Will naming a boy after a feared Native American tribe of fierce warriors insure that he grows up to be a manly man? With apologies to Chief Sitting Bull and Johnny Cash and hugs to Darla for opening the door to the Big Closet.

It all started innocently enough. My parents were hippies. When we were born, my twin sister and me, they were traveling in their flower-power VW minibus though the West, heading for a commune in the smoky mountains of San Francisco. Yes, I know. The Smoky Mountains are on the East Coast. Smoky, as in getting stoned on pot. Okay, and there aren't any mountains in SF either, just hills. High is high, no matter where you are. So sue me. Actually, that's what this is all about. Me being Sue. They decided to give us non-establishment names, so they picked two of the local Indian tribes. My sister was Cheyenne and I was Sioux. Maybe if they weren’t buzzed all the time, they would have seen the problem. I mean, Navajo or Apache or Comanche, would have been fine. I could have been Jo or Che, a good revolutionary name, but no, I was Sue, at least that’s how it sounded to everyone.

It wasn’t so bad growing up. I mean a baby doesn’t care what he’s called. In those days hippies wore their hair long and the boys dressed the same as girls, jeans, a loose top, sandals and love beads, and the girls didn’t wear bras, so, except for facial hair, you couldn’t tell the difference. By the time we were toddlers, people were always mistaking us for identical twins with our shoulder length curly blonde hair, although, of course, identical twins aren’t of different sexes. Mom, Sunshine to her friends, which, by her philosophy, was anyone who didn’t wear a uniform, and Dad, Moondog, don’t ask me where that came from, had pretty much forgotten about us. I mean, it wasn’t like they didn’t want us kids, it was just that their idea of parenting was to let us run around without supervision while they tripped out. There wasn’t too much trouble we could get into in a commune and there was always someone around to give us a plate of tofu and a glass of soy milk when we were hungry. No animals died for our nourishment, or for our clothes for that matter, which were tie-dyed cotton t-shirts that hung down to our knees or, when it was really hot, tie-dyed tank-tops. Mom was really into tie-dying. It had something to do with the psychedelic colors. By the time we were four, Cheyenne and I were sisters as far as anyone knew or cared, which was fine with us. Then two things happened that changed my life or at least my gender.

First, Moondog got called up for the draft and had to take it on the lam to Canada. Second, we were supposed to follow him, but, before Mom could get herself organized, a monumental task for someone whose daily activity was experiencing the subtle differences between domestic and Mexican cannabis, the child welfare people showed up and whisked us off to a state home. Now Mom was in a quandary. She could abandon us and head for Canada to be with Dad or she could stick around, try to straighten herself out and get us back. To her credit, she decided to stay, although the fact that the narcs raided the commune, arrested her and confiscated the minibus might have had something to do with it. Eventually she was released and, since she was broke, she cleaned herself up and found herself a job as a waitress at an SF vegan restaurant. Sunshine went back to being Sarah and she worked her way up to shift manager, which earned her enough to rent a studio apartment. It also got her enough credit with DCW to have us returned to her, but what to do with us during the day was a problem. Finally, she found a woman in the building who would look after us, along with her own two girls.

Oh, did I mention that when we were put into the state home, everyone assumed that Cheyenne and I were twin girls? I mean, if I had been Jo or Che, it might have been different, but when people asked me my name, not being able to spell, I told them Sioux and, of course, the forms got filled out as Susan. Then again, when they asked my sister her name, they assumed that what she said in four year old kid-speak was that she was shy and her name was Ann, so she got put down as Ann. I was happy with the mistake, because it meant we could stay together. When they handed out our uniforms, we both got white cotton panties, white cotton socks, a white cotton blouse with a round collar, a white polished cotton full slip, a dark blue jumper and dark blue Mary Janes. A blue cotton nightie too. If there was any question about us both being girls before, the clothes put an end to them, and we were assigned to the girls’ dormitory. My secret was discovered when we showered. The older girls knew a boy when they saw one, but, nobody would tattle on me, as we considered the adults who ran the place to be our common enemy, so I got to stay. By the time we left, I was accepted as one of the girls and I could skip rope, play jacks, make a cat’s cradle and put my hair in pigtails with the best of them.

