Reasonable Certitude

By

Miriam Hartman Roberts

(The book within Choices)

Chapter 1

I believe in God. I really do. I believe in God the creator of heaven and earth. After nearly seven complete decades of observation, glorious sunrises and blazing red sunsets, birds and butterflies and a multitude of other magnificent features of this world, including, of course, the miracles of life, birth and the human experience, I am certain of the existence of God the Creator.

Considering God the Creator as a concept, I accept the limitations of the human mind and of language. When describing God the Creator I take no issue with assigning attributes and qualities similar to our own, especially God in human form and the use of the masculine pronouns He, Him and His. Spare me the too cute switch to the feminine pronouns; God as a female. To me God is neither male nor female as we understand gender.

God the Creator I accept and embrace fully and completely. My doubt comes with God the Controller, and it is here where I have solidarity with my atheist friends. I actually have studied this, sitting in church on hundreds of Sundays, listening to explanations of God’s power and will, vengeance and retribution, sin and forgiveness, rewards in heaven and punishment in hell, reading the Bible. I’m no philosopher but I’ve listened and read; I really have. It’s just hard to believe that a God who can make rivers part and volcanoes erupt, who causes death and destruction to prove a point, must resort to threats of eternal damnation to elicit sinless behavior. I can’t accept a God who is said to have omnipotent power allows the greedy to thrive, or lets defenseless children suffer and die of disease and abuse.

I guess I mostly subscribe to the free will pillar of atheism, allowing for that acceptance of God the Creator. God created this world and us, and therefore, we have an obligation to live moral and ethical lives, enjoying the bounties, but sharing with and helping those less fortunate. It’s a choice and we will be rewarded, more or less, appropriately. I guess I accept New Testament Christian benevolence and love, and reject, other than creation, Old Testament rigid dogma of sin and punishment.

Yes, I’ve fully considered that as mere mortals none of us could understand how war and destruction, rape and murder fit into His plan; but I just cannot accept that there is a God whose plan includes these things. I am told I am weak and before I can enjoy the full bounty of His plan, I must believe, unquestionably. But I can’t.

I am, therefore, left without a pure foundation. It does seem there is some force at play beyond my twin beliefs in God the Creator and living a life in tune with Christian benevolent free will. The result for me is something I call Divine Coincidence, or DC. I believe there is a power of some kind but not a God as we typically think; it’s a power, a force really, that gathers the elements of life and its struggles, setting the stage for things to happen, leaving us to discover the reason for the challenges that face each of us. In simplistic terms, I believe that things happen for a reason.

I wasn’t thinking about free-will, God the Controller or even about things happening for a reason in September 1955 when a seemingly minor discovery of mine led me to question so much about my beliefs and choices in life. No, I was probably thinking about how fortunate I was. Don, my husband, and I had finally moved into our own home after 15 years of married life living with my parents on the little farm in Marshall County, West Virginia. It wasn’t really a full working farm; it was my father’s fantasy farm. He was not a farmer but from farming. He kept the little ten acres or so, most of it on steep hills, as his outlet, his connection with his roots. During the week he was a successful salesman for Wheeling Steel Corporation. He was a weekend farmer.

We had finally moved our family, a girl and two boys, to one of the better homes in Moundsville, a red brick Victorian on Fifth Street built by one of the town’s successful elders who died without leaving family who lived in town, or who wanted to. It was a magnificent three story house with four bedrooms and three baths on the second floor, a formal dining room, a sun porch surrounding the turret center of the living room and second and third floor bedrooms, a solarium and notably an elevator, installed by the rich previous owner when he could no longer navigate stairs.

I had given up my dream of becoming a journalist, (I wanted to be an out where things were happening reporter), the dream that was challenged when I married the handsome and thin Donald Roberts in our senior year at WVU, and by the ensuing instantaneous pregnancy that followed. Marriage, a new baby, the Great Depression and a looming threat of war gave us little choice but to live with my mother and father, on that little non-farm for over fourteen years. We never thought it would be so long before we would be on our own. In 1955 I finally felt complete and content. Don was successful; we socialized with doctors, lawyers, and business owners. Our oldest daughter, Brenda Lee, went to a private Catholic girls’ school in Wheeling; our boys, Tim who was thirteen but in a hurry to be older, and Jack who was about to turn ten, were active and happy. Or so I thought.

