for 80 years in over two million homes.

“Phyllis Frazier, Publisher”

“Mother,” I fumed as she entered the kitchen while I was reading the paper. “They blamed me for the lie and I wanted to be truthful from the start.”

My mom took a glance at the front page, and hugged me.

“What do you expect from corporate America?” she replied.

*****
My cell phone rang and I hesitated to pick it up, worrying about who might be calling. The screen showed it was from the Women’s Place phone number, and reluctantly I picked it up, wondering who from the office would have the nerve to call me.

“Vicky, are you all right?” It was Sophia, whose tone of voice showed real concern.

“Not really, Sophia, but thanks for calling,” I said.

“Vicky, I want you to know that Maxine and Louisa and I are shocked by all this,” she said.

“Thank you, but don’t do anything to jeopardize your jobs, Sophia. I’ll survive, dear.”

“Right now, I couldn’t care less. That was such a dishonest statement.”

Our conversation continued in this vain, with Sophia agreeing to meet me after work for a few drinks the following day.

The next call was from Helena, advising me to meet with her and our attorney soon to discuss the impact of our contract; I still had two-and-one-half years to go on my personal service contract, and I believed they couldn’t terminate it without penalty.

“I wouldn’t bank on that protecting you,” Helena said, in her business-like voice. “If you read the fine print, the company can terminate a contract if you committed a fraud, and that’s what they’re saying you did. You may be left high and dry, Jeremy.”

“Won’t that affect you?” I asked.

“No way,” she said. “Phyllis assured me that I’m safe. It’s you they’re after. You better meet with me and the attorney.”

“You’re not affected?”

“Why should I? You committed the fraud.”

“What? You insisted that I continue with this fiction. You selfish bitch!” I screamed at her, clicking the “end” button to terminate the call.

Mom and I agreed that we better get our own personal attorney; it was obvious that Helena cared only for “number one,” herself.

*****
It wasn’t long afterward that I got a call from Sol at the Harriet Long Youth Center: “I saw the Sun-Times this morning,” he began.

“I’m sorry about that,” I began immediately, realizing that I had misled him and young Rosa as to my real identity. “I should have told you.”

“Vicky,” he said, his voice soft and gentle as it always seemed to be. “You need not apologize. You’re like so many others I meet who are faced with gender issues.”

“Thank you,” I said. “This all has happened so fast.”

“You are a lovely young woman, Vicky, and I called mainly to have you talk with Rosa. I shared the newspaper with her this morning and explained your situation as I understood it. She wants to talk with you, and she’s here. Can you talk now?”

“Oh my, yes,” I said. “I hope she’s not angry with me.”

“I don’t think so, Vicky.”

Rosa’s voice came on, so sweet and lyrical. It was obvious Rosa’s voice hadn’t begun to change and still carried it sweet young boy timbre.

“Miss Vicky, thank you for talking with me,” Rosa began.

“How are you doing,” I asked, truly concerned about how the news might affect her.

“I couldn’t believe it at first,” she said. “You are so pretty.”

“You’re nice to say so, but you are as well, Rosa.”

“You’re my idol, Vicky,” she said.

We talked a bit longer, before she put Sol back on the phone. “I’m going to see if I can keep Rosa here for another 24 hours, Vicky, but we have to find a home for her, soon, and you told me you had an idea.”

“I know I did, but that was before this all happened.”

“Ok, but can you still do something?”

“Let me see,” I said. “I’ll get back to you later. Ok?”

“Fine, I hope you can, ‘cause Rosa’s really a sweet young girl and very smart too,” he said.

*****
Two hours later, I was able to call Sol and inform him that mother and I would be willing to provide a temporary home for Rosa in our own home; we had a spare bedroom that mom used mainly as a sewing room and occasional guest room which would make for a suitable place for Rosa.

“I’ll call CPS and see if that is suitable for her,” he agreed.

“CPS?” I asked.

“Yes, child protective services for the state of Illinois,” he explained. “They’ll likely send out a worker to view the place and interview you.”

“Oh? Will we be Ok’d?”

“Not sure, sometimes they’re pretty sticky about providing temporary custody to a non-relative family since they can’t do a complete check on the situation,” Sol said. “But I’ll explain that Rosa said that there’s no one from her direct family in the area, and we can’t send her back to her stepfather, that’s for sure.”

