Chapter Nineteen: Male Behaviors
The following Sunday, Michael and I went to the Mets game; the team was hopelessly buried in the bottom rungs of the league and the crowds were embarrassingly sparse for a delightful, sunny afternoon. I put on sun screen before leaving for the game, knowing full well that we would likely be sitting in the sun in Citi Field, which has virtually no canopy to protect the fans.

After our work was finished at the meal site, we went to the nearest subway station to board the train to the park; we had no trouble finding seats together on the train thanks obviously to the fact that few fans were going to the game.

“I’ve never had a more enjoyable day at the ball park,” Michael said as we left after the game, both of us happy to stay until the last out in another hapless loss by the home team.

“Nor I, Michael,” I said.

At my insistence, we agreed to go “dutch” with each of us paying our share of the drinks, food and ticket prices. True to the gentleman he was, Michael however insisted upon treating me as a lady; he went to purchase all the refreshments, let me choose whether I wanted the aisle seat and making certain the seat was clean.

“For a girl . . . oh . . . I meant to say young woman . . . you really know your baseball,” Michael said; he was truly impressed.

“It’s the only sport I ever really liked, even though I was never any good playing it,” I explained. “My mother was always a fan and so we followed the games together.”

“You never played on any of those girls softball teams?”

“No, those girls were too good for me,” I said. It was a truthful statement, even though as a boy I was never athletic enough to compete with the girls on those teams.

We had a fun day, enjoying each other’s company even at the moments when we differed over certain bits of baseball strategy, particularly the third base coach’s decision to send Danny Murphy to home plate, only to be called “out” on a close play.

I screamed that it was a “stupid” decision, upset since the score would have tied the game (at the time, the Mets were still close). “No, he was right to try the way the Mets are hitting he’d probably be stranded at third any way.”

I argued my case, even getting a male fan sitting behind us to agree with me; soon it almost developed into a brawl between Michael and the fan, before I intervened.

“Hey quit it, guys. This game doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. He was out, so what?” I said.

Soon the three of us were laughing and the man behind us offered to buy us a beer, which I declined with the excuse that I had to “watch my figure.”

Michael and I continued our platonic relationship as the summer ended and autumn began; in most cases it meant getting together to do something after our Sunday luncheon chores were ended. We went to museums in the area, saw a movie or found a classical music event; most of the time, we shared dinner together. He talked about his work and his family and I soon told him about my onetime relationship with Randy, leaving out the fact of course that my former boyfriend was eight years younger than me and that he met me on my first public excursion as a woman.

“We both have lost our first true loves,” Michael said after hearing my story.

By October, I began to sense that our relationship was getting close and budding into a true romance; Michael talked less and less about his wife and often wondered about our lives in the years ahead.

“I would hope we could be friends forever, Julie,” he said after a day in which we had worked the meal site, gone to a chamber music concert and finished up at a noisy pizza parlor.

With that he took my hands in his and looked at me, awaiting a response. I felt he was pleading with me to accept him as the man in my life. My feelings were reinforced with the kiss he gave me that night as we parted. It was long and full of passion.

I cried that night; I knew I would have to tell him about me – everything.

*****
Would Michael forgive me for deceiving him for so long once he learned that I was once a boy? Would he even be open to having a woman in his life who wasn’t born female? I doubted it; from what I knew of Michael’s life it appeared he had only a routine middle class, somewhat sheltered life. He had married his high school sweetheart and the couple had two sons (now adults). He continued to live in his detached house in the eastern extremes of Queens and each day took the train to downtown Manhattan where he worked as vice president of a medium sized accounting firm.

In spite of his prosaic life style, Michael proved to be an imaginative, fun companion. He surprised me by his love of classical music and serious theater.

“You must make sure I get to see the next play you direct at your high school,” he told me.

“Of course, I’ll make sure you’re there,” I said. “The kids work so hard to get it right. You must see them.”

The truth was I had become proud of the dramas that my students staged over the last year; they were greeted with wide praise from those who attended and many of the praises came from others besides the proud parents and grandparents who attended. The play reviewer for the online local news site, harborlights.net, said our spring play, “Death of a Salesman,” was performed “with a sensitive maturity that belies the fact that all the performers were Farragut High School students.”

