The excitement of the 4th of July performance lingered on for a few days. If anything, the event solidified my belief that I was truly a girl, at least in spirit and feelings, if not in my body. Our performance had truly won the hearts of our audience and the daily newspaper ran a lovely picture, focusing mainly upon me as I sang the Patti Andrews part in “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” It was true I could tell from the picture, no one could have mistaken me for a boy: my slender arms and pretty face created a picture of sweet femininity. Fortunately, the picture did not identify me; someone might have connected “Terry Michaelsson” with the boy of the same name and that would have been a disaster.

Aunt Adele, I know, was still disturbed that she had pulled off a deception by casting me as a girl, but was comforted with the fact that without the group including me there would have been no performance at all. And I had become a so totally girlish for the part, too. Yet, the fact that I had taken so completely to living a girl’s life I know was beginning to bother auntie, and she hinted almost every day at having me wear more boyish outfits. I no longer pictured myself as a boy, and resisted her gentle suggestions.

In the days that followed, I continued to live as a girl, getting together with Wanda and Serena when I could, giggling together as girls do while we went to the sweet shop or gathered at one of our homes. I day-dreamed constantly, too, about being a girl friend to Bert who knew me as a boy but treated me as his girl, relishing in the memory of his kisses and caresses. Almost at the same time, my thoughts would turn to Matthew, who knew me only as a girl and worshipped me for my sweetness. As the thoughts of the two boys turned in my head, I felt so confused, wanting to have the affections of both Bert and Matthew.

It was a warm day in mid-July when I got home from a walk with Serena. As I entered the house I heard Aunt Adele was talking on the phone in the hallway. Before I could yell, “I’m home, auntie,” I overheard her say to the person on the other line, “I’m so afraid I’ve done a bad thing with Terry.”

This sounded weird to me. I couldn’t imagine that anything auntie did would be “bad.” She was always so good to me. Her kindness had helped to remove the sting of my dear mother’s death last November; she had rescued me from my grandparents and their strict rural prison and given me a warm home and loving care. I sat down on the steps going upstairs where I could listen unseen to her phone call.

“Yes, Tillie,” she said, apparently in response to a question. So, she was talking to her best friend, Matilda.

“I’m sorry we deceived you and Matthew, but Terry was still in a very delicate state after his mother’s death. He wanted to go out to the ballet that night as a girl, and we didn’t think Matthew would become so interested in her . . . ah . . . I mean . . . him.”

Auntie waited before speaking again.

“He’s had such a tough life, Tillie, and he really is so sweet.”

(Pause)

“Yes, I encouraged this. It seemed he was so disposed to it, as well. I’m not sure if he needs some sort of treatment.”

(Pause)

“I know it’ll be difficult, but I have to do something before school starts. We’ll need to get his hair cut and then somehow get him to recognize the fact that he is a boy, not a girl.”

(Pause)

“And who knows how long this war will act, and it’ll likely mean he’ll have to go into the Army. I’ll have to do something.”

(Pause)

“Thank you, Tillie, for your understanding. I love you, dear, and say ‘Hi’ to Matthew for both of us.”

The phone hung up, and I started to cry. I got up and started up the stairs, when I heard auntie yell: “Is that you Terry? Are you back?”

My tears were flowing too much and I couldn’t answer.

“Terry, answer me,” Aunt Adele insisted.

“Yes, auntie,” I said, the words coming out between sniffles.

“OK.”

I ran into my room, hopped on the bed, grabbing my favorite fluffy teddy bear and cried, my sobs loud and continuing. I curled up, hugging my bear tightly.

I heard my bedroom door open, and auntie entered.

“Why are you crying dear?”

“It’s . . . nothing . . . auntie.”

“It is something, Terry.”

I buried my head more deeply into the pink covered pillow, my sobs growing in spite of my efforts to stop them.

“Did you hear my phone call with Tillie?” she said firmly.

I nodded. She sat down on the bed next to me, pulling my sob-racked body next to her, patting me gently.

“I’m sorry you did, honey, but we need to do something. You can’t continue this way.”

“Am I weird, auntie? Sick, or something?” I had stopped crying now, just feeling terribly sad.

“No, dear,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. “You’ve had a difficult time in your life. You’re so smart and talented and you’re very sensitive. That’s all good.”

“But I don’t feel I’m a boy, auntie.”

“Oh, honey.” She said nothing. She held me and I soon fell asleep. My dreams were troubled.

