Chapter Twelve: Mixed Welcomes

“I suggested to Mrs. Hammond that you be asked to serve as my drama assistant,” Harriet told me when we met for our usual Thursday night outing, following my meeting with the school principal.

“Do you think I’m qualified to help you, Harriet?” I asked.

“By all means,” she said. “I know of your interest in drama. I’ll ask you to arrange auditions, to work with some individual students who may need extra coaching and to help me keep track of things. I think you’ll enjoy it, Julie.”

I knew Harriet set high standards for her plays; I fully expected that the two of us might not always agree and that I might sometimes not do just exactly as she wanted. Harriet had a reputation for being a tough taskmaster and in the heat of the tense times of preparing for opening night there might be some terrible blow-ups.

“Harriet, are you really that sure about me?” I probed.

“Yes, darling, you are one of brightest and most dedicated persons I’ve ever met. Besides, it would be a delight to have you at my side.”

We were at our favorite Thursday night after-dinner spot, the wine shop that served desserts; it was a warm, muggy August night and both of us were wearing shorts and tank tops. We sat at an outside table, seated close to each other, and I couldn’t resist leaning over to give the older woman and quick kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you,” I said simply. I could feel my cheeks grow flush, perhaps due to the strong praise but most likely due to the growing affection that I felt for this lady.

“You’re so cute when you blush, Julie,” she said.

Of course, that even made me feel hotter and I knew my face must have turned an even deeper red.

“Wouldn’t it be fun to take off for the weekend together?” Harriet said, as we lingered over coffee as we both dove into a slice of luscious blueberry cheesecake that we split between us. Secretly, I’m sure that Harriet felt as I did and would have both liked a full slice apiece, but we girls must watch our figures, don’t we?

*****
Late Friday afternoon, Harriet and I checked into the Pelican Inn Resort at Point Pleasant, which seemed to have become even more decrepit than I remembered it from my Fourth of July and Christmas Eve trips of the past. Perhaps because of its seedy decline, we found it easy to get a reservation.

“I love it,” Harriet gushed, as we entered our ocean-view room.

“I was afraid you’d find it too rundown,” I ventured.

“It’s pretty rundown, darling, but it’s got that old-fashioned charm and it seems clean enough.”

The desk clerk told us the air conditioning was functioning at about half its capacity, and shaved fifteen percent off the room rate. “You might want to leave your windows open. There’s a nice breeze off the ocean, ladies,” he said, his voice exuding an effeminate lilt.

The basic lure of the Resort was, of course, its proximity to the beach; even though it was approaching dusk, there were still a fair number of bathers on the beach, only a few of them braving the breakers.

“Let’s go for a swim before we do anything else,” Harriet suggested.

Even though I was not keen on swimming; in fact, I could hardly do much more than a few strokes and knew I could not keep up with my more athletic friend, I agreed.

“Good, let’s do it” she said, shocking me by immediately stepping out of the shorts and removing the tee-shirt she had been wearing for the motor trip to the Resort. She followed that by taking off her panties and bra and stood naked before me, a marvelous sight with her sculptured, sinewy body, smallish but firm breasts and a clump of curly dark hair at her crotch.

I stood frozen; I had never liked to disrobe before others, perhaps too ashamed to expose my soft, sorry body, my fleshy tummy and tiny flaccid penis.

“Come on Julie, dear, change into your suit. It’s not like we haven’t been naked together before,” she said.

She was right; we had spent a few nights together, totally naked. Those encounters had been in the dark. Now, she wanted me to disrobe in daylight to expose all of my sorry physical attributes.

“God, I love looking at you,” Harriet said after I finally got out of my clothes.

“Me? Oh Harriet, my body is so pathetic next to yours?” I protested.

She came over to me and embraced me tightly, overwhelming me with the strength of her arms. I felt weak and helpless and surrendered eagerly to her kisses. My hands clung onto her strong back and her hands explored me, kneading my fleshy flabby body as we embraced. My penis grew firmer, though I knew its chances of getting into a full erection were nil.

“We’d better not get too involved,” she said finally, breaking away.

I wanted to argue with her to say that I felt content in her arms and eager to continue our lovemaking, but she suggested that we had all weekend ahead of us. She wore a bikini that would probably look ridiculous on any other woman in her fifties, but seemed to fit her as perfectly as if she were eighteen. I would never be seen dead in a bikini, and wore instead a two-piece Navy blue tankini.

