Chapter Three: Recognition

Whether by coincidence or design, Jon Edwards, the chemistry teacher who seemed to be so desirous of my friendship, greeted me as I was on my way out of school that day. I was still shaken by my confrontation with Carmen and bumped into Edwards as I rounded the hallway corridor.

“Well isn't this sweet,” he said, more as a statement than a question.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Edwards, I must have been day-dreaming,” I stumbled to answer.

“Oh my dear, it's Jon, you know,” he said putting a guiding hand on my shoulder.

I nodded and let myself be moved to the exit door, his arm hanging lightly on my shoulder.

“How about that drink, now?” he offered.

I excused myself and said I had to catch my train, but then he surprised me by volunteering to drive me back into the city, saying he had a dinner date with a friend and would like me to join him for a drink since he had time to kill before his date. He promised to drop me off at my home afterward. How could I refuse?

I remembered Mr. Duke's warning about Edwards, but thought it mattered little; I was not interested in a homosexual encounter and felt I could easily fend off the man. Edwards did not appear to me to be particularly physical and likely was of a more gentle nature. Besides, I really could use a friend, regardless of his sexual orientation.

Encounter – it was a fitting name for a gay bar – was located along an entertainment strip in the city that offered an eclectic mix of bars and restaurants that catered to all sorts of people; the area was once known for sleazy strip joints, dens of prostitution and drug buys, but recently had become surprisingly sterile. The bars, like the Encounter, were spiffy, creatively designed places with over-priced drinks.

Jon led me to an overstuffed leather sofa in a seating pod and directed me to sit down; rather than chose a nearby easy chair, he positioned himself next to me, so that our thighs were nearly touching. I began feeling uneasy, since the place was dark and there were few customers, as it was too early for the after-work crowd. (The one benefit of getting up early for teachers was that they could leave school by mid-afternoon, even though they usually took home papers to grade at night.)

“Jason, I've found you to be very attractive,” he said. He reached over and took my right hand and held it gently.

I didn't know what to do. Should I remove my hand, and get up and leave? I was so inexperienced in these things. I said nothing and looked ahead, paralyzed into inaction. Just then our waiter arrived with our drinks; he was a muscular young man with a crewcut, wearing a satin blouse and shiny plastic pants that fit tightly outlining his muscular thighs and curvy buttocks. He had addressed my friend by name, indicating Jon was a regular customer.

“Here are your drinks, my dears,” the waiter said.

“Thank you, Kitten,” Jon said.

The waiter called Kitten set them down and looked at me. “Why not introduce your pretty friend, Jon?”

“Isn't he a darling? Jason, meet Kitten.”

I blushed and was thankful that in the darkness the two couldn't see the red in my face. I offered my hand to Kitten and he knelt before me, taking my hand and leaning into kiss it in a formal Old World fashion.

“Nice meeting you, Jason. You're lovely and such a soft, pretty hand, too,” he said, getting up and leaving us together.

Jon could see I was bothered by the whole incident and quickly made excuses for the excessively friendly manner with which Kitten addressed me. “Don't mind him, Jason, he loves to gush over people, just like a girl.”

It was my first time in a gay bar; in fact, I rarely had gone into a bar for a drink since I rarely had any friends to join me. I had shied away from entering a bar alone since I was really too scared at what fate might befall me once inside.

Sensing my unease, Jon began talking about school asking me questions about how I liked teaching, about my background and about my likes and dislikes. I found him showing interest in me and I began to probe him as well. I felt I could easily be a friend of this man, even though I had no inclination to become physically involved. I knew I had to set the record straight with him quickly.

“Jon, I need to go soon,” I said to him after we'd been there a while. He nodded, indicating he would have to meet his friend soon.

“Before we go, Jon, I need to tell you that I value you as a new friend and would love to remain friends with you, but I must assure you I am not interested in having sex with you,” I said, trying to sound as firm and business-like as possible.

He looked at me, and grabbed my hand again. He said nothing.

“Jon, I am not gay. I may sometimes look a bit precious and maybe even effeminate, but I assure you I am not gay.”

“Do you hate gays?” he said, acting offended.

“No, certainly not. You can be whoever you want to be, Jon. I would like you as a friend, someone to share a drink with occasionally or even a movie or something, but not to kiss and hug.”

“Fair enough,” he said finally. “I'm glad you set the record straight, Jason. And, yes, I'd like to be your friend, too.”

He leaned over to hug me, and I felt comfortable as the hug seemed only to cement our friendship.