The CPS worker showed up in the late afternoon, just as it was getting dark. Mom hadn’t returned home from her job, and I was alone when the worker arrived. She must have been younger than I was and that shocked me. She was tall, a bit gawky, and wore a prominent cross outside of the sweater she wore over a blouse.

“What religion is your family?” It was one of the first questions she asked.

She caught me off guard, and I hesitated a moment before answering, “Ah . . . well . . . I was baptized Catholic, but mom and I don’t go to mass now.”

“Never?” she asked, almost in an alarming voice.

“I guess not.”

The worker looked at me, as if examining me to see what was wrong with me. She wrote something in her notebook, shaking her head negatively a few times as she wrote. She asked a few questions, and then asked me to show her my driver’s license, or other personal information.

I went for my purse which was on the dining room table, realizing that it still identified as “Jeremy Sullivan” whose gender was “M.” And I had been sitting there, dressed in a simple plaid skirt and blouse, having told her I was “Victoria Sullivan.”

“Let me explain what’s going on here,” I said, as I held the driver’s license in my hand.

“Just give it to me,” she demanded.

I gave it to her; she studied it carefully, then looked closely at me.

“Oh you’re one of those!” she said, contemptuously.

“Those?”

“Disgusting, despicable, so unnatural,” she said.

“Let me explain,” I said, desperately trying to keep calm, since I knew this narrow-minded bitch (how I hated that word, but it described her so perfectly) held the fate of Rosa’s future in her hands.

“No need to,” she said, closing up her notebook, and reaching for her coat.

“I recognize you now,” she said. “You’re that girl — or boy or whatever — who was in the news today. You’re that Gerianne person.”

“But, Enrique needs a home so badly,” I pleaded.

“Not a God-less home like this one,” she said. With that she stormed out of the house, leaving me in a mix of anger and tears.

I was still holding back tears when I called Sol to tell him that CPS would likely turn us down as a temporary shelter for Rosa.

“We’ve got to file a complaint against that worker,” he said. “But that won’t help Rosa. They’ll be coming to pick her up shortly, I assume, and they’ll take to the juvenile boys correctional facility, since they’ll hold her for prostitution, and perhaps placement in some foster home. That’s if they can prove that her stepfather truly raped her, but that may be difficult. If not, they may return her to him.”

“Won’t that be dangerous for her to go in with all those boys?”

“It’ll be a disaster; those guys will rape her and beat her. I’m so sorry, Vicky, but my hands are tied.”

Mom and I cried together that night, while I related the incident. “Mom, we need to do something for girls like Rosa,” I said.

“I know, dear, and you tried,” she said. “That’s all you can do.”

“There’s got to be something I can do.”

*****
For two weeks, I moped around, trying to figure out my future; I had hired an attorney on my own, who indicated that due to my contract I stood to get a comfortable settlement that might pay off my student loans and also pay for my sexual reassignment surgery. There was no doubt in my mind, now, that I’d live the rest of my life as a woman; it just seemed so natural.

I continued to think of Rosa and her fate, and that prompted me to volunteer some hours at the Harriet Long Center, acting as a sort of receptionist, fielding calls and greeting persons entering the Center. I was shocked to realize that girls like Rosa (and myself, too) were not the rarities I thought; almost daily, I met situations that caused me to reflect on how bad the need was for more services for transgendered persons.

Rosa, I learned, had taken matters into her own hands and fled the Center about an hour after I called Sol, and before the CPS workers showed up with the police to take her away. Sol explained the agency was in deep trouble for holding the girl more than 24 hours before calling authorities, but since he had built up a solid reputation with the authorities he was able to explain away the apparent violation.

I felt terrible for having put the Center into the middle on Rosa’s situation, but Sol said:

“Look you did the compassionate thing, Vicky,” he said. “Never apologize for that. The law’s not always right in these situations.”

I was working at the Center on a cold winter night two weeks after my firing when I got a call on my cell phone.

“Is this Victoria Sullivan?” an authoritative voice said.

“Who is this?”

“This is Detective Hearn from the Chicago police department. Do you know a Rosa Chavez?”

