y

“Now, darling,” Aunt Adele said to me after my sobbing stopped, “Go dry your tears, and let’s see how pretty you can be tonight.”

“OK, auntie,” I said, taking the dainty hanky she had provided.

She told me to take off my clothes and to get ready for a bath. “I’ll fix you a nice tub so you can look and smell like a pretty girl, OK?”

“What? Like a pretty girl?” Aunt Adele had never before wanted me to dress like a girl before, except for when I was dancing, and that was just to fit in with the others. She had never stopped me from wearing dresses, but she tried not to encourage it.

“Yes, honey, if you seem to want to be a girl, I want to help you be one, at least for tonight.”

What was this about, I wondered. She must have noticed my puzzled looks, for she quickly announced, “We’re going to the ballet tonight, dear.”

“Oh auntie, you mean the Ballet Russe? You didn’t tell me you had tickets for them tonight.”

I knew the Ballet Russe was performing in town; the troupe was among the top ballet companies in the world, and since the war began some of the dancers were based in nearby Chicago, they could make short trips for engagements, in spite of wartime travel restrictions. I wanted so badly to see them, particularly their star, Alicia Markova.

“Yes, honey, I got them today, while you were out. Would you like that? And tonight you’re going as my niece. Would you like that?”

I didn’t know how to answer Aunt Adele. I truly wanted to see the Ballet and I had heard so much about Markova, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to go out in public as a girl.

“Oh yes, auntie,” I said finally, “But really, as a girl?”

“Yes, dear. If you’re going to dance on the Fourth of July, I need to see how you look as a girl in public,” she explained. “You know you’ll have to arrive at the Fourth of July show dressed like a girl, even before you’re in costume. So we need to see how you’ll look and act.”

“Oh is this like a test, auntie?”

“Yes, honey, it is. I need to see how much of a girl you can be, before I say ‘yes’ to you dancing with the girls.”

It seemed to me that I’d have no problems passing the test; so I shouldn’t be wary, but I felt suddenly sick. The fear of truly being in a public place as a girl both scared and excited me. I dreamed constantly of being a girl, and now I’ve got my chance. But that meant acting and talking and sitting and walking as a girl did. Might something I do or say give me away? Might someone see the boy that was still part of me, sense that I had a penis? Then, what would happen? Would everyone laugh at me, scorn me, find me repulsive?

Of course, I said, “Yes, auntie. I’d love to be your niece tonight.”

*****
I must say auntie was treating me like a princess; she had drawn my bath, and as I entered the bathroom, already steamy from the hot water running in the tub, I found my nostrils filling with the delicious odor of sweet flowers. The tub was full of pinkish bubbles, and auntie had hung a light blue robe of sheer, gauzy material on a hook, obviously for me to wear. The collar and hemlines were trimmed in pink ruffles.

I smiled when I saw it. “Perfect” was the most fitting term.

I felt absolutely in heaven when I entered the tub, burying myself in the pink bubbles. It seemed I could feel my body grow smooth and soft as the soap water penetrated my skin. How could a girl not relish this feeling?

Aunt Adele entered the bath as I finished drying myself, using a clunky hair dryer to dry my hair, which had grown to cover my ears. My hair was a light brown, almost blonde, and quite light in texture.

“You have lovely hair, darling,” auntie said, as she took the hair dryer from my hand and finished the job. “Sit still here on the toilet, while I brush it.”

She brushed it out straight, then stepped back and looked at me, her face gaining a quizzical look. Finally she shook her head ‘no.’

“We need to give you some bangs, Terry,” which she did by brushing strands of hair at the front of the scalp to the right and forward, covering about halfway down my forehead. She applied some conditioner to set the hair, and then brought out a dark purple hair band with sparkling sequins to fix over the top of my head.

“Good,” she said, smiling at me, a smile that seemed to show satisfaction at what she saw.

“Let me look in the mirror,” I asked.

“Not just yet, honey. Let’s finish dressing you.”