Kitten came by to take our check, which I paid, grateful for the ride into the city. Jon argued, of course, but I batted my eyes at Kitten, playing the coquettish ingénue, and the waiter took my $20 bill. I told him to keep the change, which provided him with a healthy tip. I hoped he wouldn't take that as a hint that I wanted to see him in a more intimate way, but for some reason I was feeling happy and content.

“Thank you darling. I do hope you'll grace us with your presence again,” Kitten said, sashaying off.

“I thought you weren't gay, Jason,” Jon said, laughing.

“I'm not but I couldn't resist playing up to him,” I said.

“You naughty girl,” he said.

*****
Whether it was from the alcoholic drinks or my success in navigating the gay bar scene, I felt totally giddy when Jon dropped me off at my modest home in a neighborhood of narrow lots and tiny front grass spaces. It had been my mother's house and I had never lived anywhere else, sharing it with her until her death nine months earlier. She had been my only real friend in my first twenty-three years of life, and she sheltered me and protected me from the cruelties of the outer world. Now, I was on my own, and I had been terrified over the prospects of my life ahead.

That night, again, I couldn't resist turning myself into a dainty girl named Julie. I had become energized by the sense of power and achievement I had seemed to gain in just a few short days, first in the classroom and among the students and now apparently with my pretty face and girlish appearance. It was a heady wine indeed and I worried that it might be going to my head.

Perhaps it was the two cosmopolitans I had at the gay bar that did it, but I felt like prancing in a ballet outfit I hadn't worn for over a year. Mother bought it for me after we saw “Swan Lake” performed by a talented ballet troupe from Poland; she had recognized my predilection to look feminine and dainty in my early teens and after some resistance had catered to my desires, helping me to learn the ways of a girl.

“Mother, I would love to be a ballerina,” I told her after the show when we stopped for a dessert and tea at a lovely little French restaurant close to the theater.

Tears came to my eyes as I recalled that moment and my mother's reply: “Oh darling, you could be such a lovely girl.”

I remembering that I cried at that time, too, since I knew I was not a girl; at that time, just six months before her death, I was a young man. Those were sad days for us, since my mother had been told by her doctor that she had about a year before the cancer would take her life. Mom was a trouper, though, and seemed to be more worried about me in that last year than her own growing frailty and painfulness.

“My pretty one,” she comforted me that night, holding my hand. “Let's pretty ourselves up tomorrow and have a girls' day out. Would you like that?”

“Yes, mother, very much.”

The following day was a Saturday, and for the first time we went out in public as mother and daughter. “Let's dress with style today, Julie,” she suggested that morning over breakfast, using the name we had both agreed upon as mine when I was en femme.

Despite mother's gaunt looks (the result of chemotherapy), she could still look like the lovely woman of before. We both wore the same size 8 junior size dresses and we were about the same height at five feet six inches. She had to wear a wig, of course, and chose to wear one with light brown hair fashioned into a short bob in the back and bangs combed to one side.

She wore a stylish teal-colored pleated cotton skirt that went to her knees, a hazy blue gauzy blouse, sandals with a three-inch heel and coffee-colored hose.

“Now, I think you should wear this today, Julie,” mom said reaching into my closet. By then I had collected a number of skirts, blouses and dresses.

She pulled out a separates outfit that I really adored. It boasted a peach-colored sleeveless blouse with a shirred round neckline and a flouncy skirt that hardly went to mid-thigh. It had been one of my favorite outfits, but I had worn it only in the house.

“Mom, don't you think that shows too much?” I asked her.

“Oh, darling, don't be so modest. When you have such lovely features you must show them,” she said.

“Really mom, but for the first time out. I don't want anyone to think I'm a boy,” I said.

“Don't worry about that, my sweet one. You have lovely slender arms and the prettiest of legs. No one will see any boy at all.”

Our mother-and-daughter adventure turned out to be a dream. As we shopped in one store after another, I was gushed over by clerks who seemed excited about outfitting such a lovely girl. Soon I became comfortable entering changing rooms and parading before mother and clerks and whoever else was watching.

More than once I heard the words come from clerks or customers telling mom “what a lovely daughter you have” and “you must be so proud of her.”

Mom purchased two camisoles, a new summer dress, two pairs of shorts and three tank tops, and when I thought we were done shopping, she said: “Now let's get you a swim suit.”

“We don't need to, mom. You know I don't like to swim,” I protested. It was true; not only was I a pathetic swimmer but I hated to bare my puny male body to the public.

“Nonsense, every girl needs a swim suit, if for nothing else than to lie in the sun,” she said smiling.