That September afternoon I was cleaning closets, putting away summer clothes and preparing for colder weather. I had finished in Brenda’s room, our 17 year old daughter who was away at school, and was working on the closet shared by our two sons, 13 year old Tim and little Jack, just ten. I noticed a box of their things we had shoved on a shelf in the back of the closet when we moved in May. I decided to go through the box but when I moved it from the shelf I found a surprise and a mystery. Behind the box, deep on the shelf were girls’ things, my things and Brenda’s; a bra, two pair of panties and a full slip.

My journal shows the following from that day in 1955:

September 8, 1955 – Thursday

I don’t know what is going on. I found something today that concerns me, a lot. I was trying to get caught up on getting the house in order from the chaos of the summer while the kids were back in school. Today I began with the boys’ room. It must have been a mess. There wasn’t much of closet in that room. As with most older homes it isn’t deep but it does go off to the right for three or four feet where there was a shelf. As I was hanging up some of the boys’ clothes I noticed a box on the shelf. We had moved in so quickly I had forgotten I had thrown some older clothes of the boys in a box and just shoved it in the closet. So when I pulled out the box to go through it I noticed some things stuffed behind the box. I was totally shocked as I reached for and touched the items. I don’t know what I was expecting but what I felt wasn’t it. Behind the box was one of my bras, two pair of panties and a slip. How did they get there and WHY!!!!

(I could not tell this story without my journals. It wasn’t my idea, nor was it my nature to record my daily life. It was a requirement imposed by Dr. Perley Reed, my journalism professor for my senior year at WVU. My first entry explains it, I think:

January 6, 1939 – WVU – Morgantown, West Virginia. Professor Reed has mandated that each of us in his Journalism 450 class keep a Journal. The idea as he notes is that a story without detailed facts is fiction and fiction has no place in a respectable newspaper. So we must carry a journal around, and we must carefully record the ‘who, what, where, when and why’ of events we deem newsworthy. So everything I see or experience will be recorded here with the appropriate five ‘W’s’.

That was the first entry and by the end of the semester, when I graduated with a major in journalism, I was making an entry most every day. When Don and I started living with my parents, I continued my journal; it was my escape, my friend. I kept writing for nearly 28 years; with entries more frequent during difficult or momentous times. I stopped writing in 1968 upon the news of the tragic accident that took the life of my eldest son, Tim.)

I sat on one of the twin beds in the boys room holding my and Brenda’s personal things, unmentionables they were called then. I remember almost laughing at first but then having a million thoughts run through my head. How did these things get there? Why? What did it mean? I tried to think it through. Did I inadvertently leave them there? No, that wasn’t it. Needless to say I didn’t get much else done that day. I was an only child and being the mother of boys had its challenges for me but my boys were really o.k. At least I thought so. There were a couple of older boys in town who were obviously different, who were called sissy and who didn’t like girls. I didn’t see that in either Tim or Jack. Tim was as rough as any boy and really liked to challenge and mix it up. He was literally a fighter. Jack was much more reserved and quiet but he played well with other boys and seemed to fit in. He was gentle and sweet but he wasn’t a sissy, or at least I didn’t see it.

So what then? Those things just didn’t get put behind that box by accident. Was this just something boys go through? Had one or both of them been playing some boy game? Nothing really made sense. Tim was probably starting puberty so I guess it could be him thinking about girls. I had no other explanation. I knew that I couldn’t confront them, separately or together. If things happen for a reason, the reason behind this was a complete mystery.

So I did nothing. I removed the items and worried alone. I washed them, they weren’t really dirty, and returned them to their drawers. Over the next few days I considered whether I should tell my husband. Don was a great father, also an only child. He had been pampered as a kid, given everything he wanted. He loved the kids and was close to all of them. He wasn’t the sports role model for the boys but he wasn’t an unloving or absent father either. He was more one of the children rather than a father with tough standards and rigid expectations. I felt if I told him he would want to take some action. He would want to consult someone, and he would insist on finding out who did it and why; he would have to know if one of his boys needed help. It was probably nothing serious. I was probably making too much of it.

I didn’t tell Don, or anybody. I hoped it was a fluke. If I told no one then it was like it didn’t happen and if it didn’t happen, I didn’t have to know the reason, I told myself convolutedly. But I watched Tim and Jack closely. And I checked the closet regularly. I saw nothing that was unusual. Tim was constantly busy with school and playing outside and “inventing” things. Jack showed no unusual behavior. He was doing o.k. in school and with friends. Yes, he had friends, boys, and while he was not the center of a group, he played with one or two boys a couple times a week. He also read a lot and spent a lot of time alone; he seemed so normal.