“Rosa?” I said, eagerly, but suddenly realizing the possible purpose of his call. “Yes I do. Is she all right?”

“What relationship are you to her?” he asked, his voice still carrying an officious, accusatory tone.

“None,” I said. “I helped her out once.”

“Doing what?” he said his voice still firm and demanding.

“What’s this about? Is she all right?”

He demanded I explain how I came to know Rosa, and I told him the story. It then he said, his voice finally growing more soft and kindly:

“I’m sorry to tell you, but we found her body today on South State Street. Can you come to the morgue soon and identify her?”

“Oh no,” I shrieked, breaking into loud sobs.

The last hours of Rosa Chavez (a/k/a Enrique Chavez) must have been horrible. She had been raped, her genitals carved out and then left to die, bleeding to death in the frigid cold on a dark Chicago street. Such a promising life. Gone.

I vowed I’d do something about it!

*****
The one thing I did do was to double up on my volunteer time at the Harriet Long Center; there I became close to a young gay attorney, who came once a week to spend several hours counseling those who had legal problems. Jay Williams was a tall, thin man, already balding in spite of the fact that he had only turned 30 recently. He had piercing green eyes, and had an unusual faculty of being a great listener and one to whom most of the visitors to the Center found easy to confide in.

I had told Sol of my anticipated problems with my termination from Women’s Place, and he suggested turning to Jay, since he worked for a top corporate law firm in the Loop.

“That’s an interesting case, and I’d like to help you if you’d like that,” Jay told me one night, as I finished relating my problem to me.

He agreed to take my case on a contingency basis, and would even reduce his usual commission should we win the case.

“I don’t want a long-drawn-out lawsuit,” I said. “I just wanna get what’s fair.”

“It’s not a sexual orientation suit,” he said. “It’s strictly contract law.”

“Oh, they fired me solely because of the transgender situation, Jay.”

“Yes, but that’s not against the law,” he said. “The gay rights law doesn’t cover the rights of the transgendered, yet. It’d be better if you were fired for being gay.”

It dawned on me that the transgendered persons truly do not have many rights in the courts today. He explained that the contract I had signed with Helena provided certain rights, which the company violated by firing me. He said I had fulfilled all of the requirements that the contract placed on me with the possible exception of one clause that called for me not to act in such a way to cause Women’s Place to be put into disrepute, or to cause any damage to the magazine’s reputation.

“They were aware of your birth gender when they hired you, Vicky?” he asked.

“Yes, we had quite a discussion about it,” I said.

He smiled. “I think you’ll be Ok,” he said.

*****
Surprisingly, it was only three weeks later that Jay called me to say he had a possible settlement.

“Already?” I asked. “That’s quick.”

“Well, I pointed out that their firing of you, Vicky, was actually a violation of the contract, which still had two-and-one-half years to run. Fortunately their attorney understood the situation and they agreed to what I think is a good settlement.”

It turned out that I would get paid for the two-and-one-half years remaining on the contract, plus another 50% of that total for the magazine to continue using the “Gerianne” name, and blocking me from using it in the future.

“I’m not interested in using the name anymore,” I said. “I’m out of the lovelorn writing game.”

“Then you’re satisfied with this?” he asked.

“Yes, and I thank you.”

“Frankly, Vicky, it didn’t take much work so I’m just going to figure my contingency fee on the 50% amount,” Jay said. “That’ll save you lots of money.”

I hugged him warmly the next time I saw him at the Center.

“You should get the payment in two weeks,” he said. “It’ll be a big check, and I suggest you don’t figure on spending it all at once. Let’s set up an investment account for you.”

“I will need to keep some of it handy for living expenses until I find a job, plus I want to put some aside for my sexual reassignment surgery and treatment.”

Jay thought my plans made sense, and suggested a financial advisor to me to handle the balance of the money. He was such a sweet man; even though he was handsome, I had no sexual interest in him; nor did it appear he had any in me. He was one of the kindest, most totally considerate men I ever met.

My doctor and psychiatrist agreed that I should proceed with sexual reassignment surgery, once I completed a year of living as a woman. In the interim, Sol offered me a job as a social worker at what he said was a “shamefully low rate,” but indicating it was all the Center could afford.