Our love-making began after we showered together to cleanse off the salt from our swim in the ocean; we kissed and caressed in the shower, so passionately that we basically ignored the sporadic temperature change in the shower flow. We dried each other off and moved together onto the bed, where we shared moments of passion with post-orgasm relaxation until well after it turned dark. We finally got dressed after brief showers to wash off the sweat and juices from our lovemaking and ventured out to find the bar and grill I remembered from my previous visits in time to order sandwiches just before the kitchen was scheduled to close at ten o’clock.

The weekend was not only spent in lovemaking; we walked the aging neighborhoods of this resort town, wandered on the beaches, visited a ramshackle maritime museum and shopped the boutiques that had begun to populate the resort town. It seemed the town had finally been recognized as a potential tourist stop, regaining its once glorious era in that role. Finally after forty years of being forgotten, travel writers and others had found this gem of a location with its largely unspoiled beaches and thus far noncommercial atmosphere.

More importantly we talked a lot; I learned about Harriet’s life that was so much more interesting than mine, her struggles with her sexuality, her dashed desires to be an actress and her hopes to leave a mark upon the world.

“I had a marvelous man who loved me,” she said. “When I first got to Farragut, I was about twenty-five and I had taken over the drama program which then didn’t amount to much. To spur interest I prevailed upon a former college classmate, who had become an up-and-coming actor on both Broadway and off-Broadway productions, to come to the school. We had dated a couple of times in college, but then drifted apart after graduation. I saw a review in the Times and contacted him.

“He was a couple of years older, still unmarried and not in any permanent relationship. He liked the idea of working with the kids, he said, and volunteered to come out several times. To make a long story short, we clicked. He seemed to enjoy my young son Kevin and that was so sweet. We were great together, so compatible and both so sensual in bed. Strangely about that time in my life I fell in love with my roommate, a slightly older female theatrical costumer who introduced me to a whole new way to love. As a result I turned down the man’s proposal for marriage. My girlfriend dumped me a little while after that.”

“How awful.”

“Oh, it wasn’t to be, Julie. Alex – my girlfriend then – was really a selfish bitch and I was best out of that relationship,” she said. “I still wonder what would have happened if I had married my boyfriend then. His name was Chad and he’s made quite a career as a character actor in New York; I’ve even seen him on episodes of ‘Law and Order,’ usually playing some uptight businessman role.”

“I’ll bet you were talented, Harriet,” I said.

“I always thought I was, but being an actor is no piece of cake,” she said with a smile. “Besides I love teaching, particularly in a school like Farragut where you can help kids who come from such troubled environments.”

“Oh Harriet, I don’t know what to make of my friendship with you,” I said as she drove us back from Point Pleasant. “I know I still yearn for the love of a man, but now I’m confused.”

“Probably no more than I am, dear,” she said, as we slowed to a stop in the bumper-to-bumper traffic that was so typical for a summer Sunday afternoon as families returned from the beaches.

“How can I feel love for both men and women?” I asked.

“Maybe you just desire love, my dear,” she said. She smiled at me. We were still stalled in traffic, and she leaned over to kiss me. The car behind us honked, either cheering or jeering upon seeing two females kissing in the car in front of them. Earlier during the weekend, I had confessed the sexual confusion of my short life, a life so sheltered and protected that I was just now beginning to understand how complex human relations could be.

As she dropped me off at my house, we kissed. It was a passionate, wet kiss that I relished; yet, I feared my neighbors would see the long embrace. We parted finally.

“This was one of the best weekends of my life, Harriet. Thank you.”

“No, darling, thank you,” she replied. “I love you.”

*****
To make certain that I wouldn’t be late for the first day of Teachers’ Orientation, a four-day process that began on the Tuesday before Labor Day, I was up by five o’clock in the morning; after showering and fixing my hair, I hemmed and hawed over what to wear. The previous night – fully aware of the importance of my first impression as Miss Pearson upon the rest of the teaching staff – I had set out Capri pants, a sleeveless blouse and a cardigan sweater. By morning I was debating about whether to wear that outfit, or to switch to either a summer dress or a skirt and blouse combination; I even thought about wearing slacks. I hated my indecision over what to choose and actually put on all four choices before settling upon wearing the skirt (a light, airy flowing piece with a white background and wispy pastel floral patterns) with a peach-colored sleeveless slip-over blouse.

Even with what seemed an interminable time in the clothes debate, I still was able to catch an early train, arriving at Farragut a full half-hour before the appointed time. There were few cars on the school parking lot when I arrived. Realizing that I was unfashionably early, I considered briefly that perhaps I might walk around the neighborhood for a few minutes before venturing into the school.