I just knew this would pass.

Choices

Chapter 2

What most contributed to my personal religious doctrine of Divine Coincidence, that things happen for a reason, was the death of Jack Staub, Don’s second cousin on his mother’s side. My husband, Don, was close to Jack; they were both only children. They grew up living just a block away from each other. As boys they were inseparable, always getting into mischief and driving their respective mothers batty. Jack was a year younger than Don. He was tall and slim with delicate features for a boy but he was all boy; they often took Don’s 22 pump rifle into the woods with bottle tops, a never ending contest to see which boy was the best shot.

I begged Don not to go with Jack to the draft board on December 9th, 1941. Jack was not married and I had just learned I was pregnant with our second child. It was selfish on my part but like many young wives and mothers at the end of 1941, I was terrified of becoming a widow with two young children. I knew it wasn’t realistic though, as I watched Don drive away toward Moundsville on his way to meet Jack and volunteer, like thousands of others. I felt better thinking about Don and Jack fighting together, covering for each other, protecting each other. But that wasn’t realistic either, just comforting for me as his car disappeared over the hill to the west. I sat in the kitchen and watched little Brenda, just three, play with her doll. I was thinking about Jack, Uncle Jack as we were now calling him, when I heard a car, Don’s car, coming up the drive. He had only been gone a couple of hours. I rushed out to see Don looking dejected. I had to hide my elation when he told me they would not let him enlist, would not give him an exemption because of the severe hearing loss he suffered from a bout with scarlet fever as a child. But Jack, he was in and was soon gone from our lives but not our hearts.

Jack excelled in the Army. He fought in North Africa becoming a Sergeant and then in August 1943 received a battle field commission. Captain Jack Staub. He was home in early 1944, wearing his crisp uniform, proud of the Captain bars on his shoulders. He spent several days with us, playing with Brenda and especially little Timmy, our son. We laughed and drank. In a way I was in love with Jack, just as I was in love with Don. How could I not love them both; Don the gentle father of my two children and Jack the sweet caring and very handsome man any woman would fall for, especially in that uniform. It was so hard to see him leave again. I felt he had already done his part, cited for bravery, escaped brushes with death. Why did he have to go back, I asked? Let him stay, maybe he could train new recruits. Didn’t they deserve to learn from someone who had been through it? But it was not to be. He left and I cried.

And shortly after he left I found out I was pregnant for the third time.

Jack went to England and we learned he was among the first to go ashore on the beaches of Normandy. We were so relieved that he survived that day of sacrifice and death, and we now could look forward to Jack coming home, hopefully; the end was in sight. As I got closer to delivering my baby, we listened to the radio every evening, charting the tough progress of our boys fighting in distant lands, and we held our breath when we read the casualty lists in the news papers. On November 11, 1944, I gave birth to a boy, James Edgar Roberts. I swear he looked like Jack but I dared not say that to Don. I saw them both in my baby boy; they were cousins after all; Jack and Don did resemble each other.

I was released from the hospital after only four days, rather than the usual seven because of an impending snow storm, a storm which stranded us for over a week in the house on the hill. We were cut off, no newspapers; we even didn’t have electricity for two days. Finally, Don put chains on the Oldsmobile and set off for town and much needed supplies. When he came back he came in the house without any groceries. His eyes were red and he was openly crying. He didn’t have to say anything; I knew. I wrapped my arms around him and we cried together. Finally, I spoke Jack’s name as a question and Don shook his head. We continued to cry together for the longest time.

Jack died in eastern France, western Germany, an area really known as Alsace Lorraine, just west of Strouseborg, coincidently near where his and Don’s mutual grandfather, as well as countless prior generations of German ancestry, lived before immigrating to America in the 1850’s. Jack was shot, of course, leading his men in an assault on a German bunker, possibly manned by distant cousins. He died on Armistice Day, the day James Edgar was born, maybe at the same moment. I broke from Don’s grip and rushed up to my sleeping little boy. I picked him up, still crying, and sat with him for the rest of the day and into the evening, not eating; just crying. It was during those hours holding my baby that my understanding of Divine Coincidence solidified. I looked into the precious face of James and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that things happen for a reason; if sometimes not a reason we can easily accept or understand.

