Chapter Two: A Big Decision

And that’s how I became the first male employee in the editorial department at Women’s Place Magazine. And, except for interns, I was also the youngest.

At first, Cecily Winston was reluctant to hire me; apparently, she had the same reservations mom and I both had: was it not dishonest to portray Gerianne as a young woman? We left the initial meeting without getting any firm offer from the magazine. In fact, it looked like the deal was off, once Cecily learned Gerianne didn’t exist as a female. “We’ll call you,” Cecily said as she ended the meeting at 1:15 p.m. sharp, as scheduled.

As we drove back to my home in mid-afternoon Chicago traffic, which at that time is a bit lighter, but always a challenge nonetheless, Helena said, “You know, Geri, we could sue them for gender discrimination if they don’t give us an offer now.”

“I guess, Helena, but I don’t want it to come to that. We can continue as we are; we’re doing fine.”

Helena nodded. She always addressed me a Geri, an androgynous-sounding name that I always accepted in the female sense.

Apparently Women’s Place, Inc. must have wondered, too, about gender discrimination, since within a week of our first meeting, I got a call from Cecily, suggesting a meeting concerning the purchase of our business. I referred her to an attorney that Helena, always the businesswoman, had hired from a prestigious Chicago law firm to set up the meeting. The cost was terrible, like $250 an hour, but I guess it was worth it, considering the deal we got.

*****
To be truthful, I dreaded the idea of walking into the Women’s Place office; not only was I the youngest and the only male, but I was given the title of “Editor: Special Projects,” along with a large private office; most of the women editors worked in cubicles. There was no doubt that they must have wondered what gave a youngster such a cushy job. Perhaps they reasoned I must have been Cecily’s young stud, I thought. Such a thought, however, made me laugh. My male appendage was hardly “stud” size and my 5’8” frame was slender, almost girlish in form.

“Honey, just work hard, and don’t try to force friendship upon the girls,” mom advised me after I told her of my concerns. “They will resent you at first, but as they get to know you, dear, I’m sure they’ll appreciate you.”

“I hope so, mom, since I think I’ll like it there,” I said. I had visited the offices — located on the 25th and 26th floors of an older building just west of the posh Michigan Avenue shops — and found them to be tastefully decorated, but not with outlandish, costly furnishings. It was obviously an office designed for work, not show.

Helena was offered a job in the financial department as a junior executive, and she agreed to it, also at a comfortable salary.

To be sure, the girls in the office eyed me suspiciously as I was introduced on my first morning in mid-August. I wore light gray slacks, a button-down collared light gray shirt and a blue blazer with gold buttons that morning. I tied my long brown hair in a neat ponytail; on my feet I wore brown moccasin style tasseled shoes with a short heel. They all shook my hand with apparent friendliness; I was somewhat shocked to realize my own hand was as slender and soft as most of theirs, and I’m sure that may have shown to them that I was hardly a “stud” who was bedding down their editor.

Fortunately, I would the “boss” to only three women in the room, a copy editor and two editorial assistants. I was bothered by this, since all three were obviously better trained in journalism than I was; I had learned about it mainly by experience. The copy editor, Maxine Stromberg, was in her 30s, a mother of three, and a graduate of Northwestern Medill School of Journalism, one of the top schools in the nation. She was tallish woman, about my height, who had short, black, closely-cropped hair, the kind that needs little attention. If she wore any make-up, it was hardly apparent; even so, she was an attractive woman, clad in simple plain skirts and blouses, except in the coldest weather when she wore slacks. She always walked in quick, short steps, as if she were hurrying to catch a waiting bus. Maxine was a no-nonsense sort of woman, I could see at a glance, but not an unkind person. I soon learned that she had one motivation: to do her job in the best way she could and to leave promptly at 5 p.m. each night to get home to her husband and three boys. There would be no jealous thoughts on her part.