I’m not sure I had a happier moment in my life, realizing that my auntie — I loved her so much — was making me so pretty and that I was to be her niece, well, for at least one night.

I couldn’t believe my eyes as I entered my bedroom, still having the pink towel wrapped around me. On the bed was a light blue dress, full of ruffles and lace, along with all the undergarments a 12-year-old girl would wear, plus stockings.

“Oh auntie,” I squealed, rushing to the bed. “Is this for me?”

She smiled at me, nodded. “It’s for a pretty girl and the only one I see in this room is you, darling.”

I put on the panties, a light blue satin, and she showed me how to put on the garter belt, which she explained had snaps to which to attach the stockings. Then she assisted with the bra; well, it was a training bra actually.

“You’ll have to learn to put this bra on yourself, darling,” she said. “Girls don’t always have someone around to help them.”

“Yes, auntie, I can do that. But do I have to wear a bra now? I don’t have any breasts to show.”

“Few 12-year-old girls do have breasts, yet, dear, but you need to learn to wear one anyway.”

“Wanda’s already got breasts, auntie. Will I ever get breasts?”

Auntie didn’t answer the question; instead she ordered me to sit down on the bed, and told me to hold out my legs, one by one. She put on the tan stockings, hooking them to the garter belt snaps, smoothing each stocking by running her hand up and down my legs.

“My, oh my, Miss Terry,” Aunt Adele said, as he looked up from a kneeling position. “You have beautiful legs. All that dancing has firmed up your legs, and without giving you a muscular look. So very pretty.”

She held up a slip, and told me to raise my hands over my heard, so that she could put the slip on.

“You really have lovely arms and shoulders, Terry,” she said as she accomplished the task.

I must have blushed. I knew I was never very strong, and hated to compete in any kind of sports since I’d know I’d always lose or be last. I remembered that back on the farm during one summer picnic with kids from my school, I got roped into an arm wrestle with a girl one year younger than myself. I thought I could beat her, since she was a girl. I remember trying real hard, but she downed my arm in just a few seconds. I remember the taunting: “Terrence can’t even beat a little girl.” “Go back to baking cookies.” “Miss Terry.”

I was so happy now; my arms and shoulders were pretty.

“This dress should be perfect for you my dear,” auntie said as she pulled it down over my head.

And, it was “perfect.” The dress had a square bodice, thick straps over the shoulders and a belt. It flared out from the belt, ending just above the knees. My shoes were black sandals, with a slight heel, which I found so adorable.

“There, now, Terry, let’s stand up and get a good look at you,” she said.

I stood up and auntie stepped back, eyeing me slowly, a smile growing on her face. “You’re just adorable, dear,” she said, leading me to her own room where she had a full-length mirror.

“Oh auntie,” I said. I think I actually squealed, too.

I felt so light and airy, so lovely and dainty, so soft and feminine. It was a magical feeling. I did a twirl before the mirror, hardly able to take my eyes off the pretty girl looking back at me.

*****
It turned out we were going to the ballet with her friend, Matilda, and her son, Matthew. Auntie explained that she and Tillie, which is what auntie called her, had been in a dance company together when they were younger and though they rarely talked often, they remained good friends, and would often go to cultural events together. She said, “She just knows I am raising my sister’s child. I never mentioned gender.”

When auntie told me I’d be sitting with a boy who was just two years old than me, and he would only know me only as Aunt Adele’s 12-year-old niece, I grew scared. “What if he figures out I’m a boy, auntie?” I protested.

“Don’t worry, he won’t, my dear,” she said. “No one could mistake such a beauty for a boy.”

“Auntie, please don’t say that. I’m scared. Do you think I ought to change back to Terrence?”

“No, certainly not. I told Tillie that you’re my niece. That’s all she knows and that’s all her son will know.”

“I don’t know, auntie.”

“Just be yourself, dear,” she smiled.

*****
We met them at the lobby of the Pabst Theater, an ornate old show house that was the usual venue in our city for ballets, symphonies and major theatrical presentations. I sort of hung back, holding my head down, my hands clasped nervously in front of me, feeling very much like a shy little girl.