*****
Three days later, Aunt Adele took me to the beauty salon, where we all cried, auntie, the hairdresser and myself, as my lovely hair was trimmed, leaving me with a totally boy’s haircut. I felt undressed and ugly, and couldn’t get home fast enough, running up to my room, burying myself among the bedclothes and sobbing. It was awful.

I could tell auntie felt as badly as I did; she had never done anything to hurt me before, and even though she believed she was doing the right thing for me, she knew she had hurt me deeply. She left me alone for a while after we got home, but soon I heard a gentle knock on the door: “Terry, are you all right?”

I didn’t answer, merely began to resume my crying, which had finally subsided a bit. Auntie waited a few minutes and then entered the room, and sat besides me, reaching over and picking me up, holding me tightly in her arms. I laid my head on her shoulder, and cried as she held me, patting me gently, rocking me as if I was a baby. I felt so helpless, so without hope.

I could never be a boy, I thought as a rocked in her arms. I am too weak, too shy and too frightened to do what boys do, such as work in a factory, become a soldier or fight somebody with my fists. It was so scary. Since I had been with auntie, I had never been happier, even though I missed my mother. I know my mother must be up in heaven now, looking down upon me, proud of her pretty, talented daughter. How could I be a boy?

Auntie must have sensed my thinking, and she finally said: “Terry, my darling, I think I’ll fix you a nice warm bath and then we’ll dress you up in something nice, and you’ll feel better. I know this is a shock for you.”

“A bubble bath?” I inquired.

“Yes, if you like,” she said. I could tell she wished I would not want that.

“Oh yes, auntie, I do. Please.” I kissed her.

“OK honey,” she said, releasing me from her arms. “And if you like, you can put on that nice yellow sundress, but just for tonight.”

“I love you auntie, but my hair, it’s too short now to be pretty.”

“Oh my darling Terry,” she said, “You’re impossible.”

I giggled.

“Well honey, we can do something with your hair so you’ll still be a pretty girl,” she said.

“You think so?”

“Yes, honey, but remember this is just for tonight and just for in the house. From now on, outside the house, you’ll always be a boy.”

I kissed auntie as she left the room to begin to draw my bath and I undressed, readying myself for the bath. I was so happy I had a caring auntie. She was going to let me, for a while at least, to be a girl at home, but otherwise I’d have to be a boy and I wondered how I’d fit into boyhood. I had previously been such a failure. Would I lose Wanda and Serena as my girl friends? And what about Bert, who loved me as a girl? And Matt, too?

*****
It was a warm night, and auntie said I could wear a shorty nightgown; it was a gauzy light tan affair, with thin straps holding it onto my puny body, my legs showing from about mid-thigh on down. I found my fluffy pink slippers and looked into the mirror.

“Aghhhhhhhhhhh,” I let out a screech, horrified at what I saw staring back at me.

Auntie overheard me and came into the room, breathlessly inquiring, “What happened?”

“My hair,” I screamed, shocked at how short it was, still matted down a bit from the moisture in the bathroom.

“Oh my gosh, Terry, you’re such a girl! Let’s just fix your hair up and I think you’ll like it.”

“But auntie, it can’t be fixed,” I said, about to break into tears.

“Now, now honey, calm down, and auntie will make you all pretty again, but, remember, tomorrow, when you go outside, you’ll have to change your hair back to being a boy’s cut.”

I nodded, and let auntie led me into the bathroom.

“You know, darling,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re crying about. You still look like a cute girl to me.”

“Do I auntie?”

“Yes, honey, you look just so girlish in that nightie. Now let’s fix your hair.”

She had me stand in front of her, while she sat on the closed toilet seat and began to work with my hair, first rubbing it briskly with a towel to dry it out (she didn’t have a hair dryer at home; few persons did in those days). Then she brushed it, helping to fluff it out, before applying some sort of gel to my hair, rubbing it in with her fingers.

“Good, the hairdresser left it longer enough so I can work with your hair, Terry. You’ll look very pretty when I’m done.”

“Really, auntie?”

“Yes, honey, and remember lots of girls are wearing their hair short these days, particularly if they have to go to work in the war plants,” auntie said.

I remember seeing pictures of girls with short hair; it was true some could still be very beautiful.

Aunt Adele continued to work on the hair, and I was getting impatient, eager to see how I’d look. Finally, she led me to the mirror.

“Oh auntie, I am still pretty,” I said, kissing her. “I love you.”