The editorial assistants were recent graduates with masters’ degrees. Louisa was a dark-complexioned woman of about 25, strikingly beautiful with flowing, jet black hair and dark eyes. She graduated from the University of Wisconsin. She wore an engagement ring, and in addition to her obvious beauty Louisa was truly warm and friendly, so typical of girls who had been raised in a large family, as she was. The young lady also was apparently more interested in her boyfriend and upcoming marriage than in whether I had gotten a job that she might have had her eyes on.

Paula, however, was a different story. Her greetings were not so friendly. She was a short woman, also about 25, but round-faced with ordinary looks. Paula had dirty blonde hair, cut too short, I thought, since it emphasized her round face. She also was a bit chubby, and she wore skirts far too short for her ample thighs. “I’m a Missouri grad,” she announced proudly.

I remember smiling and saying, “Well that’s good. That’s one of the best journalism schools in the country.”

“It’s not one of the best. It is the best,” she corrected me. I knew she’d be trouble.

*****

“Women’s Place, Inc., is pleased to announce the hiring of the popular young advice columnist Gerianne to succeed Edith Banks, our esteemed colleague who passed away this summer.

“We believe that Gerianne, whose very first advice comments were published in Ms. Banks columns more than seven years ago, will prove to be a worthy successor to take over writing what has become the nations most trusted and popular advice column. Gerianne’s own online column has found a strong and loyal following among teen girls and young women. In addition, Gerianne has demonstrated an ability to provide valuable counsel to older women.

“Gerianne’s popular online presence will continue and grow in popularity and Gerianne will take over the column in our printed publication. Gerianne will gain additional resources from the existing staff of Women’s Place publication, thus assuring the columns will be authoritative and sound.

“Gerianne is a pseudonym for a young person in the early 20s. For personal reasons, Gerianne has asked to remain anonymous.”

The announcement appeared in the September edition of the magazine and on August 15th in the online version of the magazine and in Gerianne’s website.

All of the editorial employees were ordered to sign a pledge never to reveal the identity of Gerianne to anyone under pain of being fired. In addition, they would face a substantial potential cash penalty.

I was totally uncomfortable with the arrangement, since it bordered on dishonesty, even though the notice itself was totally truthful in that it never once referred to Gerianne as a female. But, what else would anyone believe except that I was a young woman? More critically, I knew some of my co-workers hated to be intimidated by having to sign such a pledge, and I didn’t blame them.

“Why don’t we just tell the world who I am?” I had asked in our negotiation’s meeting.

“Why not?” Cecily agreed. “There’s nothing that says a man couldn’t be expert in advice counseling. Aren’t male therapists and psychiatrists doing fine with their female patients?”

“No way,” protested Merilee D’jourdai, the magazine’s business manager, who had joined the session. “You have the magazine’s credibility to deal with, Cecily.”

Helena, from our side of the table, agreed that my identity should remain a mystery. “Look Jeremy, everyone thinks you’re a young lady and we’ve been so successful. It’d be financial suicide to suddenly become a young man,” she said.

Thus it was that the two key figures in the negotiations, Cecily Winston and myself, were overruled by financial interests involved. I know that Cecily was just as uncomfortable as I was in continuing the charade that Gerianne was a young woman. As I was coming to understand in short order, it’s the money that counts.

It was then that I wondered: Was giving up a near-poverty career as a social worker worth selling myself dishonestly to potentially earn hundreds of thousands of dollars a year? I guess it was a no-brainer: I had to choose the big bucks. That didn’t make me feel any better, though.

Yet, the financial experts were right: Over-the-counter sales of the October issue — advertised widely as containing Gerianne’s first monthly offering — hit record levels. The online “Ask Gerianne” version also got a record number of hits. The success of the early results invigorated the entire staff, and, it appeared, any lingering resentment toward me seemed to disappear.

*****
With the expertise provided by the Women’s Place staff, “Ask Gerianne” soared with record numbers of hits on Facebook and Twitter; young women and girls talked about Gerianne and her advice in classrooms, over office copy machines, at coffee houses and anywhere girls found time to gossip. Within a few months, the Women’s Place editorial office hummed with activity. Best of all, the advertisers loved it and the printed magazine reversed a long continuing trend of dropping income.