“I’m sure their teacher had something to do with their successes on stage,” Michael offered.

“I try, but it’s the kids who do it themselves,” I said.

“I think you’re too modest, Julie,” he said, smiling.

“You’ll have to judge for yourself when we do “Raisin in the Sun” in early November.”

The more I was with Michael the more and more comfortable I was with the realization that I was imagining a future life with a man already in his fifties, while I had still to reach thirty. Yet, would my confession to Michael about my transition put an end to any prospect for such a future?

*****
I had become so busy in the weeks leading up to the “Raisan” performance in November that I had to pass on our Sunday excursions, as well as to beg off on a couple of invitations Michael had made to see a movie or go to a concert.

“You’re not avoiding me are you, Julie?” Michael asked after my third rejection of a date.

“Hardly, Michael. I love our outings together and you’re so nice to me.”

“It just seems . . .”

“Oh Michael, you just don’t understand how busy these days can be.”

To mollify him, I agreed to meet him for supper at a Thai restaurant on the first Friday of November with the understanding that we would not go anywhere afterward, since I had to prepare for a Saturday rehearsal. “I’ll just have five days before opening night,” I explained.

The restaurant was incredibly crowded, but we were able to elbow into a small table. The din of conversations was intermingled with the clatter of pots and shouts from the staff in a foreign language I presumed was Thai, forcing us to huddle together to share conversation. It was obvious, too, that whatever we said would be unheard by any nearby person over the noise of the place.

“My son, Buddy, and his wife are hosting Thanksgiving dinner for the family this year,” he began.

“It’s nice you’ll have a nice family get-together that day,” I said.

“I’d like you to join me and to meet my family, Julie. Please say you will.”

I was thunderstruck. What was I to say?

“To meet your family?” I asked, mumbling the words.

“Yes, to meet the family, Julie. They won’t bite. I’ve told them all about you and they want to meet you.”

“Did you tell them how young I am?”

“Yes, and how pretty you are, too!”

“Michael, I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I said.

“Ready for what? I’m not proposing marriage,” he said, obviously reading my mind.

“You’re not?”

“Well, not yet,” he said, ending the comment with a short laugh; I followed with a nervous giggle.

“Who’ll all be there?”

“My son, Buddy and his wife, Thelma, and their four-year-old daughter, and my son, Emmett, and his wife, Beth, and their two boys, plus my brother Henry and his wife and my mother,” he said.

“You’re mother, too?”

“Yes, and mom can be lots of fun but she often speaks her mind, I must warn you about her,” he admitted.

“Oh my, Michael, I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

To his credit, Michael did not press that point and I agreed to let him know in a day or two. It was obvious I’d have to tell Michael everything and do it soon.

*****
As flattered as I was with Michael’s apparent interest in me, I could not get Randy out of my mind. I had vowed not to look into the sports pages for information on the fortunes of the young man whose prowess on the football field was drawing heavy media attention. I couldn’t help myself, even as I tried to restrict my eyes to the Mets box score I found my eyes straying to the daily roundup of pro football team activities. Invariably there was a report that speculated on Randy’s ability to handle the demands of pro football.

“I hate myself for still caring about Randy,” I confessed to Laura McPherson, my teacher friend, as we shared lunch time together at Farragut.

“It’s only natural, Julie. He’s quite a young man, you know,” she said to try to reassure me.

She and I had become close friends, both ready to confess our feelings to each other. From outward appearances, she and I were exact opposites of each other. She was a large young woman with a continual battle to keep her weight down while I was both shorter and more petite. Yet, we shared much in common, both having troubled love lives and facing feelings of inadequacy. I of course never was without the feeling that I was a flawed person due to my transgendered situation while she was consumed with the lack of self-esteem brought about by being overweight. Since graduating from college, she had confessed to being almost “dateless,” exasperated by her mother’s growing concern that Laura would never be in a position to give her grandchildren.

Actually, Laura was a pretty woman; she wore tasteful clothes that flattered her curves. Furthermore, she was a cheerful, pleasant and generous. Her lack of a lover, I’m sure, was due more to the lack of working around eligible young men and a reluctance to begin any online man search. While I seemed to be a bit more fortunate in having male friends, I still felt the same concern as she did. Would we both go through life without a husband, or at least a live-in lover? Thus, it was that we shared our joys and fears and frustrations with each other. She was a great friend as well as a soulmate.