She had fixed my hair, creating a small bang, while combing back the hair on the side of the head, into a modest ducktail.

“Now, if you aren’t the cutest girl,” Auntie said.

“I am, auntie, maybe even prettier than before.”

I did a little pirouette in front of the mirror. I did, indeed, look like a cute girl, my slender legs and arms smooth and soft-looking.

*****
Wanda and Serena came over the following day to hang out with me. I told them I couldn’t leave the house and if they wanted me to join them, they’d have to come over. They knew I had my hair cut and was supposed to start acting more like a boy; they were curious, I guess, as to how I’d look, but they were surprised.

“My Terry,” exclaimed Serena, “You’re cuter than ever.”

“Oh yes,” Wanda added. “I don’t know how you’ll go back to school as a boy any more.”

“I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I have to, auntie said.” I explained that auntie would let me dress as a girl only at home, but from now on I’ll have to return to being a boy outside the house and in school.

“We’ll still think of you as our girl friend, Terry,” Wanda said, reassuringly.

“I hope so,” I said, worrying about whether they’d still want me as a friend.

“But you’ll still be able to be a ballerina in dance class, like the rest of the girls?” Serena inquired.

“No, that’s over with,” I said. “Auntie thinks she’ll recruit a few boys this year and I’ll have to dance with them.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Serena said. “I can’t see you as a boy dancer.”

I couldn’t either, but I guess felt I had no choice if I wanted to dance again. I just didn’t feel I was strong and muscular enough to dance the male parts. And, the truth was, I didn’t want to have muscles that bulged and were so ugly. My arms and shoulders were so pretty now; what will happen if I continue to make them strong?

The three of us retreated to my bedroom, where we giggled as we always did, and we played with each other’s hair, trying various styles. Later we painted each other’s toes. It was such a fun day!

*****
“What kind of a boy friend do you want, Wanda?” It was Serena who posed the question, when we were done painting each other’s toes.

Wanda blushed easily, just like I did. It seemed her freckles just popped out of her pale board Teutonic face when she grew red. Wanda was really a plain girl, almost cherubic, but when she blushed, her eyes would glisten, and she looked truly charming, so sincere and warm.

“Serena, I don’t know,” she said. “Mom told me not to worry about boys yet; we’re only going into the 8th Grade.”

“That’s when we should think about boys,” Serena said firmly. She had a dark beauty and he already began developing into a young woman physically. Her bosom had already begun to burst tightly within her blouses.

“Terry doesn’t have to worry about boys,” Wanda said. “She already has two boy friends.”

“I do not,” I protested.

“You do too, and they’re both nuts about you,” Serena said. “Anyone can see that.”

It was my turn to blush. It was true, I had two boy friends, but they liked me as Terry, a girl, not as Terry, a boy. I dearly wished I could still be their girl friend, but those days are over. It was enough to make a girl cry.

*****
“What happened to your hair?” cried a shocked Bert when he came to the house, planning to go on a bike ride with me.

I had combed it as a boy would in those days, complete with a part, and a prominent pompadour above the forehead, my longish hair ending in a ducktail at the back. He hadn’t seen me since my haircut, and I hadn’t told him that my life as a girl was about to end.

I was dressed in shorts, a white tee shirt and tennis shoes — an all-boy outfit — but with my slim body and still longish hair and, I guess, pretty face, you could still see the girl in me. It was a warm, muggy late August day, just about two weeks before the start of school. In my outings with Bert, I usually dressed this way, putting on my girlish outfits only when we were home, except for one time, shortly after the 4th of July program, he took me to see a movie, “The White Cliffs of Dover,” a tear-jerker of a World War II movie with Greer Garson. Bert knew I liked romantic movies, just as any girl would.

“I want you to go with me as a girl,” Bert said. “To show you off. I know you’ll be the prettiest girl in the movie.”

At first I objected, pleading that someone might recognize me as a boy or that we’d bump into somebody we knew. That would be a disaster, I told him. He persisted, promising to go to an out-of-the-way movie house, meaning we’d have to take a streetcar.

“Don’t worry,” Bert said. “Everybody can see you’re a girl and we’ll have fun.”

In the end, with auntie’s reluctant permission (I brought tears to my eyes to persuade her), we went to a Sunday matinee at the Tivoli across town. On the streetcar, in the line at the movie house and at the sweet shop afterwards, I saw people looking at us and smiling, obviously pleased to see a handsome boy with his pretty date. I have to admit such admiring looks are intoxicating.