The day after our auditors released the quarterly earnings for the first three months of the magazine in which Gerianne’s writing appeared I walked into my office only to be greeted by a banner displayed on the wall behind my desk, flanked by two huge bouquets of pink and deep red roses. It read: “Princess of the Advice Columnists.”

I was taken aback: What was this? The “Princess?” I blushed, but I loved it!

Just as I was taking off my coat, I felt someone come from behind and gently assist me in removing it.

As she took my coat (as a lady-in-waiting would do), Cecily Winston said: “Some of the girls wanted it to read ‘Queen of the Advice Columnists,’ but I’m afraid that title will always belong to Edith, dear.”

Being placed after the famed Edith Banks didn’t bother me at all; my, oh my, she truly deserved to be the Queen for all-time among lovelorn columnists. It was being named the “princess” that seemed rather troubling. Yet, as I thought about it, it really wouldn’t be right to have a “prince” title affixed, would it?

“It just shows we accept you as being one of us,” my chief editorial assistant Maxine said.

She and my two other co-workers, Louisa and Paula, had joined Cecily in my office, for the apparent tribute they had cooked up. Soon, many of the other women staffers crowded into the office, filling the space to overflowing. There were smiles and applause all around, except from Paula whose scowling visage spoiled an otherwise idyllic setting.

“I want you to know Jeremy,” Cecily began, after silencing the jabbering staffers, “That this little tribute was put together by your co-workers in recognition of what you have done in a few short months to put our printed editions of Women’s Place magazine into the black for our corporation. I’ll let Maxine tell you what this has meant to all of them.”

Maxine hugged me, and kept one arm around me as she spoke: “One of the finest tributes you can give a co-worker is that he or she makes you want to come to work each day and that he or she inspires you. Well, Jeremy here has done that for me and I think for all of us here.”

Applause and shouts followed as she spoke, and Maxine hugged me just a bit more tightly. Naturally, I began to blush, unused to such recognition.

“I think there were some around here who resented bringing in Gerianne to replace Edith and then when we learned that Gerianne was a handsome young man, I think we were even more astonished. Some of us wondered, I know, how a young man could possibly understand the thoughts of girls and women, about their fears and joys. But I think we all learned quickly that she, meaning our Gerianne here, truly did know us.”

Maxine looked at me and winked. I was didn’t know what to do. So I cried, tears flowing freely down me face.

“Speech! Speech! Speech,” came the calls from the gathered women.

Maxine handed me a tissue, which I used to dry my face and wipe the tears away.

“Thank you all,” I began, but soon choked up again.

This was all so embarrassing; I had never before received such overwhelming praise from a group of people, and these women all seemed to be totally in tune with heaping on the accolades. Well, that’s except for one person, Paula, whose clapping was hapless and perfunctory. For some reason in the midst of all the praise I started to wonder why she never smiled. If she did, I was convinced she’d really be pretty.

Finally I gathered my wits, squelched my tears, and continued:

“First of all, let me say that I’d never been able to do this without the support and understanding off all of you. You could have made it so difficult, yet you made me feel welcome.

“I’m glad to be a part of helping to keep the lovelorn column in our magazine alive and vital in the manner in which our beloved Edith would have liked. Maxine and Paula and Louisa helped us to transition the column, and I can’t thank them enough. They’ve helped me to avoid some pitfalls that would have perhaps ruined our efforts.

“And for Cecily to believe in me, that has been so vital. And, I thank her for taking the unusual step of hiring me, even though I am an alien in this office due to my gender.”

Maxine interrupted me: “No, no, dear, as I told you. You’re one of us!”

There was an uneasy giggle in the room, which soon erupted into applause. “You’re one of the girls, now,” someone yelled, and there was more applause.

With that I did a mock curtsey, and the room erupted in laughter.