I told her about my growing relationship with Michael as well as my continuing infatuation with Randy. “I feel so badly that I can’t get my mind off of Randy, particularly now that he’s about to be married to a perfectly wonderful girl,” I confessed.

“I suppose you feel guilty about that?” she asked.

“I guess so. Partly ‘cause I feel like I’m betraying Michael and also because I should let go of Randy. I really want to wish both he and Carmen the best in life. Really I do, but I just can’t seem to help myself.”

“Time will overcome all this, Julie,” she said.

*****
On the second Sunday of November, I met Michael late in the afternoon for a few drinks and supper at a popular Italian restaurant; it broke our usual routine of going out right after our lunch time work at the meal site, since I wanted to hurry home to watch Randy play. He had been drafted by the Minnesota Vikings and was due to make his first start at quarterback, replacing an aging player whose onetime skills had dimmed. The once-proud Vikings had been reduced to several years of losing records and obviously felt that they had nothing to lose by playing a rookie; I feared Randy would get hurt, since the team’s offensive line had become notorious for failing to protect their quarterbacks from sacks.

I felt profound relief when the game ended with Randy still healthy; he had dodged the huge players of the Detroit Lions – and any crippling injury from rough tackles – thanks to his quick feet. Even though Randy’s skills failed to bring victory, he tossed three touchdown passes and ran for a score himself and was acknowledged as a coming star. The cameras from the national television crews focused three times on the young woman they said was his “fiancée,” Carmen.

Entering the restaurant I knew that I would tell Michael that day about my gender status. He was pressing me for an answer to his invitation to join his family’s Thanksgiving celebration and I knew I could not accept it without telling him.

The fact that I was born a boy and had transitioned was known by my fellow teachers and some of the students; for the most part, most persons thought little about it and accepted me as a woman. It was a comforting feeling to be accepted. Yet, Michael was not aware of my change and I knew I must tell him.

“Michael, before I accept your invitation to Thanksgiving, I need to tell you something about myself. It may make you want to take back your invitation,” I began as we lingered over coffee after finishing our meal.

“You didn’t rob a bank did you?” he asked, smiling.

“Nothing like that, Michael.”

“Well? What then?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, Michael,” I began, but quickly got to the blunt truth. “You see, I was born as a boy named Jason, but I always felt I was a girl and I began living fulltime as a woman about five years ago.”

“You what?” He appeared to be totally perplexed.

“I am legally and now physically a woman, Michael, though I was born with male genitalia. That’s all been changed so that I’m a woman in every way.”

“Oh migosh. Are you like a drag queen or something?”

“No,” I laughed. “I’m a woman. My name is legally Julie and all my identification is female.”

“This is confusing, Julie,” he said, looking at me closely in the dim light of the restaurant. “You’re so feminine, so soft and dainty that I can’t picture you as a boy.”

“In truth I was never much of a boy. I just knew from a young age that I should have been born a girl,” I said honestly.

“Oh, but you’re a woman in every way possible? If you disrobed, would you look like a woman, you know, down there?”

“Yes, Michael, I’d look as much like a woman as your late wife did. About the only thing I can’t do is to bear children.”

He smiled at me. “Well, I’m told old to be a new father anyway,” he said.

Michael looked at me more closely, not saying anything; I wondered whether he had truly understood what I had told him.

“What is it, Michael? Are you bothered by me . . . and . . . ah . . . my change?”

“Of course, but that’s not it? I remember now. You’re that teacher from Farragut High, aren’t you? The one who was in the news a while ago?”

“Yes, that teacher,” I said, adding a bit of sharpness to my voice.

“No, no, no, don’t get me wrong, I just was surprised. It really doesn’t change anything, Julie. You’re still a lovely woman.”

I was surprised that Michael did not act overly shocked at my revelation. If anything, he seemed to be comfortable in receiving the information. I knew Michael to be a level-headed person, always open to hearing another person’s point of view. He never seemed to place judgment upon the men and women who came in for the free meals, accepting them as human beings; perhaps that explained his almost studious approach to my words.