“This is Terry,” she said in introducing me to her friend, still as slender and trim as my auntie was. Her son, Matthew, was tall, also fairly thin, but with wide shoulders, and long gangly arms. He had neatly combed dark hair and dark eyelashes. He was so handsome and immediately connected him with the actor Tyrone Power, thinking that would have been how the actor looked at 14. He was dressed in a navy blue suit, white shirt and dark tie.

“Hi Terry,” said Matthew, words that came out so faintly I could hardly hear them. Was he as shy and scared of meeting me as I was of him?

“Hi Matthew.”

“Speak up my dear,” Aunt Adele said. “Young ladies need to speak up, dear.”

“So do you young gentlemen,” Tillie warned her son.

Matthew took the cue, moving closer to me, saying simply, “Call me Matt, Terry.”

We talked very little before the show began, but it seemed Aunt Adele and Matt’s mother maneuvered the seating arrangements so that the two of us sat next to each other during the show. I was so scared something might happen if we sat together, that he might realize I’m really a boy. That made me nervous, and perhaps as a way to end it, I started talking. I was so happy my voice still hadn’t changed, as most of my male classmates’ voices had deepened.

“Do you like ballet, Matt?” I said in a shaky, little girl voice.

“It’s OK,” he said, his voice deep, but still muffled. “I play basketball, too.”

“Oh that’s nice. I bet you’re good at it. You’re so tall.”

“I’m on the Peckham Junior High team.” His answers were short, clipped, like he was embarrassed to be talking to a 12-year-old girl. After all, he was 14.

“I’ll be 13 next month,” I told him.

He looked at me, smiling now. “Well, Happy Birthday.”

“Not yet, silly, wait ‘til next June 22. Then you can say it.”

He blushed.

Just then the house lights dimmed, and I grew silent. Was I flirting with this handsome tall boy? How disgusting! I’m still a boy. Or am I?

*****
After the ballet, we went to Child’s Restaurant, a popular downtown restaurant, for an after-show meal, where Matt and I continued our conversation. I couldn’t believe how interested he became in me, asking me lots of questions, which I found myself answering easily.

I told him about life on the farm, about how I helped the ladies in the kitchen and threshing time or joined with other girls in cleaning up and serving the men.

“I won the county fair baking contest, too,” I said proudly.

“Well, I know farm girls make the best wives,” he said, with a wink.

Auntie overheard the last remark, and smiled at Matt. “Now, Matthew,” she said. “Terry’s too young to be thinking about that.”

“I know, ma’am, we’re just talking.”

“OK, keep it that way, sweetie,” she said.

*****
It was obvious I passed the test that night. At the following Wednesday rehearsal, Aunt Adele announced to her class that it would audition to perform in the big 4th of July Pageant as an “all-girls dance troupe,” with me, of course, as the 12th girl in the group.

They all cheered and I cried. Both Wanda and Serena hugged me, and I loved their warm embraces, but mostly was thinking of my mom, wishing she could be here and see how pretty her daughter was.

*****
By the time auntie decided that I could join the dance group as one of the girls, there were only two weeks of school left before summer vacation. That meant each day I’d have to shed my life as a girl and revert to being a boy — at least for the school days. Otherwise, I have to say, I was living in a girl’s world.

Even though auntie refused to let me dress often as a girl now, I thought constantly about being a girl. It just seemed natural to me, I guess. When I got home from school, I tried to dress in outfits that could be considered either for boys or girls, and I don’t know how many times I pranced about, glancing in a mirror, posing as a model would do to show off a dress.

My vanity got the best of me, too. I am shamed to say that I must have posed 20 or 30 times a day in front of the full-length mirror in the ballroom, and proclaim to myself, “I am a pretty girl,” or just plain “I am a girl.” And, I certainly looked all girl; I particularly liked to look at my arms; they were so slender and soft, very much a girl’s. And my legs, too, were those of a girl, even though they were growing stronger due to my dancing.