I held up my hand to quiet the group: “Finally, I need to thank you all for keeping our little secret about Gerianne. I know it may not be easy to resist telling someone about this strange man in the midst of all of you, but I guess it’s for the good of the magazine. I’m not important in the long run. What is important is that I think lovelorn columns help people immensely, giving out common sense advice that hopefully brings happiness into thousands of lives, and we need to continue to keep our advice sensible, based upon known evidence and to be compassionate. Thank you all again.”

Cecily came forward, gave me a hug, and then yelled out: “Now let’s get back to work.”

There was more applause and shouts, and one-by-one the women filed by, hugging me or giving me a quick kiss on the cheek with some murmuring “best wishes,” “we love you,” or some similar sentiment.

Even Paula joined in the promenade, although she never smiled, even when she hugged me. I wanted to tell her to “smile, girl,” and to let her know how pretty she could be.

*****
Time Magazine came out a week later with a cover containing a caricature of a bookish young lady, her hair drawn back in a schoolmarm’s bun and with the dark-rimmed glasses of a librarian. Emblazoned across the young lady’s truly beautiful features was a giant question mark, with the headline reading: “Who Is This Young Lady Who Has Captured the Hearts of American Women?”

“You’re on the cover of Time,” Louisa screamed running into my office the first thing on the morning the publication hit the newsstands.

“I’m what?”

“Look here!” she said, slapping the magazine onto my desk with an authoritative slap.

I couldn’t believe it; Gerianne was now the “news” of the week with a long investigative story on the inside about how Women’s Place Magazine, long the No. 1 seller among the nation’s women’s publications, was hiding the identity of its popular new lovelorn columnist.

“Oh my God, this is awful,” I said out loud.

“Not really, Jeremy,” Louisa said. “Look at the publicity we’re getting. It’s bound to help the magazine.”

I just shook my head, worrying about the eventual consequences of all this publicity. No doubt, I figured, the front office will love it, and it might even boost my own bargaining power and lead to a hefty increase in salary. I hated the publicity; it would be so embarrassing.

After the story described, accurately, how Gerianne had become the talk among the nation’s women, it spent a several columns describing the lengths to which its reporters had gone to try to pry out the identity of this mysterious young woman, if indeed it was a young woman. Time wrote:

Employees of the magazine refused comments, even after promises of anonymity. Time correspondent Stephanie Jacobs visit the Women’s Place office to interview Cecily Winston, the chief editor, who received her warmly, even introducing her to key staff members.

The Time article commented:

Maxine Stromberg, a thirtyish mother of three, and a graduate of Northwestern Medill School of Journalism, is lead editor in the department where the ‘Ask Gerianne’ columns are produced. There’s speculation that she is ‘Gerianne,’ and that the magazine refuses to admit it. Like most publications — printed and online — Women’s Place is seeking to aim at younger audiences, and the concept of a married mother of three might destroy the image.

It’s possible, too, that the column is the product of several writers, or even by a contract person not employed directly by Women’s Place.

A prominent, respected dean of journalism commented: ‘This practice of hiding the identity of key writers is disturbing, particularly for a magazine with such a traditional reputation for honesty,’ he said. ‘But the financial demands of publishing these days seem to be forcing many publications to stretch their ethical and moral boundaries.’

Cecily admitted later that “the Jacobs woman did visit the office, Jeremy,”.

“Why didn’t you tell me she had been here?” I demanded.

“I didn’t think it was important,” Cecily said, growing red in the face. “She sand-bagged me and you were gone that day. Besides the question of identity of Gerianne seemed inconsequential at the time, just a throw-in among many other questions.”

I nodded, recognizing how even a sophisticated person like Cecily could be compromised by a skilled and somewhat devious reporter. I also realized that Cecily was hoping the publicity of an article in Time would be helpful to the magazine’s bottom line.

“I think this charade has gone on long enough,” I said, finally.

“What do you mean?” Cecily asked, her face showing alarm.

“I mean I intend to do something about it, and soon,” I said.

“Like what?”