I was pleased that mom restrained herself and didn't insist that I wear a bikini since I feared my slightly pudgy tummy might ruin the effect. Mom must have understood that flaw in my otherwise lovely girlish body would rule out anything too revealing. She suggested a pink model with the full brief and a tankini top and I jumped at it. It was perfect, I thought.

The piece de resistance for the day, however, was the ballet outfit, a white tutu with a white leotard and a lacy top with capped sleeves. We found several pair of ballet shoes and were shocked at the price of them. When we got home that night, the ballet outfit was the first piece I put on. Oh, how I pranced about the house with music from “Swan Lake” and “Nutcracker” blaring from our sound system. Mom took pictures, and I continue to cherish them dearly.

I shall never forget that day. Mom's health declined quickly after that precious day, and we had only a few mother-and-daughter outings after that.

Thus, it was with sad reflection that I put on our CD of “Swan Lake” and pranced about in my ballet outfit that night, totally oblivious that the following morning I would have to return to being Jason, a male high school English teacher. As I tried to duplicate the “Four Little Swans” routine in the ballet, I wished I was there with three other girls performing it. Yet, the sad truth was that my legs were hardly strong enough to do ballet properly and that saddened me greatly.

As I pranced about in my pathetic way, I began wondering if Randy liked ballet. I doubted it, but I began of picturing him taking me to a performance of “Swan Lake” when the Kirov Ballet company was due in town next winter. I imagined myself in a black, sleeveless cocktail dress, with a lacy black wrap over my shoulders as we walked proudly down the aisle at Lincoln Center. I felt proud to be holding onto the arm of my handsome young man.

*****
Well into my fourth week of teaching – as our cold winter lingered on into March with piles of snow still lining the streets and chilly, gray days became the norm – it appeared that my honeymoon relationship with my students was over. That troublesome boy Thomas began it with a cheeky question on Tuesday morning after I announced that the students' assignment was to write an essay reflecting on a personal experience.

“Mr. Pearson, I'd like to write about all the girls I planked, but it would take too many pages,” Thomas said. “What should I do?”

For a moment, I was overcome and I guess I blushed.

“Does that bother you to read about sex, Mr. Pearson?” the boy pushed on, bringing laughter from several of the boy students.

At that point, Barbara, the tiny, cute girl stood up from her seat in the front, turning back to Thomas: “Any girls you would write about would be in your dreams, Thomas.”

“Yeah, you're full of bull, Thomas. No girl I know would want you,” echoed Barbara Lopez from her seat.

With that the class started laughing as Thomas tried to defend his outburst, followed by outbursts from all corners of the room. The ruckus continued unabated for a few moments, and I was shocked that I had let this class get out of hand. As I stood there appalled at the behavior of these students who had seemed to be a model class until that morning, I saw Thomas rise and challenge another boy to a fight. I realized I had to do something and surprising myself I charged down the row of desks and pushed myself directly into the pending fight, forcing myself to stand between the two boys, both taller and stronger than I could ever hope to be.

“Now stop it,” I said firmly, my voice emerging a bit squeaky, but I hoped it sounded stern and strong.

Thomas stood before me, his fist still clenched, eying me strangely; I feared he was about to punch me, but he fooled me.

“He disrespected me, Mr. Pearson,” he said, his voice emerging as a sorry whine.

“Just sit down,” I said, loudly and, I hoped, in a more masculine tone. “And you, too, Demetrius.”

Both boys did as told, and I returned to the front of the classroom. One of the students, I don't know who, yelled out. “Yayyyyyyy, Mr. Pearson,” and slowly some clapping began around the room.

“Now, class,” I interrupted the clapping. “Let's learn something from this, OK?”

They grew silent and I continued: “Who was responsible for this recent ruckus?”

“Thomas started it,” Barbara Lopez said.

“Maybe,” I said. “But who let it get almost into a fist fight?”

The class seemed puzzled; Barbara tried to help by saying “All of us students let it get out of hand.”

“No, your teacher was at fault,” I said. “You know why? When Thomas made his first remark, I should have asked him if he thought girls were weaker and needed to be controlled by men. I don't think he really believes that but Thomas did what lots of us do, he tried to show off how 'special' he was. Thomas, do you believe that?”

“Ah, I guess not, Mr. Pearson,” he said, stumbling in his speech. “But boys are stronger than girls.”

“You think so? Really? What do you think class about that statement?”

“I bet Helen Jane could beat you up Thomas,” said a husky girl student who sat near the windows.

Helen Jane was a junior student who had won wide renown for her athletic feats, both as a center for the girls’ basketball team and for shot put competition on the track team. For a few moments I directed the class in a discussion of respecting women and girls.