Aunt Adele did let me dress in girl outfits when I practiced dancing; she recognized that if I was to dance as a girl on the 4th of July Pageant at the City’s huge program, I probably should get used to the girl outfits. Naturally, going into the large closet in which she stored dance outfits, I always chose the most frilly and girly ones. And how I loved to wear a tutu and a lace cap so often featured in ballet costumes. That’s exactly what I was wearing when Aunt Adele caught me dancing before the mirror in the ballroom.

“Oh Terry, you really should cut this out,” she warned me.

“What, auntie? Don’t you want me to practice?”

“Yes, dear,” she said gently, “but this priming and preening in front of the mirror is just too much. You’re acting like a prima donna, like a diva.”

“Really?”

“You don’t want to act so vain,” she explained. “People don’t like that. It shows you think you’re better than others.”

“But, Aunt Adele, I don’t think that way at all. It’s just that I finally like how I look. And I know I look nice as a girl.”

“You could look nice as a boy, too,” she said.

“Auntie, I’m not like other boys. I don’t even think I look like a boy. Boys don’t want me playing with them.”

“Oh honey,” she said, coming to me and pulling me into her body. I felt my fragile body surrender into her strong arms.

“I know, my dear, but you are a boy and sometime soon, you’ll be out in the world and it’s time you begin to act and think like a boy.”

“But auntie, I’m so happy this way.”

“I know, darling. I know.” And she held me tightly, and I cried.

*****
In my last two weeks of school, the fact that I was a boy haunted me almost everyday. My mannerisms, I realized, had grown so feminine that I became the butt of nasty comments from both boys and girls alike. I had become the class fairy, which was the name almost constantly given me.

When Miss Hankinson, our 7th grade arithmetic teacher, overheard one of the girls taunt me in the hallway outside of her room as a “fairy,” she scolded the girl.

“You don’t call people names,” she warned the girl. “I never want to hear that term again.”

“Yes, Miss Hankinson,” the girl said automatically, but she had a smirk on her face, and knew that as soon as she was out of the teacher’s hearing, I’d be a “fairy” again.

Of course, there were always snickers and giggles to be heard when I passed by a group of kids.

My best defense, I found, was to walk with a group of girl friends, usually Wanda and Serena. Just being with them seemed to silence any out loud taunts, which seemed to help. Serena, it turned out, was my best defense. Her general popularity and her own tall, athletic body was fair warning against any who would insult me openly when she was around.

But I couldn’t always be in their protection. It’s a terrible feeling to be so frightened just to walk the halls in your own school. I remember grandpa telling me once to “stand up and fight for yourself” after I ran home crying from our one-room schoolhouse back on the farm, dodging the taunts and threats of Billy Gustafson, who bullied me constantly in grade school.

I knew that wouldn’t work. There wasn’t a boy in my school back home or now here who probably couldn’t have beaten me in a fight. I didn’t like the idea of fighting anyway. I couldn’t see hitting anyone. Getting hit and hurt didn’t seem to bother me, and the few times boys tried to fight with me, I just cowered and let them hit me. Otherwise, I ran.

In the last week of school, an unusually hot and humid day for early June, I wore a pair of shorts, and since I had none of my own, I had borrowed them from the ballet costume closet. I didn’t know shorts were either for boys or girls, and not necessarily the same for each. These shorts were long ones, ending just above the knee and they were light green. I didn’t realize they were not boy shorts when I went into the boys’ bathroom to pee and found they had no opening in the front.

The room was full of boys, taking advantage of the time before recess ended, to use the facilities. I hated using the boys’ room, because that’s where I got taunted the most. It was no different this time, and I entered, realizing I’d have to find a stall to take down my shorts to pee.

“The girls’ room is down the hall,” one boy said to me as I entered.

“No girls in here,” came another. With that came a shove from the first boy, who pushed me toward the second boy.

“Leave me alone,” I said. But, my voice came out like a girlish whine, and that only made matters worse.