When Mom came to get us, they gave her our outfits. Since she was just barely able to afford the apartment, there were no new clothes for me, and, since she was pretty liberal about my sister and me anyway, having been a hippie, I continued to wear my girl’s clothes. That’s how I was dressed when she dropped me off at the neighbor’s apartment on her way to work. The woman showed us around and introduced us to her two daughters. Katherine or Kitty was almost nine and Patricia or Patsy just turned seven. The girls went to school and were getting ready to leave. Their school was only a few blocks away and Kitty was old enough to walk her sister there. Looking at her watch and realizing she was going to be late, Mom hurried off, neglecting to tell our new caregiver that all wasn’t as it seemed when it came to me. Once her girls left, Mrs. Eldridge brought out a big box of their old toys, dolls and accessories, and my sister and I played on the living room floor while she went about her housework. So it went for a few months, until one rainy afternoon. Kitty and Patsy came home from school a couple of hours before Mom picked us up. Usually, they would ignore us, because they were big girls and we were little girls, but this particular day they were bored and decided to play babysitter.

The girls took babysitting literally. They wanted to practice taking care of a real baby, so they could use their experience to earn some extra money when they got older. They found some diapers their mom had packed away and had us undress. It was perfectly harmless fun. Kitty and Patsy helped my sister and me out of our shoes, dresses and slips, leaving us standing in our socks and little white panties. Kitty picked up my sister, pretending she was a baby and talking soothing baby talk as she put her on the bed. She pulled down her panties and then lifted her legs, slipping a diaper under her bottom. Kitty demonstrated to Patsy how to fold the diaper in a triangle, bring the corners together and fasten them with big safety pins. The diaper was really skimpy, but she managed to get it on my sister. Next it was my turn. You can imagine the surprised looks on the girls’ faces when they pulled down my panties. They asked me why I was dressed up as a girl and I told them, as logically as a five year old could, that our mother always dressed my sister and me the same. After thinking about it, Kitty agreed that we had to do what our mothers told us and, actually, this was good, because now they could practice on a baby boy, so she continued to put on my diaper. Maybe the girls thought their mother knew or maybe they thought it was a fun secret, but, whatever their reason, they never told on me.

By the end of the school year, Mom and our neighbor had become good friends. We would all go out to eat or to a movie together. Kitty and Patsy were really sweet and always treated me as a girl. They would even take me to the girl’s room with them. Of course, the bags of their outgrown clothes that their mother gave to our mother and that Mom dressed us in probably helped. I mean, it’s hard to think of someone in a pink and white gingham sundress, pink socks with white bows and pink sandals as a boy. Even more so when he has long, curly blonde hair down his back and cotton candy pink nails from playing beauty shop. Now you’re probably asking yourself, why would my mother go along with this? Well, I found out later that my sister and I were the result of her participation in the free love movement. Tune in, turn on and get knocked up. Dad or, more correctly, our father, split on her while she was in jail. From what she heard, drugs weren't the only thing he was experimenting with. Moondog discovered that he was actually a gay dog and took up with some other draft dodger. That probably didn’t make her too fond of men. Add to that how much easier and convenient it was for a single mother to raise two girls, the economy of her being able to double our wardrobe by sharing Kitty’s and Patsy’s old clothes, and how well I got along as a girl in general and with my sister in particular, there was no reason for her to press the issue of my manhood.

Everything went well until the end of the summer, when Mom got letters from the School Department reminding her that my sister and I needed to be registered for kindergarten. The DCW must have sent over information about us, because the forms had us down as Susan and Ann. Our going to school wouldn’t have been a problem. We would be at the same elementary school as Kitty and Patsy, so they could walk us there and take us to their house after school, until Mom got home from work. However, in order for us to be registered, we had to have proof that we had our shots and a physical. Now, you have to remember that Mom was not big on government authority and the less she had to do with the man, as she referred to officials, the better. She figured that since they had made the mistake about me, it was up to them to fix it.