“That's it for now students,” I said, realizing I again had control of the class. “Thomas and Demetrius stay for a minute after class and for all of us now, let's get back to our task at hand. Turn to page eighty-six of your workbook and our sentence-structure lesson.”

A groan went up from the class, and then it was quiet, except for the turning of pages. I don't know where I got the courage to put my puny self up against these two tall, muscular boys, but I think I found the inspiration from a tiny, older woman chemistry teacher I had in my tough, urban high school. I had seen her several times intervene in front of mean-looking, tough boys to end a fight. I speculated that the boys felt they didn't want to hit a woman; maybe that's what Thomas and Demetrius thought about me as I stepped before them. I smiled at that possibility.

*****
I was surprised to see Carmen waiting for me outside the teachers' door as I left the school that afternoon.

“Were you waiting for me, Carmen?”

“Yes, sir, I need to ask you something,” she said.

“OK, but you'll have to walk along with me, or else I'll miss my train.”

The girl nodded and we turned to leave the parking lot and move up the sidewalk toward the train station. “Mr. Pearson, I want to show you something,” she said pulling her iPhone out of her jacket pocket.

“Here,” she said, pointing to a picture on the screen. I was shocked; it was a picture of me (as Julie) from last Christmas Eve next to Randy, looking like two young people in love. I recognized the setting of the picture; it was at the Coastview Café where the four of us ate that night.

“You notice that little mole on the left side of that girl's neck?” she asked.

I nodded; the mole couldn't be missed even though it wasn't large or particularly noticeable.

“I couldn't help but see that same mole on your neck yesterday when we met,” she said.

“That's a strange coincidence,” I said, afraid to admit the truth.

“It's OK, Mr. Pearson, I won't tell a soul and unless you permit me too I won't even tell Randy or my boyfriend,” the girl said hurriedly.

I was shocked at her discovery. I knew any revelation from her would end my teaching career. Nonetheless I was inclined to trust Carmen who had always seemed to be a considerate and caring person.

“What do you want, Carmen?”

“Nothing, sir, but eventually I'd like to tell Randy so that he can put his mind at ease about his infatuation for Julie.”

“Carmen, do you have some time now? Maybe I'll take a later train and we can talk at the coffee shop right here,” I suggested, my head nodding in the direction of a one-story building that had the architecture of a small town train station and was called “Coffee Stop.” I was comfortable stopping there since it was rarely used by students or teachers from Farragut.

*****
Even before we entered the coffee shop, I began to rethink my offer to explain myself to Carmen, who was a junior in high school. After all, I was an adult and a teacher and I wondered why I would have to explain anything to her. Was I being stupid? Perhaps so, but the fact was I liked Carmen and considered her to be a girl of uncommonly good common sense and hopefully a sense of understanding and fairness.

“Yes, you're right, Carmen. I am Julie, the girl you met last Labor Day and Christmas Eve,” I began, not trying to hide the fact.

“I thought so from the first minute I saw you. I don't know why, but I did. Maybe it was intuition,” she said. She didn't smile; instead her face took on a critical look.

I didn't know how to respond, and toyed with the latte before me.

“Mr. Pearson, or should I call you Julie?” she said, sarcastically.

“Call me Jason or Mr. Pearson, now, please. Whatever you're comfortable with.”

“What are you, then, Mr. Pearson? A man? Or, a woman?”

“Anatomically, I am a man, Carmen,” I said. “But the truth is that I have lots of feminine ways about me as you can probably see.”

She nodded.

“You may not believe this,” I continued. “The two times you saw me as Julie were the only two times I have ventured outside of my house looking like a woman, except for a couple times with my mother before her death. I've missed mother so much and both times you saw me I was escaping from a weekend of loneliness and ventured out as Julie. I loved the times with you and Ryan and Randy.”

“You shouldn't have led Randy on like that, though,” she said, focusing her dark eyes upon me, as if she was throwing aural darts into my soul.

I wanted to argue with her that I didn't lead the boy on, but the truth was I had relished his attention and I know I flirted with him. I knew when I was doing it that I was wrong; after all I was at least six years older and an adult while he was still a minor. I said nothing.

“How could you do that, Mr. Pearson?”

“It just happened,” I said. It was a helpless, sorry reply, I knew.

“You looked so real, so totally feminine then and really very pretty,” she continued.

I smiled and perhaps I might have even blushed.

“Look, Carmen, I am living now as a man and now that I am teaching I will never go out as a woman. I love my teaching job and I'd like to make a career of it and I think I'm a good teacher.”

