I’ve heard others say that being transgendered is a gift. This is the story of how my gift worked out in my life.

My oldest sibling is my sister, ten years my senior. Next in line is my brother, eight years older. Then my next sister, five years older. Finally me. You might notice two gaps in the ages. I'm the youngest of four surviving children born to my parents. Two died in infancy. They would have filled in the gaps.

My story is softer and gentler than many I've heard, but no less heart wrenching to live through. Actually, I didn't need to learn to be silent. I knew instinctively that I couldn't tell anyone about who I really was. I don't actually remember my parent's splitting up but I know it was when I was about four years old. What I remember about it was the train trip from Kansas to Oregon with my mother. Less than a year later, my brother went back to Kansas to live with my father.

That left me to live with my mother and two sisters. I don't think that being in an all-female environment had anything to do with me being who I was, but I do think it allowed me to be free in expressing myself in ways I would never have been able to express had my father been around. My sister naturally included me in her play. No dress up or anything like that, but I did play with paper dolls and other "girl's toys.” I learned to embroidery when she did. I learned to dance like her. When I was in kindergarten, I remember walking down the hall from my bedroom to the bathroom with my shirt off. I had taken my nipples between thumb and forefinger, pulling them out to pointed little pseudo breasts. My sister came out of the bathroom and mildly chastised me. At eleven years of age, her chest looked a lot like that without her assistance. I'm sure she thought I was making fun of her, but honestly, she was not on my mind. It just seemed natural to expect that was what my chest would one day look like. Another tidbit of information is that my best friend was a girl who lived down the street. In my mind, there was no difference between her and me. She was my friend and of all the kids in the neighborhood, I'd rather play at her house than any other. My favorite over two boys who lived just as close. This persisted until the next important thing that happened and somewhat beyond it until we moved.

The next happening of import came when a stranger showed up at my door calling me by name, and my mother introduced him as my father. He had come to reconcile with my mother. This lasted all of about three months. It seems my mother was unable or unwilling to lose the boyfriend she had at the time. She, fearing my father’s temper might cause him to hurt the boyfriend, (her story, learned when I was nineteen) took off with the boyfriend for California, never again to be in my life.

It was then that my life became a struggle. I loved my mother and for years swore that had I the chance, I'd happily join her. I suppose that somewhere in the back of my mind, I blamed my father for driving my mother away. I learned later the truth of the matter was that my mother was less than honorable in her marriage vows and had made the choices all on her own. Be that as it may, I had a hard time adjusting from the soft gentle way my mother treated me to the more demanding expectations of my father. Looking back I can see that I was a mama's boy. After all, I was mom's baby. The youngest and a last child she would ever have. Crying had always swayed the way things were going with mom, not so with dad. In fact, one of the first things my brother told me, was that if I wanted to get along with dad, I should learn not to cry. … A demand for silence.

Six or seven years of letting my emotions hang out, expressing my not so masculine nature, made it hard to curb. I cried a lot, much to the displeasure of my father. My brother took it upon himself, with my father's tacit approval, to toughen me up. He was allowed to pick on me. Mind you, I don't think that either of them intended to be cruel. I'm sure that both of them thought it was good for me. The crying lessened and I managed to keep from crying in public. The last time I remember crying was in the seventh grade when I was publicly humiliated by a teacher in class. The look on my friends face let me know that if I wanted to get along I had to go along.

It was some time before that that I began to explore that which was feminine about me. At age nine, we had moved for a second time since dad came back. It turned out that my bedroom had an extra-large closet. Much bigger than I would ever need at that age. As a result, many boxes of things that probably should have been thrown out were stored in there. I was a latch key kid, that is I would have been had we locked our door. I didn't need a key, but because of our age differences, all of my siblings were in high school or beyond while I was still in grade school. The high school was across town, requiring an hour or more bus ride on public transportation for them to get home. Add to that that they were all active in after school activities, that meant I had plenty of time to myself at home after school. During one of those days, I began to explore the boxes in my closet.

One of them contained a smattering my sister's old clothes. A couple of swimsuits and one lone pair of panties with a torn seam. I don't know what possessed me, but one of the swimsuits was my size and I just had to try it on. Without a second thought, I stripped and put it on. I immediately went to my sister’s room to see how I looked in her full-length mirror. My head didn't agree with the body, so back to the box where I found a swim cap. With the swim cap on, I now looked complete. Somehow, I felt complete.

If crying like a girl was unacceptable, then dressing like a girl was certainly unacceptable. Silence is golden. I would tell no one about this. The little girl in the mirror became my friend, my closest friend. After the swimsuit, I pinned up the seam in the panties and tried them on. They were so much better than the boy’s underwear that I had worn up until then. But I couldn't wear them except for a few minutes at a time. Many days after school, I'd be home alone, wearing that swimsuit, feeling alive, more alive than I ever had before.

Then came the day when my father decided to go through all that old stuff in my closet to see what could be thrown out. He talked to me about the pinned up seam in the panties. Heart racing, I admitted that it was me that had pinned them. When asked why, I also admitted that I had tried them on. Well, my father, bless his heart, decided to let that pass without punishment, but the boxes disappeared. It was about this time my brother began to "toughen me up."

That left me with no recourse, if I was not to lose the girl I had found, but to explore my sisters closets. All in stealth mode, I learned to put on a bra, how to manage a garter belt and nylons, to walk in heels and to button blouses and zip dresses behind myself and undo them without help. … and to put everything back with no one noticing I had "borrowed" them.

What this all meant was to elude me for another decade and a half… perhaps three before totally understood. I knew, I was sure, that I was the only guy who had ever done anything like this. What I didn't realize was this was something that I had no real control over beyond not doing it for short periods of time.