“You’re being silly,” I said to myself.

I resolutely walked to the side teachers’ entrance, rang the bell and was buzzed in by the security guard whom I recognized as the same man who performed the task in the previous semester. “Welcome back, Ms. Pearson,” he said with a smile.

“Good morning, Sam,” I said. “You remember me, then?”

“Yes, ma’am, and I must say I’m impressed with the new teacher,” he said, his smile broadening.

His friendly greeting worried me: Did that mean he recognized me as the onetime male teacher named Jason Pearson? Would others notice the former me, too?

“Mrs. Hammond informed me you’d be coming back this year, but without her warning, I’d never have recognized you for the teacher from last year,” he explained.

“Thank you Sam. You have a good day,” I said, feeling relieved by the guard’s explanation.

We were told to convene at the front of the school’s cafeteria, which also functioned as a multi-purpose room. Except for several older women working in the kitchen, I was the only one in the room and I sat down at a picnic style, metal table near the front of the room, where a podium with a microphone and a table with a few chairs had been set up. There was an urn of coffee set up alongside some bagels and I poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup, leaving it black and avoiding the bagels and the 300 or so calories they likely contained.

Gradually the room filled with teachers, most dressed casually in shorts (some of the younger female teachers in tight, revealing shorts), jeans or cargo pants. I could see only two other teachers wearing skirts and dressed as formally as I was; they were also young and I didn’t recognize them and therefore assumed they were new teachers like me.

At first, none of the teachers joined my table, and I watched as the teachers I knew from the previous year eyed me up-and-down, as they did the other apparently new teachers. From their glances, it seemed none recognized me as the former substitute English teacher named Mr. Pearson. I was surprised when Hank Duke sat down opposite me and greeted be with a cheerful, “Good morning, Julie. It’s nice seeing you’re back.”

“Good morning, Coach Duke,” I said, adopting a formal voice.

“Hope you had a good summer, Ms. Pearson,” he said.

“I did, thank you and I hope you did, too.”

Our pleasantries were interrupted when Mrs. McGuire, the teacher whose class I took over while she was off on maternity leave, joined us. I could tell she was in the harried state that seems to betray that of a woman who might have a newborn at home; her long, blonde hair was brushed a bit loosely and her face was puffy; she was wearing sweatpants and a man’s denim workshirt.

“Nice to see you again, Sally,” Duke said to the new arrival.

“Hank, how are you?” she said cheerfully.

“Great. But exhausted from the rec program this summer. Damn administration made it so rough on paperwork that I hardly had time for the kids,” he said.

I nodded in agreement, since he was stating a refrain that teachers had about administrative chores that cut into their teaching time.

“This third kid I thought would be the easiest, but she’s been colicky which has been tough on my husband and me,” Sally McGuire said.

She went into her purse and withdrew a photo of a round-faced, bright-eyed infant with blonde hair and pinkish skin.

“Oh but she’s a cutie,” Hank said, handing the picture to me.

“Migosh, she is. What’s her name?” I said, handing the picture back to her.

“Julianne,” Sally McGuire.

All the time this conversation continued, I could tell that Mrs. McGuire had not recognized me as her “sub” from last semester.

“Julianne?” Hank said, smiling. “Well you obviously don’t know one of our new teachers, Sally. Meet Julie Pearson.”

Mrs. McGuire finally looked at me closely; up to that point, I could tell she was just settling in from a hectic morning at home, preparing the kids for a baby-sitter and getting herself out of the house in time for the orientation.

“Nice meeting you, Julie,” she said, holding out her large, rough hand.

“The baby’s name is sweet,” I said.

“My God. Pearson? That was the name of the young man who subbed my class last semester. You look like him.”

Hank Duke thankfully interceded. “Miss Pearson until a few months ago was that young man. Julie is transitioning from male to female.”

“What? And teaching here at Farragut? How can that be?” Mrs. McGuire said her tone suddenly indignant.

“Now Sally, give her a chance,” Hank said. “She proved to be an excellent teacher in your place.”

“I know and I’m sorry, but this is such a shock,” she said.

Turning to me, Mrs. McGuire’s face softened. “I’m sorry for my reaction. I understand about this transgendered stuff, but isn’t this going to cause some trouble or disruption?”

“I hope it won’t,” I said. “I found I really loved teaching. You left me some really good kids to teach last year, Mrs. McGuire.”