Mom took the next Monday off and brought us down to the free clinic for our shots and exam. My sister and I both had on shorts, tank tops, mine was pastel yellow and hers was white with multi-colored butterflies, and sandals. We took the bus to the clinic and went in. Mom spoke to the receptionist, who motioned for us to take a seat in the waiting room with about a hundred other mothers and children waiting for their shots and physicals. About an hour later a nurse came out and directed us into an examining room. She had my sister and I take off our tops, shorts and shoes. At that age, with our panties on, we looked the same. She asked which one of us was Sue. I said I was. She had me get on the scale, checked my height and weight, took my temperature and blood pressure, and wrote it all down on the form, then she did the same for my sister. She went out and came back with a tray on which were some syringes and bottles. She gave us our shots, recorded it on the immunization record card, handed the physical form to Mom on a clipboard to complete the information about our health, told us the doctor would be in to see us shortly and left. It took Mom about ten minutes to finish both forms and then we waited and waited and waited, but the doctor never showed up. Finally, Mom had enough. She noticed that there was a diploma on the wall with a doctor’s name on it. She signed his name to the forms, peeled off the pink patient’s copies, left the clipboard on the counter, took the immunization record cards and we left. Power to the people.

Mom sent back the forms and the Tuesday after Labor Day, she brought us for our first day of school. Our neighbor had given us a collection of school clothes and Mom found similar dresses. Mine was a blue and pink plaid A-line with long sleeves under which I wore a plain white nylon full slip and, since this was a special occasion, white lace trimmed nylon panties replaced my usual plain cotton ones. White ankle socks and blue Mary Janes completed my outfit. My sister’s dress was blue and yellow plaid. We each got Monkeys lunch boxes that Mom found on sale at the local five and dime store, although, not being able to read, we had no idea whose pictures were on it. When I got older, I heard some of their songs and understood why they were on sale.

School was fun. We played house with the other little girls. There was a pretend stove and refrigerator with miniature food. Sometimes we did art projects. We girls all drew pretty pictures of flowers and families with children playing. My sister and I become recognized as "the twins" and we went to lots of our girl classmates' birthday parties. Kitty and Patsy had a nice assortment of party dresses with big fluffy petticoats, sheer tights and shoes with ankle straps and little heels which we inherited. Mom did our hair in French braids and we looked adorable. Even at that age, we were heartbreakers and at lunch we had an endless supply of Ring Dings, Devil Dogs, raspberry filled, pink and white marshmallow frosted, coconut covered Hostess Snoballs, my personal favorite, and Scooter Pies from our shy little boy admirers.

Everything went well until the sixth grade, when the girls were shown a movie about menstruation in health class and the changes that would be happening to our bodies when we reached puberty. According to the narrator, we could look forward to cramps, bloating, headaches, backaches and a bloody flow every month. The good part was that along with our period came breasts. We all knew that having breasts was important, because boys would want to take us out on dates and try to get to second base, once we had bases for them to get to. Since the film was not very explicit and our gym teacher, who doubled as the girls' health teacher, was not particularly adept at gynecology, I looked forward to the day when I too could slap some fresh boy's face when he tried to feel me up.

About a couple of months after the movie, my sister developed little swellings on her chest and her nipples began to puff up. Of course, I was still flat. Mom found some training bras for her in the clothes from our neighbor. They weren't much, just a band of stretchy material with straps that pulled over her head. There were three plain white ones and a pink one with white lace edging and a little white ribbon bow in the center. The next morning, my sister put on one of the white ones and chose a box pleated skirt and thin white cotton short-sleeved blouse through which you could see the outline of the bra. We shared a room and a bureau, so I put on the other white one, stuffed in some Kleenex to give me a little shape and found a similar outfit. When we came down to breakfast, Mom gave me a curious look. At school, the girls were all excited about our new bras and the boys were all excited in a different way. There was this one boy, Jeremy, who had a crush on us. My sister, the flirt, made sure to brush against him as we left homeroom, resulting in his shuffling down the corridor holding his notebook in front of him. Then it happened. A few months later, she woke up one morning and saw that there were spots of blood in her panties. She excitedly showed Mom and they hurried into the bathroom for her initiation into the rites of feminine protection. I started to follow, but Mom shook her head and closed the door.