I gladly took the job, realizing that while the pay was low it would cover most of my living costs, since I continued to live with mom, who only asked that I share in food and utilities costs. I took the job for another and truly more important reason: I needed to work so that I could save others from the fate of Rosa Chavez. She would always be in my thoughts.

*****
Thus, I became Victoria Marie Sullivan permanently; I couldn’t have been happier. For fun, my friendship with Sophia grew stronger, and she and I went out to eat at least once a week and when the spirit moved us went to a show or movie. In addition, Mom and I shared many mother-daughter times together.

When Sophia and I went out, I’m ashamed to admit that I drew the stares and attention from men, while Sophia went ignored. How I hated that! Sophia was such a good, generous friend and really so smart and sweet a person that any man should have found a great girlfriend, or even a wife.

Strangely, she and I got boyfriends at almost the same time; Sophia got a call from a former classmate from Wisconsin who worked in the commodities market in Chicago, and the two began dating. He was a onetime lineman on the Wisconsin football team who easily dwarfed her in size, and he was the gentlest of men, as well. I was so happy for her; they would have sturdy, smart kids I was sure.

Craig Nicholson came into my life quite by coincidence; I found myself standing next to him almost every day at the bus stop while going to work at the Youth Center. It got to be awkward just standing there not saying anything to each other, when often we were the only two at the stop.

I could see the young man was uneasy by the fifth day, and decided to break the ice. Many young men are afraid to begin a conversation with a young lady for fear they’d be accused to being too forward. He seemed nice enough, a moderately tall, trim man with a clean-shaven face; he wore a short jacket over a white shirt and tie.

“Glad to see buds on the trees,” I said, aware that spring in Chicago was on the way.

He smiled, and I swear he blushed a bit.

“Yes,” he nodded. “But still so cold.”

“I know what you mean. Chicago can be so cold in spring.”

That was the beginning of a friendship. Craig and I met several weeks in the mornings, and usually sat together on the bus. I got off first, and he continued on to the next stop. He worked at an electronics store, but was going to night school at University of Illinois - Chicago, studying communications.

It turned out he lived a block away from me with his parents, and when he found out I loved art, he proposed spending a Saturday afternoon at the Chicago Art Institute. After finishing three hours at the Institute, he took me to dinner at the Italian Village. It was an
usually warm late April night when we left the restaurant, and he suggested a walk to Grant Park and I agreed.

He was so sweet. He held my hand as we walked, and I sort of leaned into him; we found a bench in the park and sat there; he put his arm around me and drew me close. I felt he was about to kiss me. That bothered me; he didn’t know I was still a boy.

“Craig,” I said. “You best know something more about me.”

“What? Do you already have a boyfriend? Or, are you, or were you married?”

“No, Craig. It’s not that.”

“What then?”

“Well Craig,” the words came haltingly. “I’m still a boy physically.”

“What? You can’t be. You’re so pretty.”

“Yes, I want you to know before we get too involved. I know it’s weird.”

“A boy? How?”

He was clearly confused, I could see. I quickly explained that I considered myself transgendered and that eventually I would physically be a woman, except for not being able to have children.

Craig looked at me and began caressing my hand, which was small and dainty in his large calloused hands.

Then he did something totally unexpected. He leaned into me, and kissed me, gently at first, lips against lips, and then with growing passion as he drew me into his arms. He tongue entered my mouth and we kissed for what seemed an eternity — a heavenly eternity.

“You’re still my girlfriend,” he said.

It should have the happiest night of my young life.

*****
As Craig led me along Wabash Street to the “el” (in Chicago, the commuter trains in the Loop run along ancient elevated tracks and are called “els”), I noticed a Chicago police officer leading a young, garishly dressed girl along the street; she had on ridiculously high heels, wore black mesh stockings with holes and mini-skirt that barely covered her butt. The girl was definitely Hispanic and she was bawling in a voice that sounded almost masculine. I doubted if she was even 16.

The officer had a firm hold on the girl, holding her arm crimped behind her back, and the girl had trouble keeping up. She stumbled along on her heels, finally losing one shoe on the sidewalk.

I watched in horror as Craig and I walked along perhaps a dozen steps behind them. I picked up the shoe and yelled out: “Officer, stop please. I have the girl’s shoe.”