Bert bought the popcorn and he held my hand during the movie, sometimes slowly moving his fingers up my arm, caressing its smoothness. Soon I snuggled as close to him as I could, restrained only by the armrest between our two seats. He was so much a gentleman, taking a clean hankie from his pocket and gently rubbing tears that streamed down my face as the movie hit a poignant part.

I loved being his girl friend, and could hardly see myself now as just another boy.

We biked on that warm day to our usual spot along the river, but the bugs were too bothersome, especially the pesky black flies. We finally stopped at a water fountain for a drink at a park, about halfway home, and Bert looked at me, saying, “I only see a girl in you. I wish you were one for real, Terry.”

We propped our bikes up against a tree and sat on a park bench, hoping the flies and bugs might not be as bad as they were at the river.

“I know, Bert,” I said slowly. “But auntie said I have to start living again as a boy; that’s who I am and I have to plan for the future.”

“Terry, I know it, too,” he said, leaning over to give me a quick kiss.

I accepted it, knowing that we shouldn’t really kiss in such a public place, but for the time being we were alone.

“Who knows how long the war will last, and we’ll both be drafted,” I said. “I just can’t see myself as a soldier or sailor.”

“You could go as a WAAC or WAVE,” he said, with a smile, referring to the two units of the Army and Navy that were organized for women.

“I’d like that, but it’s not possible, since my birth certificate says ‘boy.’”

“Terry, you’ll always be my girl friend,” Bert said. “Remember that. And we can still do things together.”

“I hope so, Bert, ‘cause I like you so much.”

And I pecked him on the cheek. We rode home slowly, saying little to each other. For some reason, I felt my time as Bert’s girlfriend was at an end, even though he promised otherwise. A girl can just sense those things.

*****
A day after the bike ride, Matt called me. Auntie answered the phone and I heard her say, “Nice to hear from you, Matt.”

She listened to him for a moment, then replied, “Well, I’m happy you feel that way.”

I was mystified, wondering what Matt was telling auntie. I was so afraid he was mad at both of us for deceiving him that I was as a girl, but auntie seemed to be smiling, and I took that as a good sign.

“He wants to talk to you, dear,” she said, finally, handing the phone over to me.

I was trembling as I took the phone, fearing what he’d be saying.

“Hi,” I said weakly.

“Hi Terrance,” came his voice, strong a clear. He was using my full boy’s name.

“Hi Matt,” I said with more strength in my voice.

“I know the full story, Terrance,” he began, “And I was mad for a while that you and your auntie lied to me and mom. But mom explained everything, and I think I understand, though I don’t know why a boy would want to be a girl.”

“Thank you, Matt,” I said simply, not trying to respond.

“Can we still be friends, Terrance?”

“If you want to be, but I’ll have to only be a boy with you,” I said.

“That’s OK, I think,” he said, slowly. “I find it hard to think of you as a boy, but we had such nice conversations together, and we like the same things.”

“I know, and I like you Matt, too.”

“Can you go to the Museum with me next Saturday?” he asked suddenly.

“I’ll have to ask auntie, but I’d like to. Don’t they have that exhibit there showing the buffalo and all that?”

“Yes, and a whole lot more, too.”

“I’d love that,” I answered, my voice rising to a higher scale, a sweet girlish tone. Somehow, I’d have to start sounding more like a boy.

*****
Despite what Aunt Adele did, she could not erase my effeminate behaviors. I continued to walk in short steps that seemed to exaggerate my hip movement and I often sat, legs tucked under me as a girl would. And, I couldn’t resist flicking my hair repeatedly, keeping the longish strands from flowing into my face.

Even though I was entering the 8th Grade, my voice still retained it sweet soprano quality, and, as far as I could tell I was to be the only boy in my class who still sang like a girl. It was humiliating, but for some strange reason I liked the idea. My singing as Patti Andrews in the 4th of July program had caused me so much praise and joy. I both wanted my voice to change so I could be like other boys and didn’t want it to change, so I could still be a girl. It was obvious I couldn’t have it both ways, although I suspected nature would eventually make the choice for me and somehow make me a boy.