The laughter was derisive as I was passed from boy-to-boy, until finally one of the bigger boys, an 8th grader I knew only as Bert, who was perhaps the tallest boy — and probably the strongest — in the room, grabbed me, and held me tightly, saying to the others: “Let her alone and let her get to a stall. Don’t you see she has to go?”

With that he guided me to the door of an empty stall, and ushered me in, motioning off the others. The taunts ended and I stayed in the stall until the room grew quiet as the boys went off to class. Feeling it was safe to leave, and knowing I’d be late for class, I finally left the safety of the stall.

Bert was there, obviously waiting for me. Otherwise the room was empty.

“I’ll escort you to your class, and if the teacher wonders why you’re late, let her talk to me. I wait a minute outside the classroom.”

I looked at Bert, wondering what prompted this act of kindness.

As we approached my classroom, Bert said, “You’re very brave to wear girl shorts to school, Terry.”

“You know my name?”

“Yes, I’ve watched you recently. You’re very pretty for a boy.”

I didn’t say anything, not sure how to respond.

As we got to my classroom, he announced: “I’ll wait for you after school at the 28th Street entrance, OK? I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t need to do that; my girl friends usually walk me home.”

“That’s OK, I’ll be there. I like you.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Why was an 8th grade boy, obviously a big strong boy, interested in being a friend of a boy like me?

*****
I was thankful that day that Wanda couldn’t walk home with me. She usually did, and I was glad for that, since it protected me from being hassled by some of the roughs. Needless to say, I was fair game for thoughtless, stupid boys who like to bully people.

This day, however, Wanda was staying after school to finish up a project, and I was happy to welcome Bert’s promise, just for his protective presence. I did wonder about what this boy, who was so popular in school and one of the better players on the Wisconsin Avenue School baseball team, wanted with me. I was a bit scared, too.

Bert was there, as he promised, and greeted me with a smile. “Hi, Terry.”

“Hi, Bert, you don’t need to walk me home,” I said, cradling my books in the arms, in front of my chest.

“Well, I walk partly that way, anyway, Terry, and I know some of the guys might be out here giving you trouble.”

“They were?” I asked as we began our trek down 28th Street.

Bert merely nodded. He waved to a few friends, who had gathered at the end of the schoolyard, and they waved back, but then I could see they were pointing and talking among themselves, looking every so often in our direction.

“Can I carry your books for you, Terry?” he said.

“You have your own to carry,” I said, noticing that he carried his books in one arm along his side, as I suddenly realized that’s the way most boys carried books. Except, I guess, me. Since I seemed always to be in the company of girls, I supposed I began carrying my books as they did. I realized another thing, too: when my books were cradled in my arms, I walked with more hip movement, just like girls do.

(Historical Note: Book bags were not around in those days, and children carried their books either cradled in their arms, as girls did, or along their side in one arm, as boys did.)

“No, I want to, Terry. They look so heavy for you and I can put my books in one arm and yours in the other.”

“But it’s not like I’m a girl,” I blurted out suddenly feeling I said something stupid.

He looked at me, smiled and took the books from my arm, securing them under his left arm. I could see he was struggling a bit keeping the books from slipping, and I had to help arrange them so they wouldn’t slip from his grasp. We continued our walk.

“Would you like to do something Saturday?” he asked, when we got to my block.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have dance classes Saturday morning and then Wanda and I get together. But I think she’s going somewhere with her mom that day.”

“In the afternoon then?”

“I’ll ask my aunt?”

“OK. Do you have a bike?”

I nodded that I did have. Auntie had bought me a bike as an Easter present. It was a light blue Schwinn, with a basket.

“We could go on a bike ride to the Park and the Zoo,” he said.

“Let me ask auntie. I’ll call you later.”

We parted, and he helped me cradle the books in my arms for the last block home. He was so gentle and sweet. It’s like he was treating me as a girl. He was a strange boy, but I liked him. I watched him walk away, toward his home on McKinley Blvd., and strong, broad-shouldered boy whose already muscular body tested the cloth of his tee shirt. I noticed his thick neck and blonde crew cut. He was so strong.