Carmen smiled: “I know you're a good teacher. I have a good friend in one of your classes and she thinks you're the best. Barbara. She's my friend.”

“Well, Barbara's an excellent student and joy to have in the classroom,” I replied.

“Are you one of those . . . what do you call it . . . transsexuals?” she asked finally.

“I don't know, Carmen,” I said honestly. “Do I want to become a girl or a woman? Sometimes I think I do, but then I wonder about it.”

“I think I understand. I looked some stuff up on internet last night and I guess it's something that you can't help, right?”

“That's what they say, but I'm not sure where I'm going with this. For now, however, I am teaching as 'Mr. Pearson' and I won't do anything to disgrace the school or hurt my students.”

“You better not,” the girl said. It sounded like a threat.

“Thank you for understanding, Carmen,” I said, as she got up from the table, announcing that she had to leave because she had to get to work at her after-school job as a waitress at a family restaurant.

*****
My trip home that night on the train was a troubled one. I tried to reassure myself that Carmen Mendoza would keep my secret; she seemed to be trustworthy, but then again she was only sixteen, I guessed. I knew she was dying to tell Randy, but that I honestly felt she would not. Yet, who knew? And what of her friend in my class, Barbara Lopez? Might she eventually tell her?

Also, I knew had not exactly been truthful with her, and that bothered me. When she asked me about my desire to be a woman, I responded that I wasn't sure. The fact was I was positive I wanted eventually to be a woman and to live – and hopefully teach – as a woman. I was unhappy as a man and I couldn't wait each night to get home and change into my feminine attire, exchanging my boy briefs for one of my many satiny panties and my undershirt for a bra (36-A size with breast forms) and perhaps a ruffled blouse or a lacy cami and colorful top. Sometimes, I'd put on a print dress – particularly in warmer weather – but in late February I'd opt for a pair of slacks or a plaid, pleated skirt.

As I changed, I watched myself in the mirror standing in a bra and panties looking totally like a teen girl, spellbound by my slender feminine softness, my narrow shoulders, my arms with little muscle tone, my slim legs, my smooth thighs and my curvy butt. I was as enthralled by my feminine figure as I was once disgusted with my pathetic male physique.

No doubt about it: I am a young, pretty woman. How could I continue to live as man, to continue this charade of masculinity? I pictured myself in front of my classroom in a dark brown pencil skirt, white satiny blouse and perhaps a pink cardigan sweater. I saw myself with my hair drawn back in a conservative bun, exposing simple pearl earrings and a matching pearl necklace. I always wore hosiery, usually neutral or coffee-colored along with brown pumps with three-inch heels. Outside of putting on a bit of mascara, blush, a dash of eyeliner and neutral lip gloss, I would be without makeup.

I felt I was a total woman, needing few outer accouterments to prove it.

Excited by my dream to look like a schoolmarm. I decided to dress as I had dreamt. I brought out my digital camera and used the timer so that I could take self-portraits of myself as a teacher. My fantasy grew that night, and I felt it was six-years later and I was a thirty-year-old teacher; teaching social studies in a room down the hall was a handsome, new teacher and young man of twenty-four whose name was Randy. He had greeted me warmly when we first met, and I must say I flirted with him, though I doubted he noticed since he probably had his eye on the lovely new drama teacher who was more his age.

Oh what a marvelous reverie! Could that dream ever come true?

*****
The next several weeks of teaching were uneventful, and my anxiety over having told Carmen about my feminine behavior had decreased. I had seen her only once since, exchanging brief nods of recognition as we passed each other in the hallway. She was jabbering with her friends (including Barbara Lopez from my class) and apparently gave our nods only a passing thought. I hoped Barbara hadn’t noticed those nods, since students and teachers normally don’t greet each other in the hallways.

Nothing seemed to come from that encounter, however, as Barbara Lopez showed no signs of change of attitude toward me in class and continued to be an easy, openly cooperative student.

I had given Carmen my cell phone number and told her to call me whenever she felt it necessary, but I didn’t hear from her over those days. Nor did she email me.

My friendship with Jon Edwards deepened as time went on, but I no longer felt he looked upon me as an object of his homosexual affection. I found he was greatly interested in the theater and movies, as I was, and on Saturday afternoon, he picked me up to see a late afternoon showing of “Philomena,” the movie about an orphan girl who seeks and finds her natural mother. We both cried and finished off the day with a light supper and a few drinks at a favorite restaurant of his.

I was comforted by the fact that he made no suggestive touches or other flirtatious advances. It was obvious that, like me, he was lonely and was pleased to find a colleague who seemed to like many of the same things.