“Some of them could be a challenge, I know, and I understand you did a masterful job with them, even getting Thomas settled down. I could never control him and his friend Demetrius but I ran into Thomas at the supermarket a few weeks ago and he was stocking shelves and was so polite. He had only good to say about you.”

I smiled, remembering the rebellious and mischievous Thomas who had composed a bit of poetry in my honor.

“Even so, Julie, and I hope you don’t think I don’t respect you,” Sally McGuire continued, speaking deliberately and with some hesitation. “I’m really troubled by your presence in this school, where just about everyone will remember you from last semester when you appeared as a man. Why couldn’t you go to a different school where no one would have known about your past?”

I looked at her closely, unable at first to respond; I felt that perhaps I should begin to cry. Sally McGuire was known to be a caring, dedicated teacher; yet, she was unable to view me as anything but a freak it seemed. Would her attitude be similar to many others in the school, including parents and students?

“I’m sorry, but that’s how I feel, Julie or Jason or whatever your name is,” Mrs. McGuire said.

“First of all, Mrs. McGuire,” I began to answer, also slowly and deliberatively, “Mrs. Hammond offered me the job. She encouraged me to take it even after I said I would not take the job if it would cause distraction in the school. She said the issue might be disruptive, but that it would help to bring a good lesson on diversity to everyone in the school. Believe me, Mrs. McGuire, I’m here to be the best teacher I can be.”

Sally McGuire nodded her head and said, “Well I hope you’re right.”

Then Mrs. McGuire turned her attention to Hank. “Do you think it’s OK for the school to experiment like this, to have teacher who is changing sex? No offense, Julie.”

“She proved herself as a teacher,” he said. “That’s all that should count.”

“I guess so, but I’m not convinced,” she replied, and then turned to me, putting her hand on mine in a friendly gesture.

“I’m rooting for you dear, and feel it’s OK for you to come to me for help,” she said. For some reason, I wasn’t convinced that she meant those words, but I nodded as if to signify that I accepted her good wishes. Her tone still displayed a bit of disdain for me.

*****
Theresa Hammond, the Farragut principal, had called me the day before the orientation session to outline her strategy for introducing me to the other teachers, as well to discuss other plans in seeking to make my appearance on the job go as smoothly as possible.

“I’m going to introduce you along with the other three newly-hired teachers, briefly summarizing the backgrounds of each of you,” she said. “I’m going to state very directly that you were on the staff last year as a substitute teacher and that many of them knew you as Jason Pearson. I see no need to pussyfoot on this issue. It would be impossible to hide your gender status, and we may as well be up-front about it. Do you have any problem with that?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Hammond,” I said immediately.

“Good. I know there will be some questions and probably some criticisms, but let me answer them. I’ve studied up on people who have gone through such changes and realize it’s not a disease or anything, but rather a need for individuals to express their true selves. In addition, the District’s experts in these affairs will be available – if needed – to discuss this.”

True to the plan, Mrs. Hammond addressed the seventy-plus teachers at the orientation following the script she outlined.

She asked each of the new teachers to say something, and I followed the example of the other two who preceded me, merely stating that I was looking forward to the teaching year and would welcome the support and friendship of all of them.

I noticed the applause that followed my statement was a bit more tepid than that following the other two newbies. It was apparent that regardless of the assurances from Mrs. Hammond my appointment met with skepticism from many of the teachers.

“I’ll have lots to prove to the teachers here,” I confessed to Hank as we left the session, walking together down the hall.

“I think you’ll do fine, and you know you’ll also have a lot of backing,” he said.

While he and I agreed to swear off any attempt to rekindle our brief romance, he took the lead in saying he’d continue to be a friendly colleague at the school. His friendship was most reassuring, since he had the respect of the other teachers who saw him as an athletic coach who cared as much about his students succeeding academically as he did about winning football games.

By the end of the four-day orientation sessions (mainly composed of in-service trainings and briefings on internal school administrative processes), I had received the best wishes of virtually all the teachers. The two new teachers, Laura McPherson and Tamara Jackson, were in their twenties. They sought me out for information on the school, seeking to benefit from what I had learned from a semester of substitute teaching. We met for lunch on the Saturday after the orientation at a popular restaurant on the ocean and I soon found myself giggling and chatting with the other two; they accepted me as just another young teacher, sharing our doubts and hopes about our chosen profession. They heard the discussion at the orientation session about my transition, but to them I was just another young, beginning teacher. It was a comforting feeling.