“So you’re not a drag queen? What are they called, ‘transvestites?’” he probed.

“Not really, I don’t do it for sexual gratification or to show off or just because I like to wear women’s clothes,” I said. “I just feel I am a woman. Being a woman is the real me. Michael I hope that makes sense to you.”

“It just seems strange,” he said.

I must have spent the next fifteen minutes outlining what I had to go through to become the woman I am now, explaining the psychological examination, the hormone treatment and finally my sexual reassignment surgery. I referred him to several online websites where he could check into the medical and psychiatric background of transgendered women.

“Thank you for telling me this, Julie,” he said when I had finished.

“I felt you had a right to know, Michael. I never thought that our friendship would have gotten as involved as it seems to have or else I would have told you sooner.”

“Me either. Julie I must admit I was falling in love with you,” he said. “I wanted to have you meet my family, my kids and grandkids and my mother. They’ve been urging me to go out and meet another woman, but you’re the first woman I’ve had feelings for since my wife died.”

“Michael, I must admit I too have wondered about why I have become so fond of you and surprised that I have found myself falling in love with you,” I said sincerely.

“He smiled. “We aren’t exactly the same age, are we?”

“No, but as I got to know you better, that didn’t seem to matter much, Michael.”

I looked around at the restaurant that was now filling with customers; several groups of people were awaiting tables to clear.

“I think they’d like to use this table, Michael,” I suggested, realizing we had lingered far too long after finishing our meal.

He agreed and we got up to leave. He left an overly generous tip – it was a trait of his to overtip and I loved him for it – and we proceeded out the door and into the frigid evening air. He walked me to my car, a walk that suddenly felt awkward. I wasn’t certain what to say, and he was silent as well. His mood grew somber and I wondered if he still wanted me to accompany him to his family’s Thanksgiving dinner. But, he said nothing, content to do his gentlemanly duty of holding my car door open for me, but without his usual kiss or hug.

“Good night, Julie,” he said simply, closing the door on me, turning around and walking back to his own car.

I wanted to cry; I turned the key in the ignition and the motor fired. I shivered in the cold car, wishing that Michael would come back and hug me until I turned warm with desire. He didn’t, of course. I was certain my lovely affair with this perfectly marvelous older man was ended. I was just too strange a creature for him, I knew.

*****
To his credit, Michael asked me to join him for a drink on the following Wednesday night, offering to pick me up at my house and then taking me to a quiet lounge, named “Lovers’ Nest,” obviously designed to serve romantic couples. It was a place that featured soft music, numerous lounge groupings so that couples could sit together with some modicum of privacy. While the drinks were overpriced, they had many exotic concoctions to choose from.

“Julie, this is all too strange for me,” he said once we had settled into a love seat and had been served by an elegantly dressed waitress in a discreet cocktail dress.

“What is?” I asked, even though I suspected he was referring to my gender situation.

“You being a boy. I can’t accept that, even though I’ve never seen you as anything but a lovely young woman.”

“I understand,” I said, and the truth was I did understand. He came from a strong Catholic background and still was a serious practitioner of the faith.

“Do you really, Julie?”

“Yes, I do, and I thank you for your honesty. I would imagine your kids and mom might not be too pleased to hear the truth about me.”

“Particularly mom,” he said. “You know how religious she is.”

“You’ve told me about her and I know you’re close to your family, Michael. So there’ll be no Thanksgiving dinner for me?”

“We better not,” Michael said.

I nodded.

“And I won’t be at the meal program anymore,” he said. “I think it’s best we not see each other.”

“Don’t quit the meal program,” I protested. “I’ll stay away. They need you there.”

“No, you keep going there if you wish,” he said. “You really brighten the place up Julie. Besides, I will be taking over the meal site at another parish where the program has fallen into trouble.”

“OK, if that’s how you want it, Michael. I’ll plan on keep working at the site and you do what you want to.”

“It’s best this way, Julie. Really Julie, please don’t take this as any shortcoming of yourself; you’re a lovely, warm, bright young woman and any man would be proud to have you, but you’re just not right for me.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Michael, if any man would be proud to have me, why are you scared to introduce me to your family? Of course, you’re afraid, ‘cause you think I’m not a real woman. Well, I’ll tell you I’m as much a woman as any girl in this restaurant.”