Two things of note happened in my teen years. The first was a direct result of my sister getting married and taking a way my supply of clothes. I began procuring panties to wear. None of them came to me in an honorable way, except perhaps those which I "rescued" from the Goodwill Bag. My father and I lived in a small three bedroom house, back up to an industrial part of town. The back yard was very private, except for the connection to the neighbor’s yard. The neighbor was and older woman. A grandmother type. The fence separating the two yards was low and started at the corner of her house, going to the back of the property. Her back porch was accessible from our side yard. She was hardly ever home, so I could spend time in the back yard, during the summer, in my sisters swimsuit in the sprinkler without fear of being caught.

One day, while standing in our kitchen, looking out the window, I saw that the neighbor, whom I knew was not home, had washed a slip and left it hanging on a clothesline on her back porch. I looked at it longing to wear something like that. It seemed to call to me. Finally after a time of longing, I went to my room and got out a pair of panties and a bra. I stripped, put on the panties and bra, stuffing the bra with more panties. I slipped out our back door and walked to the corner of the house, I glanced through the overly tall rose garden at the front of the house and decided it provided enough cover. I darted to the porch, vaulted up on to it and put the slip on. I just wanted to try it on… to feel it caress me. I had to walk around and the porch was small, so I went down the steps and strolled around her yard. I never intended to steal the slip. It was my intention only to wear it for a few minutes and then put it back. I don't know how long I spent in the luxury of the garment, but I heard the telltale sound of my father’s car slowing down to turn into our driveway. In a panic, I hurtled the fence and ran for our back door. I made it to my room which was, fortunately near the back of the house, and was in jeans and a shirt before I had to confront dad. He said to me, and to this day, I don't know exactly where he was when he saw me, "You shouldn't let people see you running around the back yard in a woman's petticoat, they'll think you're crazy.” Another kind of silence was required. Again, no punishment. Not even a demand that the clothes be thrown out.

Somewhere in my mind, I made a connection between my mother being gone and wearing the clothes. I think that is so because it was about the time I started wearing them that I began to accept that she was not there nor was she going to be there ever again. Also swimming in the murky recesses was the idea that when I grew up, got married, I'd leave this all behind and never do it again. I'd be "normal" then.

When I finally found a woman who would marry me, I moved out of my father's house, leaving the meager stash of clothing there, convinced I'd never wear such things again. From the "I do" forward, I'd be normal. I went nearly two years, living in that lie I told myself. Then one day I was home alone and opened the closet and determined that some of those things might fit me. Going to her dresser, I repeated my pre-pubescent exploration. It was as if I was nine years old all over again. Carefully, I took out what I needed and began trying on. Some things did indeed fit; well at least I could get them on. That opened Pandora's Box. The genie was out of the bottle and there was no way to stuff him (or is that her) back in again.

Three years later, and two years after the birth of our first child, she caught me at it. All hell broke loose. She asked questions, a lot of questions. Asked isn't really a good word for the way the questions were presented. Demanded answers would be a better way to put it. Some were easy. Was I gay? NO! Did I want to be a woman? NO! Then came the hard one… why do I want to wear the clothes? I had never asked myself that one. I didn't have a clue. One thing I did know, was, it wasn't going away. The sure cure didn't work.

The beginning of the beginning. A rocky year later, I began an earnest search for some real answers. That search lead me though some dark places and finally to a national organization for people like me. It was like a breath of fresh air. Therapy I could never have afforded to pay for. They offered a re-mail service whereby I could communicate with others in the group anonymously. It cost double the postage, and I spent a small fortune in stamps, but it was worth it. I tell someone who understood exactly what I was feeling and I could talk about what I did and it was all yea and amen. I heard others say the same things, I heard the triumphs and failures. It was wonderful. At last, the silence was broken… well cracked and a little sound could be made, if only a whisper.

The end of the journey? Not by a long shot. I had much to learn about myself, about cross-dressing and about relationships. It wasn't all roses at home either. It took ten years to regain my wife's trust and respect. Ten years of learning to be a good husband, of learning to function as a human being, ten years to be the father I needed to be for our now two daughters. Then light at the end of the tunnel.

It would be another ten years after that before I learned another word to describe myself besides transvestite or cross-dresser. While those two fit, they weren't totally accurate. They spoke of the actions, and not the person. I learned " androgyne.” Having or possessing parts of both male and female. I discovered that gender was not the same as sex and that while sex is pretty much an either or, gender is a continuum. Most people are not really at either end, but some distance from the middle, small or great. In careful testing of my emotions and psyche I discovered that I'm just about as far from either end as a person can get.

Most people who are transgendered seem to abhor labels. I was elated to find one that fit. I could finally put to rest just where all these feelings were coming from. I still can't say why I am, but I can say what I am and I now know who I am. I've been a peace with myself now for about ten years. Being at peace with myself allows me to be at peace with the rest of the world. I no longer need outside approval to be who I am. This allows me to let others see the real me. I learned to cry again. Not tears of sadness or despair as in the past, but tears of joy, tears that express my sense of empathy, tears when a tender moment touches me. I've learned to appreciate the things my feminine nature draws me to and to be confident enough to let others know I'm drawn there.

Silence is still golden; I still can't just wear what feels good in every situation. I have to strike compromises that make me appear male in my dress but I've found that I can wear women's clothes off the women's rack and still have people see me as a man. But I know I'm dressed the part… I'm dressed to fit my inner self. I'm dressed in androgynous clothes. Oh, I still like to give my feminine self free reign occasionally, and put on a dress, but most of the time, I'm who I am on the inside while looking like who people think I should be on the outside.

My wife, still with me, going on 38 years, has come to accept that this is who I am. She still wishes I was like other men, but she accepts I'm not and we love each other more each day. But now, I keep silent for her sake.

Silence is golden.