After I stopped crying, late that evening, I started calling my baby boy ‘Jack’, after Uncle Jack, the young man I loved, the one who died for me and for his country. Don did not object; he was as devastated as I, and we both felt it would honor our friend, our hero. I had no way of knowing if Jack, the dead soldier, was the father of my son. In fact, it was likely he was not; one chance encounter with a man about to return to battle after Don had too much to drink did not make for high probability. It was possible, but more likely Don was the father, our intimacy being frequent and wonderful throughout our married life, especially then. But I would never know for certain.

But that possibility, coupled with the coincidence of Jack’s death and my son’s birth happening on the same day, a historical day of another war’s end, made me consider the complexities of my doctrine of Divine Coincidence.

Choices

Chapter 3

For almost three weeks after I found the intimate items in the boys’ closet my life seemed normal again. I checked the closet regularly and each time I felt relieved when I found nothing. I closely observed my sons’ behavior and unusually tucked each in bed at night receiving some indignation from the oldest. I saw nothing unusual. Whatever it was it had passed just as I hoped and I literally thanked God.

Then just when I had again found solace with God the Creator, not necessarily God the Controller, it happened again forcing me to again consider the theory of Divine Coincidence.

September 27, 1955 – Tuesday – It’s been a couple of weeks since I discovered the hidden items. I had decided the issue with the bra, slip and panties was an isolated event. I had dismissed it, mostly. But today it resurfaced with a vengeance. I was moving some summer clothes to the unoccupied third floor of the house. There is a huge dresser up there and a large area to hang clothes. As I unzipped a dresser bag to hang a couple of Brenda’s summer dresses I noticed a paper sack in the bottom of the zipper bag. I pulled out the sack and inside was the strapless bra Brenda wore with the gown from her dance the previous spring and three pair of panties. Then I noticed that the gown hanging in the same zipper bag was not hanging straight and the gown’s zipper was only partly zipped up. My heart stopped and I felt like I had been kicked in the gut. And now I am mad. But I’m at a loss about this, or what to do.

Something wasn’t right and I couldn’t ignore it. I had to do something to fix this before it got worse. I wasn’t sure but I felt in my heart that it was Jack, my youngest son. He often played on the third floor; he had some of his toys up there and he kept a stack of books there. I quickly fixed the gown and put the bra back in the dresser where it was kept. I raced down stairs to call Don. I picked up the phone and gave the operator Don’s office number. As I heard the click and then the ring I realized I couldn’t say anything over the phone. It was a small town and phone operators heard all the dirt and most of it became the town gossip. Phone operators, it seemed, had no ethical standards or moral obligations.

I was relieved when Don didn’t answer the phone. It also gave me time to think. Was I ready to tell him? How would I explain it? I didn’t know what was going on but I knew I had to protect my children, especially Jack. I knew that if this became known in the family, and especially outside, that I wouldn’t be able to control what happened or how we dealt with it. Moundsville was probably like thousands of other little towns. You really couldn’t hide anything. People talked; no they gossiped, and speculated, and judged. Sometimes people were literally shunned, or at least ignored because of what was being said, true or not. Little escaped notice. Everyone knew who was drinking too much, or was cheating. And everyone knew whose kids were having problems, in school or otherwise. It seemed you were always being observed, and you were; not that we had anything to worry about. We lived a pretty sedate life, went to church, socialized with the best, and our kids were popular and normal. If anyone knew what Jack was probably doing everything would change. I decided I needed more time; more time to fix this before it got out, literally, or out of control. I had to talk to Jack; I had to confront him.

Finding the right moment when I could confront Jack proved more than difficult. I was determined to keep it between him and me.

September 26, 1955 – I’m up in the middle of the night. Don is sleeping and I am beside myself with whatever is going on with Jack. He went to the third floor today after school but I decided not to surprise him and Tim was in the house. I need to talk to Jack when we are alone. I just can’t imagine what is going on, or why. I’m so afraid he might be… I can’t even write the word.

Those few days after this second incident were torture for me. I worried constantly and watched Jack carefully, searched his face, his expressions, his demeanor; I suppose I was looking for a clue, a hint of what might be going on, yes what might be wrong with Jack. But I saw nothing that I could say was unusual. He seemed happy and showed no strange behavior. I listened to him closely and he didn’t verbalize anything I thought was, well, not what a normal 10 year old boy would say.

Finally, I found the perfect time when Jack and I had the house to ourselves.