“Julie, it’s not that,” he said, averting my eyes.

“Don’t kid me. You just used me as a plaything,” I said.

“No, Julie, I truly adored you and we had so much in common,” he pleaded.

“Forget it, Michael,” I said, rising from my seat. “Here’s my share of the bill. I’m going.”

I reached into my purse and fumbled around for my wallet, before finding it and withdrawing a ten-dollar bill. I threw it on the table, and turned to go. Michael got up and grabbed my arm, but I just shook him off.

“Julie, I’ll take you home,” he said.

“No, thanks, I’ll find a taxi.”

I ran out of the restaurant, more angry than sad. It was over, I knew. I never saw Michael again after that night in Lover’s Nest. How ironic is that name for the site of a brush-off?

*****
Life without Michael, I soon learned, could still be fulfilling and enjoyable. Certainly, my life was not boring, particularly as I found the production of a play each semester to be demanding and full of surprises. That, coupled with my daily feeling that I had to be the best teacher possible to save the children I was teaching from falling into lives of despair. Most of the students at Farragut came from low-income families and the majority was Hispanic or African-American; frankly they had very little interest in Emily Dickinson or Chaucer or basic grammar.

Nonetheless, I had learned early on to work at making the classes relevant; apparently, it worked since I had gained confidence in being able to create order in the classroom – no small task – while maintaining some feeling of joy. Of course, I wasn’t perfect and found myself failing far too many students.

One of those I failed was D’Andre Washington, who came to our class in the beginning of the freshman year; he was sullen and resentful, refusing to do much more than sit in the back of the room, slouching or putting his head down on his desk.

Somehow I must have struck a nerve on D’Andre with a poem by Langston Hughes:

“I was so sick last night I
Didn't hardly know my mind.
So sick last night I
Didn't know my mind.
I drunk some bad licker that
Almost made me blind.''

“Sounds like my mom’s boyfriend,” he said.

“And my dad,” another student said.

“Yeah, if they ain’t drunk, they’re stoned,” D’Andre said. The class laughed.

I suggested that they each write a short poem, about anything they liked. To assist them, I gave them a short instruction, telling them that they didn’t need to rhyme, but that they had to try to create a rhythm in their words.

“Like rap, Miss Pearson?” D’Andre said.

“Yes, like rap,” I agreed.

D’Andre’s poem the next day was the most expressive of those submitted, and as he read it to the class – with more of a rap rhythm than I would have liked – I found myself almost moved to tears. It was the work of a sensitive, caring boy who dearly missed the warm affection of a mother whom I suspected had largely abandoned him to satisfy some lout of a man.

During the Thanksgiving vacation, D’Andre was shot during an apparent gang fight. He died three hours later in the hospital emergency room. For the remainder of the school year, I posted D’Andre’s picture in our classroom. One of the more artistic students, a girl, copied the words of one of his poems, entitled “Hope in the Streets,” in a neat hand and I posted it next to his picture in an honored place on the bulletin board.

*****
The students, the Drama Club and my work at the meal site: my life was full. I was a happy woman. My social life was largely nothing, consisting of occasional outings with the other young teacher in the school, Laura McPherson, and with Jon Edwards. Laura and I made a regular commitment to watch Minnesota Vikings games, even if it meant finding a sports bar that beamed the game when it wasn’t being shown locally.

She knew, of course, of my love for Randy.

“You’re a strange woman,” Laura said one Sunday as we watched the second half of a Vikings game at “Sports Alive,” a bar resplendent with dozens of television screens. (We usually had to miss the first half of the games due to my meal site work.)

“Why is that?”

“You love him, I know that,” she explained. “Yet, you know you can’t have him.”

“I know, Laura, but he’s such a darling boy, and his wife, Carmen, is such a sweet person,” I said. “They deserve only the best. They’re having a baby. Carmen called me and said it’s going to be a girl and wondered if I’d mind if they named it Julie. They said I had helped them find each other. They’re so much in love.”

“You’re sweet,” she said.

I leaned over and kissed her; it was an affectionate, but chaste kiss. We were girlfriends and had shared some time in bed together. I loved cuddling into her ample body and she loved to caress my daintier one. Our sex was tepid, but warm and comforting.