Auntie bought some weights for me to use to strengthen my arms, to give them some tone. Needless to say, I hated using them; so boring to do repeated lifts. And my arms grew weary so quickly. It was funny, I liked having soft, weak arms like a girl, but, alas, that would have to change, too. I was thankful for one fact: I was still in the grade school setting in 8th Grade, and our school had no gym like the junior and senior high schools did where I’d have to change in a locker room, change into gym clothes and later shower before resuming classes. I hated the thought of changing clothes in front of other boys, all of who would have muscles, and who would make fun of me. And the thought of doing all that boy stuff in gym also scared me; how could I possibly do all of it. I knew I was too weak.

How sad I was to see that summer of 1942 end. It had been the most exciting year of my life, largely because I had spent almost all of it as a girl, but that was over. Somehow, I’d have to be a boy from here on in. Auntie Adele was right: I had no choice that once a boy always a boy; there would be no changing that.

Not too much changed in 8th Grade: the kids in the school had come to accept me, except for a few bullies who occasionally sent taunts my way. Sometimes they’d pushed me around, and challenge me to fight back, but I‘d usually figure out a way to flee without being harmed. I guess they got bored in teasing me, and I settled back into an easy school year, where I found my studies interesting, the teachers friendly (maybe ‘cause I was such a cooperative student) and my girl friends still accepting.

*****
Wanda, Serena and I seemed to be together all the time, walking together often both to and from school, sitting together in the cafeteria or just hanging out in the hallways during our brief breaks. Sometimes, a few other girls would join us, and I would be there, the only boy, but hardly a boy at all. My giggles matched the high pitch of all the girls and my gestures — the flailing arms, the posture and all — were just as girlish. It’s as if I was just one of them.

In truth I couldn’t have been happier, except when I thought of my mother, who by the time I entered 8th Grade had been dead nearly 10 months. I thought of her mainly after school, when I’d want to rush home to tell her I might have met a new friend (it was always a girl), or a teacher had complimented my work or I had been picked again to be the lead soprano in the school chorus.

The teacher, Mrs. Watkins, had auditioned all of the students that tried out for the chorus to figure out where to place them, either as sopranos, or altos, or mezzo-sopranoes, or tenors, or basses. After they were completed, she posted a list in the music room just before our class of where we all were to be placed. In eagerness, hoping to be a tenor this year, I looked on the list, and my name was not there.

“Terry, you’re not listed,” Serena said. “I don’t know why. You got the best voice among the group.”

I couldn’t believe it, and began to hold back tears. I loved singing so much, and I honestly felt I was really good at.

Just then, Mrs. Watkins entered the music room, and walked over to us. I must have given her a dirty look, for she quickly said, “Terry, I need to talk to you. Come with me into the sound room.”

I wanted to burst into tears, thinking I had done something wrong. I saw Serena and the others watching me dutifully follow the teacher into a small room that was used for solo teaching assignments and practicing.

“Terry, you’re probably wondering why you’re not on the list,” she began, after having me sit down in one of the two chairs in the room. I sat down primly, my two hands neatly folded on my lap, as was my manner now.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, honey,” she began slowly. “You know you have a lovely voice, dear.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“But, honey,” she continued, as if she were addressing a little girl, “I could hardly make you a tenor. You’re voice still has the quality of a soprano, and I don’t know where to place you. As a soprano, you’d have to standing among the girls, dear.”

I nodded, a bit puzzled. I had sung as a boy soprano last year, along with two other boys, but now in the 8th Grade Chorus, she explained, I’d be the only boy still singing soprano.

“I don’t know if you still want to be a soprano,” she continued. “It’s where your voice places you, and you’d be so good there. The chorus would sound lovely with you as the lead soprano.”

I was startled. “The lead soprano?”

“Yes, Terry, you have the loveliest voice among all the girls . . . er . . . sopranos.”

“The lead?” I repeated the question.

“Terry, would that bother you to be among the sopranos as the only boy?”

I took a minute to answer. I really wanted to sing soprano and was so flattered she thought I could be the lead, which would mean solos and everything. But, would that open me to even more teasing and bullying? It probably would mean some people’d harass me, but they were stupid, I thought.

“No, Mrs. Watkins, if you think it’s best for the chorus.”

“Good,” she said. “You’re a soprano then. Just take you place with the soprano girls, OK?”

I wanted to leap with joy and couldn’t wait to tell Serena and Wanda. I know they’d be pleased. Too bad I didn’t have my mom around to tell. But I know Auntie would hug me when I told her. Little was I to know that my pleasure at being picked as a soloist would soon cause me great pain.
(To be continued)