“You’ll see.”

Cecily looked at me, her customary kindly face growing stern and hard. “Remember, you’re under contract, Mr. Jeremy Sullivan, and you could be sued into oblivion if you do anything foolish.”

I merely smiled back at her, and got up, leaving the office abruptly, but taking care not to slam her door, but close it gently. After all, I’m a quiet young woman, aren’t I?

*****
I wasn’t really certain what I planned to do, but I knew that I could no longer live with the dishonesty of being female when I was physically a male. It just wasn’t fair to the many readers who had placed their trust in Gerianne. Thus far, we had carried on this charade far too long; eventually, the secret would be leaked. I never trusted, for instance, that Paula — the ever-ambitious, scowling Paula — would keep the confidence for long. Then, of course, someone might inadvertently blabber to a boyfriend or other acquaintance about Gerianne and the girlish boy who wrote actually wrote the column.

I weighed the answer in two ways: I could admit to being male, and therein violate my contract and face dire consequences. The other option seemed extreme, but seemed to make sense. That would be to transition into being the young woman that I was beginning to feel that I truly was.

During lunch hour, I hurried down Michigan Avenue to Macy’s, which had taken over the historic Marshall Field’s store in Chicago’s Loop. I shamelessly put on an effeminate manner, passing myself off as an outlandishly gay male, not exactly an unusual sight in the Loop these days. It would explain, I thought, why a young man was shopping in the women’s department.

In quick order, I purchased several elegant pairs of slacks, all with elaborate designer belts and extra fullness to exaggerate my hips. Also I added several lace-ruffled blouses, all with plain colors, two colorful vests and three silk scarves in pink, peach and light yellow. I did a hurry-up purchase of panties, bras and other undergarments, even finding some cheap foam breast forms to help fill out a 34 B sized bra. I still needed stockings and a pair of shoes, particularly pumps with a short heel.

In truth, I had been thinking about this for some time, finding that my posing as a young woman (at least in print and online) felt unusually comfortable, if not even natural.

“Mom, I think I will start living as a woman,” I announced that evening, as we shared wine together after supper. It had become our favorite time of the day, sitting at the kitchen table, the dishes stacked in the sink, ready to be washed, and sharing the experiences of the day together.

Mom’s expression didn’t change; in fact it looked downright empty. Didn’t she care at all, or what?

“Mom, did you hear me?” I repeated.

“Yes, I did, dear,” she said, her face still a blank.

“Does that bother you, mom?”

“It does, honey,” she said, reaching over a patting my hand. “But I love you so much, and I want you to be happy.”

“What then, mom?”

I covered her hand with mine, noticing that our hands looked so similar, slender and smooth and well-manicured. Following her example, I filed my nails regularly and applied a clear satin polish.

“You’ll be a very pretty woman, darling,” was all she said.

I could see she was not entirely happy with the idea, and for the first time in my life I realized that she might have wanted me to be more of a “normal boy,” whatever that was. Perhaps, I figured she wanted to have grandchildren; what woman wouldn’t?

“Mom, this makes you unhappy,” I said.

“Yes, dear, in a way it does,” she said. “It’s not how I envisioned things going, but we must also be honest to ourselves and to each other.”

“Mom, you know I don’t want to hurt you in any way,” I protested.

“I know, honey, but I can see that you might be happier as a woman,” she said. “I know you feel so badly about living a lie as ‘Gerianne,’ and maybe this will help. I know you seem to always enjoy sharing my life with me, that you love being with girls and doing girlish things.”

I smiled at mom, seeing in her the most beautiful woman in the world. I loved her so much.

“But you know that this really involves more than clothes, dear,” mom continued. “I’ve been doing some research on this, and I think you’re possibly transgendered, and that you perhaps should be living totally as a woman.”

“You think so, mom? I really do feel more comfortable with girls, you know.”

“Well, you have good health insurance now, and I think you should see a specialist.”

The truth was I had been investigating the same thing on the Internet and was surprised to learn that there were more and more persons of a transgendered nature than I ever thought. Perhaps I was one.