September 28, 1955 – Wednesday – I was able to talk to Jack today. Jack and I were home alone late in the afternoon. Tim had some activity after school and Jack went up to his room. I waited a few minutes and went up to see him and talk. When I approached his room I heard him jump on the bed. As I entered the dark room Jack was under the covers of his bed. I sat down on the bed and brushed my hand over Jack’s forehead. I talked to him and tried to get him to open up to me but I noticed he was wearing one of my slips. I didn’t react and he then asked me why he was born a boy. Why would he ask that? This is serious and I’m beside myself. We did talk though and I promised to help him and to be there for him. I hope I can keep my promise because I am crazy about what he is doing and especially what he asked me. How could this be happening to me, to us? I just don’t know what to do. I have to help my Jack, somehow.

I remember that afternoon like it was yesterday and the conversation I had with my son is still vivid.

“Are you o.k., sweetie?” I asked.

“I’m just tired, mom,” he said.

It was a quiet and peaceful moment and I thought it was a good time to just come out with it.

“Jack, you know you can talk to me if there is something bothering you, don’t you?”

“Yes”, he quietly said.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” I ventured as I brushed my hand over his forehead.

“No, not really,” he mumbled.

I thought about how far I wanted to push him. He seemed so innocent and was about to turn eleven. I resisted telling him I knew he had been playing with my and his sister’s things. Playing? Is that what he was doing?

“Jack, you know I love you, don’t you?” I continued.

“Yes.”

“You know I will always love you and help you?”

“Uh, huh.”

Then I just said it.

“Are you doing something that you don’t want me to know about?”

He didn’t respond. I noticed he had the covers pulled up to his neck. He seemed to be hiding something but I didn’t want to embarrass him. The light was dim and I couldn’t see much but I noticed that the covers had slipped from his shoulder and arm as we talked. I didn’t react when I saw the strap of a slip on his shoulder. Jack had taken the opportunity of being (almost) alone to put on one of his sister’s slips or mine, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t understand. He was just a boy; only 10. He was so innocent. Had something happened to him that I missed? What drove him to do this? Was he doing this a lot? I couldn’t grasp his motivation. I was torn between being a dictating parent and a loving mother. I wanted to yell, rip the covers off him and spank him but I just couldn’t.

“Jack”, I heard myself say softly, “its o.k., whatever it is or why, I will be on your side and will help you”. I really wanted to tell him I would help him stop doing this but it didn’t come out that way.

He didn’t respond. He pulled the covers back up close around his neck. He was obviously embarrassed. I decided to leave it there for now. Don and Tim would be home soon and I needed to give Jack some space to pull himself together without embarrassing him. I had let him know that I knew he was doing something and that I loved him. I hoped that would be enough for now.

So I stood up and told him to get up and get ready for dinner. As I was leaving the room Jack softly called to me.

“Mom, why was I born a boy?”

Mothers sometimes face difficult and unexpected things with children, but this was more than I could fathom. I was so shocked I almost just ignored him. It was a question out of the blue; one that I had never considered nor could understand. It was so obvious I was speechless but I knew I couldn’t leave without some response. I went back over to the bed and sat down. I drew a deep breath. My words surprised me. They must have come from a mother’s love and instinct.

“God Jack, what do you mean? I love you. The easy answer is because that is the way it is. But I’m guessing you need more of an answer than that. I can’t give you one now but I promise we will get one together. Jack, I just don’t understand this and it scares me. I don’t know why you are doing what you are doing. I don’t understand why you would ask that. I am so afraid. I need some time, Jack. For now though I need you to stop doing this, so I can figure this out. You know it’s wrong to take things that belong to other people.” I was talking to Jack but really speaking to myself, to my heart, to my fear.

“Mom, you won’t tell Dad or anybody will you?”

“No, Jack, I won’t. Now get dressed and come downstairs.”

So I made a promise I knew I could not keep. I didn’t have an answer for Jack, at least not one he could understand. Now I was not just worried, I was frantic. I decided that I had to have a deeper conversation with Jack; that I had to understand him more before I could search for an answer. My problem was that I had no idea where to look for an answer, or if there was anyone in this world who could help me, and my precious Jack. I felt so alone in the world and suddenly ready to have a deeper relationship with God the Controller.

Choices

Chapter 4

Obviously I didn’t sleep much the night after my ten year old son asked me a question I could not answer. My journal shows both my sleeplessness and my anguish that night. As a mother I was prepared for questions about life and growing up. I had already been through it with Brenda and Tim, so I had some experience. My son’s questioning being a boy was, to say the least, beyond anything any mother should have to deal with and I was sure I was the only one who ever had. That question, coupled with my insomnia forced me to think in terms my faith, or lack thereof.