The officer ignored my yell, and I broke from Craig and ran up to the officer, pleading, “Stop. I have her shoe.”

The officer, a huge man with a broad face with tiny eyes, squinted at me: “Forget it girl. She won’t need it where she’s going.”

“Do you have to treat her so roughly. She looks like a kid,” I said impulsively.

By then Craig came up behind me and grabbed me. “Quiet, honey, don’t interfere.”

I turned my eyes to him, and screamed into his face. “Did you see how he’s hurting that girl? He doesn’t need to do that.”

“ Don’t Vicky,” Craig said. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

I persisted: “Officer. What’s your badge number?”

With that the officer turned around and said: “Look I’ve had enough from you. This girl’s a damned whore. So butt out!”

“I asked your badge number,” I yelled at him.

“I’ve had enough from you,” the officer said, and with a click on the phone positioned on his shoulder, he began speaking into the phone: “Officer at Wabash and Monroe needs assistance and wagon. Got one prostitute and a citizen who is disorderly.”

“I’m not disorderly . . .” I began.

“Shut up, Vicky,” Craig ordered, his voice gaining into a firmness I had never expected he had.

“Yes, keep your girlfriend quiet,” the officer echoed.

“Look, officer,” Craig said. “You have no right to say my girlfriend was being disorderly. She felt she was trying to assist by returning the shoe to the girl. And, I know, you’re supposed to tell your badge number when requested.”

I looked at Craig, astonished by the command in his voice.

It seemed to calm the officer down, and he turned in a way to display his badge number. It was “1313.”

Just then the police wagon pulled up and two officers got out and were about to grab me and Craig, when Officer 1313 spoke up: “They’re all right, guys. It was all a misunderstanding. We just have this whore for you, but I think she’s a juvie even though her ID says she’s 18. It must be a counterfeit.”

“You two better go about your business,” one of the officers from the wagon, a sergeant, said.

“Come on,” Craig said, taking my arm and gently leading me away.

“Oh Craig,” I said, beginning to cry. “She looked so much like Rosa Chavez.”

“Who’s she?”

I looked back to see the two officers gently load the girl into the wagon, tears in my eyes.

“Rosa? Oh, Craig she was a lovely, smart girl. She’s no longer with us.”

He looked at me, hoping I’d give him more of an explanation. I said nothing and my thoughts turned back to Rosa and my last view of that lovely, broken, damaged girl. I did not cry, but I suddenly felt so sad, so discouraged.

I began wondering about the girl we watched being arrested so harshly by the police officer. Was she also a boy under all of that makeup, just as Rosa had been? Would she be headed to the same fate as the pretty Rosa Chavez?

Craig had my arm, holding it gently, guiding me to the steps that would take us up to the platform to await our train. I walked unseeingly, content to be guided by my sweet, gentle boyfriend. I felt so safe and comforted in the hands of this young man, at once a shy, gentle man but yet a man who could assume command and protect the girl at his side when the situation demanded it.

Sitting on the train, Craig held my hand; the train was nearly empty, since the weekend early evening trains were lightly traveled. He spoke softly to me: “You wondered if that girl was like you, Vicky?”

I could only nod; he could see how moist my eyes had become. I still held back tears, not wanting to draw attention of the few passengers on the train.

“Was that Rosa also like that?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was all I felt like saying.

Craig, the sweetheart, put an arm around me, pulling me close to him and held me. I nestled tightly against him, resting my head upon his chest. I heard the regular beat of his heart and felt comforted.

“I’m falling in love with you, Vicky,” he whispered into my ear.

I began a quiet, almost soundless sob. I knew then how life could be both cruel and joyful at the same time.

Author's Note: The child welfare worker described in this story is fictional, of course. Furthermore, the worker is not typical. The author's day job brings her in contact with the child welfare system regularly (not in Chicago, but in another Midwest state) and she knows that the workers themselves tend to be caring, open-minded individuals. They labor in often overworked and underpaid positions, causing great personal stress. The decision over whether to remove a child from a family is never an easy one, requiring great judgment. Even the best worker will make mistakes, since human beings rarely can be predictable. Sometimes the laws put them into a position of making decisions that might go against their better judgment. Yet, sadly, there are an occasional worker who will be like the one pictured.