As time went on, my sister moved up to an A-cup bra, with a little help at first from the padded inserts, and started to develop a feminine figure, while I moved in the opposite direction. Mom, having reached the age at which she previously would have considered herself untrustworthy, tried to deal with my puberty maturely. She took me aside and explained the facts of life, including the developmental significance of the boy parts I did have and the girl parts I didn't have. The truth hurt. It was not that I really believed I was female. The thing I had to tuck into my panties every morning was a constant reminder that I wasn't. It was just that, well, to my naíve way of thinking, just because I was a boy didn't mean I couldn't be a girl, if I wanted to be one. I liked to wear girl's clothes, skirts and blouses and party dresses with lacy slips or frilly petticoats, tights and shoes with heels. I liked to have my hair and nails done, to wear lipstick when Mom let us, and to look pretty. My friends were all girls. I did all the things my sister did and I didn't do anything boys did, like sports. So why wasn't I a girl?

Mom explained that, although I could choose my own lifestyle, the physical changes that were going to happen to me would make it hard for people to accept me as a girl. Once that happened, she continued, the intolerance of both children and adults for what in those days was insensitively called queers would result in my getting teased, probably beaten up and certainly thrown out of school. She knew this from her own experience, because hippies were treated that way. She and her friends got called names, were harassed by the police, sometimes they were beaten up or thrown in jail and some were even killed, just because they were different. She assured me that I had time to think things over, because the changes would be gradual and most likely I could get through the rest of the school year as a girl, if I was careful. We hugged for a while and, when we parted, I told her that I was sure that I would not and could not be a boy. Mom nodded, kissed me on the forehead and told me she would support my choice.

As Mom predicted, nobody noticed me, but that was mostly because the other girls were developing into teenagers and I looked like their little sister. There's only so much you can do with Kleenex. Since my sister and the other girls were obsessed with dating, I was left behind socially too. Not that I didn't want to have a boyfriend to take me to the movies and buy me ice cream sodas at the drug store, but I couldn't take the chance of some boy putting his hand where it didn't belong and figuring out that he wasn't on third base. The school year dragged by and I was relieved when we graduated, but that also meant the time for me to choose my gender was running out. Mom was patient, but, after a couple of weeks of my moping around, partly because I couldn't make up my mind and partly because my sister looked like Annette Funicello in her bikini and I looked like Twiggy in my tank suit, she called a family pow-wow, particularly appropriate considering that our Indian names were the cause of the problem. My sister's solution was very simple. Of course I was a girl and anybody who wanted a piece of me because of it had to come through her first. Mom said she was proud of her for standing by me, but that confrontation and violence were the cause of the problem, not the solution. I had to make this decision on my own and live with it.

I tried to picture myself as a boy and couldn't. It wasn't the clothes or the hair or the makeup that made me want to be a girl. We had a dress code in school and girls could only wear pants in the winter under their skirts or dresses, but I wore jeans, plain tops, socks, and penny loafers or sneakers on the weekends, I pulled my hair back in a pony tail most of the time and wearing makeup was reserved for special dress-up occasions. The problem was that I didn't have anything in common with boys. There were a few in my class who were quiet and shy, but most of them were loud, crude and physical. I could never be like that. Great, I thought. I was doomed. Either I would be teased and tormented as a boy, because I was a sissy, or I would be teased and tormented as a girl, because I was a queer. I started to cry.

Mom came over and comforted me. I told her that I did not want to be a boy. I had already signed up for Home Ec and boys had to take Shop. Not exactly a compelling reason for gender reassignment, but it was a start. I didn't know anything about being a boy, I went on, gaining momentum. I didn't even know how to use the boy's room. Actually, it was Mom's fault. When my sister and I were little, she potty trained us at the same time, so I learned to pee sitting down. That got a giggle from my sister, who probably pictured me standing in front of the toilet with my panties and tights down around my ankles, trying to hold my skirt out of the way while I went. For my part, I could see the other boys wetting themselves as their attention was distracted from the business at hand by the spectacle. Returning to a more rational consideration of my choices, I told Mom that either I could pretend to be someone I wasn't or I could pretend to be someone I was. I chose to be a girl.