September 28, 1955 – Thursday – It is morning and I have not slept. All night I thought about what would prompt my Jack to ask why he was born a boy. I’m so afraid something happened to him that I did not know about, maybe he’s been teased by other boys, or worse. I have to find out.

I also prayed last night, on my knees, literally, for God to tell me why this is happening. Why would God do this; not to me but to Jack?

My religious conflict did not keep me from living the life of a Christian woman. That was important for me in Moundsville; actually, it was essential. To do otherwise would, no doubt, give me a taste of what hell and damnation would be like. First, I would have to endure my mother’s wrath, then I would be shunned, and finally I would be the source of constant stares and gossip. It was easier to be a good, church going, holy Christian woman. Besides I mostly agreed with Christian teachings and beliefs and it certainly came in handy with the children.

The Simpson United Methodist Women’s Bible Study group was not just upstanding and revered, but also somewhat pious. Any adult female member of Simpson Methodist could attend the weekly Thursday gathering, but in practice only married women with college degrees showed up. It wasn’t that the degreed housewives, most with children, made others feel unwelcome. No, the working class women of Simpson stayed away because they were likely intimidated; they could not dress as well, could not speak as well and certainly could not match the superior intellect and knowledge of the wives of the successful, or so it seemed. It was a time for high Christian study and discussion, as well as a brief refuge from husbands and children. In-depth discussion of a Bible verse usually led to in-dept forays into personal issues, and then, of course, gossip.

I was a member in good standing with my Bible Study group but I attended irregularly; many did also. With my conversation with my son fresh on my mind and considering the issue, I debated not going the week after I first confronted Jack. In the end I decided I needed to clear my head and what better way to do that than to listen to my sisters in Christ vie for Christian social position. I had absolutely no intention of even hinting that the devil had invaded my life and infected my innocent precious ten year old boy. I felt alone and desperately needed to bond with other women, some who may, I reasoned, have had similar experiences as mothers; not the same experiences I was sure, but excruciatingly emotional issues with a husband or child.

So after I cleared the dinner dishes the Tuesday after Jack posed that question I changed my dress, fixed my makeup and headed over to the church. On the two block walk I reminded myself to resist the temptation to open up to anyone. I entered the church by the side door and climbed the stairs to the upper room where we regularly met. I was greeted by four or five women who arrived ahead of me including Birdie Boswell, wife of our beloved minister John, and the group leader.

Birdie was a competent and intense leader of Biblical discussion, always trying to keep the conversation focused on what she believed was the salient message. But she was shallow and simplistic, often missing opportunities to connect the struggles of women in a small provincial town with Christian values.

I can only guess what men talk about when there are no women present, or more importantly how they talk about women. My guess is the conversation is not always flattering about wives and women; a complaint here, a tad of condescension there and always a hint of misogyny. I don’t really know of course; how could I? It’s a feeling I have. As a woman I just cannot know what men feel or think, let alone what they say to other men. I do know what we talk about during those times when we are together without any male influence. Sure, some complain, bitch really, but mostly we share experiences of the struggles, the ones unique to being women.

I took a seat next to Elaine Rogers, an upstanding member of the church. I just couldn’t bring myself to be very conversational during the hour or so of Biblical discussion.

“How are the boys?” I finally asked Elaine just when Bible study was breaking up. I think I sat next to Elaine Rogers intentionally, hoping I guess, that I would gain, through osmosis, some insight in dealing with a son’s aberrant behavior.

“Oh, they’re doing fine. And yours? Isn’t Brenda a senior this year?” Elaine said continuing the small talk. I wanted to just ask her how she did it; how she stayed so strong and how she coped but that would not be polite. So I just tried to work into it.

“It certainly is a challenge at times, isn’t it?” I ventured.

Elaine gave me a look obviously wondering what I meant. Elaine was the mother of two sons, Reuben, also a senior in high school and the same age as Brenda and Robin, a sophomore. Reuben was musical and Robin the star of the basketball team. Her two boys were as different as night and day and I was hoping she might, well, have some insight.

“Yes, a challenge is one way you could put it. I prefer to see it as a test of my faith.” She answered coldly. Having our faith tested was a common way to describe the difficult things that happen, with or without a reason, in Moundsville.

“Elaine, I hope I’m not out of bounds here, but I marvel at your strength.” I noted sincerely. “I just don’t know I could be as strong.”