We talked for a while about the need for me to see a specialist who handled such cases, eventually going to the Internet to search for several in the Chicago area. I copied down the names a few and vowed to contact them the next day.

“My daughter,” mom said, finally. “Enough of this, dear. We need to clean up the kitchen and then we can proceed to pretty you up for your first day of work tomorrow as a woman.”

*****
“I see you only bought slacks,” mom said, as she inspected my purchases.

“Yes, I thought I didn’t want to make to big a switch all at once,” I replied. “In fact, maybe I was being a coward, even thinking I could pass myself off as a man in an androgynous outfit.”

“Hmmm, darling. I think maybe you should make a complete switch so that there is no doubt how you wish to portray yourself and how you plan to live in the future.”

“You think so, mom?”

“Yes,” she said, “And I think I’ve got several nice outfits that should fit you just fine.”

I really thought that was a cool idea. I never had worn a skirt, but I know I had pretty nice legs.

*****
You can’t imagine how nervous I was the next morning, a situation made worse by having a largely sleepless night. Mom and I had labored almost to midnight in assuring that I had just the right outfit for my first day of work as a young woman. Then, as I climbed into bed, wearing warm women’s pajamas — borrowed from mom, of course — my heart began pounding as to how I’d be greeted when the staff and Women’s Place saw me.

One major problem I realized immediately was Spencer McGurk, the Security Guard the magazine had hired. He was a stickler about examining credentials every time someone entered; he knew me, but I had to produce my photo ID card every time. I didn’t feel bad: everyone did, including Cecily Winston. I worried all night about that: he was such a stern, forbidding man, a former Chicago cop whose glare could reduce the strongest person to feeling like a sniveling fool.

Actually, I was the reason he was hired; they had never had security at the entrance on the 25th Floor until there became a need to protect my identity; they were bound and determined not to permit any media spies to learn just who “Gerianne” was for real. The thought of getting past the eagle-eyed McGurk kept gnawing at me as I tried to sleep that night. It’s funny how the so-called little things in life can be so troublesome.

I had set my alarm for 6 a.m., but I was tossing and turning so badly, I got up a half an hour earlier, eager to get this drama over with. I think mom was as excited about my new adventure as I was, and the minute she heard me stirring she was up, asking if she could be of help.

“Mom, let me get my shower and get into my panties and all and then you can help me fix my hair and makeup,” I said.

“Ok, honey,” she said. “I’ll get some breakfast ready.”

“I love you, mom,” I said.

A half-hour later, wearing one of mom’s teal blue-colored robes and a pair of matching fluffy slippers, I entered the kitchen. My hair was wrapped in a towel, and I felt so marvelously feminine. My body still carried a subtle scent of the soap I had used, and I realized that I was naturally carrying myself much like the young woman I felt I truly was. It was funny how just wearing such lovely clothing could affect my entire being.

“You smell so nice, dear,” mom said as I entered.

She quickly placed my breakfast before me: cut up fresh melon, bananas and oranges, accompanied by light yogurt and a slice of whole wheat toast. I smiled: it was clearly a breakfast fit for a lovely girl. It was fitting, of course, that I took only dainty bites.

“My dear new daughter, I just don’t feel right calling you Jeremy any more,” mom said. She sat opposite to me, eating an identical breakfast.

“I know mom, and I’ve been wondering what name I should have.”

“Would you like being named after your grandma? I’ve always liked her name: Victoria.”

I had never thought about that. It seemed like a great idea. I liked being called “Vicky.”

Mom knows me so well and she could see I liked the idea. She smiled: “Yes, Victoria fits you just fine, as does Vicky.”

“Oh mom that’s so perfect,” I said.

“Yes, Vicky, and you could be Victoria Marie Sullivan, taking my own middle name,” mom said with a smile.

“Oh mom, I love it. You’re such a perfect mom.”

I’m not sure any girl had a closer relationship to her mom than I did.