Mom nodded and smiled. She said she expected that would be my decision and had made some arrangements, but she didn't want to say anything that would influence me. First, she told us that we didn't have birth certificates. Neither of us knew what that meant. Mom explained that when a baby is born a record is made with the all of the information about them, like the name of their parents and grandparents, their date of birth, place of birth and sex. However, when she went into labor they were driving through some small town. She couldn't remember the name or even the state, because her head was so messed up in those days. They found a hospital and she delivered my sister and me. The next day, the nurse brought in some forms for her to fill out that would be used to complete our birth certificates, but, since they had no money to pay the hospital bill and since they thought it would be cool if we didn't exist officially, they packed us in a picnic basket and skipped out. Last week, Mom had gone down to the records bureau. They told her that they would issue us birth certificates with her sworn statement as to our date and place of birth, which she claimed was the commune, if there was some official record to prove that we were her children. Mom got the DCW records, which had her listed as the mother of Ann and Susan, so I was officially a girl, according to the State of California. Way to go, Mom.

Second, Mom said that she had been talking to our neighbor about my going to junior high school as a girl. She stopped when she saw the shocked expression on my face and asked me what was wrong. I told her I was worried that she would treat me differently, now that she knew I was a boy. Mom laughed. It turned out she had known all along, because Mom told her about having a boy and a girl when she arranged for us to stay with her. I couldn't believe it. All this time I thought I was fooling her and it turns out she was just a nice person who was considerate of my situation. It occurred to me that if everyone was like her, I wouldn't be in this predicament. Anyway, according to our neighbor, we would need to have our shots and a physical, because we were starting a new school. Mom told us that we could get our boosters anytime and that she had a plan for the physical. A few weeks before school started, she would take my sister to the clinic. Then she would take her back a few weeks later as me. Mom still did not have a great deal of respect for authority. Our neighbor also said that they had real phys ed at the junior high school, with a locker room. The girls had to change into gym clothes and take showers. Mom had that figured out too. The boys could exempt phys ed and take an extra study hall to get their homework done, if they were on an after school team. In those days, there were no girls' sports or teams. Mom had marched, so to speak, down to the School Department and insisted that girls should have equal rights. Enjoying the relative calm after the storm of the peace movement and student radicals, the Superintendent was willing to compromise to maintain the tranquility. He allowed that, if Mom could find a suitable after school athletic program for her daughter, she could skip phys ed. I was enrolled in Miss Kathy's Dance Studio, Mom announced with a grin. That brought more giggles from my sister, obviously picturing me dancing on my tippy toes in a tutu. Actually, that sounded like fun.

Even though Mom had tried her best, there was one problem she couldn't fix and my face showed it. She asked me what was wrong. I sighed and told her how much I appreciated what she had done, but that there was still my appearance. I was going to be the only girl in the seventh grade to shave her legs and her face. Mom shook her head. There was a pill I could take that would prevent it, but it was risky, which was another reason why she had waited to see how I reacted to her plan before telling me about it. I couldn't control my enthusiasm. Mom put her hand up to stop me. She emphasized that the pill was a drug, not magic. Actually, it was a birth control pill. Mom explained that a woman's body already made what was in the pill, taking it just gave her more. However, when a man took it, it made him look feminine. My jaw dropped. I asked Mom if it meant I would have real breasts. She said that I might have little ones, but nothing like the natural ones my sister would have. My sister chimed in that she was all for me not wearing the pants in the family, so long as she had the best chest. We all laughed. Then Mom got serious. She heard about the pill and its side effects on men from a nurse who was a regular at the restaurant. The nurse told Mom that their office had prescribed the pill for hundreds of women over the last few years without any problem, but that it was illegal to give it to minors, so she had no idea what would happen if it was taken by a girl before she was fully grown, let alone a boy. Mom made me promise that I would tell her immediately, if I had any type of problem. I promised and she handed me a bottle of pills. That is how a boy named Sioux became a girl named Sue.