I had not planned to have an intimate conversation with Elaine Rogers. In fact, I wasn’t sure she would be open to one. But if there was one mother in Moundsville who had dealt with a challenge it was Elaine and her challenge was named Reuben. It may have been selfish and it certainly was risky but I suddenly felt a bond with Elaine. Instead of seeing her as the mother of the ‘troubled’ son, I now saw her as a woman who loved and stood up for a child who was clearly different. Now I felt that I had something in common with her; a son who was different; I just prayed they didn’t share the same difference.

Elaine turned to me and searched my face. She looked into my eyes.

“Miri, you are not alone. Yes, I’ve had to trust the Lord; I’ve had my weak moments. I’ve cried many nights but in the end, my only choice has been to have faith in Christ Jesus and to love my child.” She paused, waiting for me to say something. I didn’t.

“Whatever it is, Miri, don’t ever turn away from your child or from God. I’ve had many people, some in this church, good people, tell me I had to try to change Reuben. I’ve been told it’s my fault the way he is. I’ve been told he needs to play football. Jim Jones offered to have him spend the summer on his farm; said he would make a man out of him. We’ve been to doctors, four or five of them and all of them said Reuben needed intensive treatment; that he is sick.” Elaine was now emotional, almost crying but she held strong. I was happy to let her talk. She took a breath and continued.

“But I know my son. I know people condemn him, call him deviate and a sinner. I know he’s not like other boys. Reuben is different, yes, but in a special way; he is smart, loving and talented. I endure the condemnations and the gossip, and then go home and celebrate the gift God has given me.” She paused again giving me a chance to say something. Again when I didn’t she added.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but something is. If you want to talk, I am here. If not, I understand. I will tell you that if it is anything like what was given to me, you will not find many supporters and few answers. I’m sorry to tell you this but with whatever it is, you are alone, except for your faith in God, faith that will give you strength and lead you to salvation.” Elaine gave me a little hug.

I didn’t open up to Elaine Rogers about Jack that night, or ever. I just couldn’t. My issue, actually Jack’s, was different I thought (Jack and Reuben were not at all alike), and fear of association told me a sudden close friendship with Elaine Rogers would feed the insatiable gossip monster. But her advice made a lasting impression on me and I resolved always to choose love over outside advice for whatever challenge I faced with Jack in the future. And I had a renewed respect for God and the power of faith.

Choices

Chapter 5

If nothing else what Elaine Rogers said to me did give me strength. One thing that kept coming back to me was that she never blamed anyone; she wasn’t bitter, or angry at God the way some are when their lives do not turn out as they had planned. I marveled at how she saw good in her child where others saw sin and how she turned to God, not away from him. What hit me the most was that she didn’t really look to God, God the Controller, for answers or to cure her son. She embraced God for strength, and loved her son. In that simple way she inspired me.

My immediate task was to find a time when I could talk to Jack alone, where I could find out more, preferably away from home, the place where he was acting out whatever it was. With a husband and two other children that would be difficult and I was probably dreading it.

October 1, 1955 – Saturday. Brenda came home from school for the weekend. She is so grown up and becoming such a young lady. It hasn’t been easy but I feel all of the battles with her are paying off.

I have been watching Jack and Tim. They are so different but I don’t see anything about Jack that concerns me, at least in his daily routine. But I’m so worried. I need to find a time to really talk to him but with Brenda home and Tim having a game today I don’t know when it will be. Maybe I don’t really want to. How do I answer his question and what does it mean? “Why was he born a boy?” It seems so fundamental; we are born the way we are and we make the most of it. What do I tell him? I just don’t know.

Then about a week after I caught Jack in bed with his sister’s slip on, I had the perfect opportunity to talk with him alone; a quiet block of time with just the two of us.

October 4, 1955 – Tuesday – Haven’t talked to Jack since last Wednesday. Really busy over the weekend. Took Jack to the dentist in Wheeling and had a long talk. God did we talk.

Since last week when Jack asked why he was born a boy I had been a complete wreck, and Don has sensed something was wrong. I resisted saying anything to him. I just told him Jack was having some problems with a friend and asked him to let me deal with it. That was not out of character. Jack doesn’t share his feelings easily and Don knows Jack and I are close. Besides I am always the one dealing with issues the children have. I have spent the last few days thinking of nothing other than Jack and what was going on. I argued with myself. I reasoned without any facts. I thought about what made boys, boys and girls, girls. I thought about my own childhood and being a girl, and then of becoming a woman. I thought about all the boys I had known growing up, and even now. I never saw or heard about boys questioning why they were born a boy, or heard about boys wearing girls’ things. Sure I know some boys are “sissies” and some grow up not liking or loving girls romantically. But they are still men, not girls.

So we talked today and I have no words to describe it. He told me things I found almost bizarre. This ‘girl’ thing is more than I think I can handle and I will need all my faith to get through it. I have a much bigger problem on my hands.

On the drive to the dentist in Wheeling Jack was very quiet at first and didn’t look at me. He played with the radio dial. He definitely was avoiding the subject. Finally, I just started to talk.

“Jack, I promised you I would get an answer for you.” I finally began. “You asked why you were born a boy. An easy answer is that is just the way it is, or that is what God intended. Jack, everybody is different and we have to respect that. We need to be happy about the life we are blessed with and make the most of it. That’s what is important. You’re a boy because that is what happened when you were made, when you were in my tummy. It’s a blessing. Jack, a lot of boys and girls question things when they start to get older.”

I thought I handled that pretty well.

“Does that help?” I continued when he said nothing. “Believe me, girls question a lot about what they have to go through when they are your age or older?”

He still didn’t say anything.

“O.K.?” I asked trying to force an answer.

“Mom, maybe I was supposed to be a girl, not a boy.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Jack.” I reasoned after carefully considering what to say. “You are what you were supposed to be.” I thought I nipped that in the bud but when he did not answer I stupidly continued.

“Is that what is going on? You think you should have been a girl? Why would you think that?

“I don’t know. It’s just something I sometimes think about.”

I didn’t like the way this was going.

“Well, you need to stop thinking about that. It’s not important. The important thing is that you are my sweet young boy and I love you.”

“Would you love me if I was a girl?”

“Of course.” I quickly answered, maybe too quickly. “But Jack, you’re not a girl.” I added trying to recover. “I know you have been putting on my and your sister’s things so I guess that is why you asked the question. Boys don’t do that and you have to stop it. It’s not normal and I’m worried about you. Jack, I have to know more about what’s happening and you have to trust me.”

There was a long pause. Finally he spoke in a soft, muffled voice.

“I don’t like to talk about it. I know I’m not normal, mom and I hate myself. I just don’t like being a boy sometimes. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

I didn’t know what to say. I felt I had made a huge mistake saying it wasn’t normal. I was stunned that my son actually didn’t like being a boy. Briefly I commiserated with him; there were things I detested about being female but I never considered for a moment not being who I was, a woman. Whatever Jack was feeling obviously made him feel guilty. I felt bad that I knew that I needed to stay away from painting his behavior as not ‘normal’. But it wasn’t normal; it wasn’t right. I had to keep his trust and make him feel better before I lost him. I had to keep him talking so I could find a way to fix this. I had to walk a very thin line.

“No, it’s not bad. I mean you’re not bad. We all don’t like everything about ourselves at times. That is normal. But here is why what you are doing is not good for you or the family. Boys don’t do what you are doing and people wouldn’t understand. I don’t even understand.” There was another pause. He didn’t respond. So I continued: “You know you would loose your friends if they found out or worse. You could get hurt. Other boys, even your friends would beat you up if they knew.”

“I’m sorry Mom.”

“Jack, did something happen that makes you not want to be a boy? Did someone hurt you? Did another boy hit you or something?” I offered hoping to find what brought this on.

“No”

“Are you sure, Think hard. You can trust me.” I pleaded certain there must have been an event that triggered this in him.

“Mom, nothing happened. I’ve felt like this as long as I can remember.” He confessed.

I should have slowed down, let what he told me sink in but I just instinctively asked, “What do you mean felt like this?”

“Like I should have been a girl.” He said looking over at me to see my reaction.

Now I was even more confused. I had been thinking this was some kind of silly play thing that maybe some boys go through, but a boy thinking he should have been a girl and saying he always felt that. I didn’t know what to say. I tried not to show what I was feeling.

“I don’t understand, Jack. You have been thinking you should have been born a girl? When did this start and why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I did tell you. A long time ago but you just laughed and gave me a hug. You didn’t say anything.” He claimed. I certainly didn’t remember that.

“You did, I don’t remember.” If he did tell me something like this I must have just dismissed it. How could I not have picked up on this? But now I had to divert Jack and make him realize that he’s not a little kid who can imagine anything and make it come true. He was growing up.

“Jack, everybody wishes they were different in some way. I wanted to be a reporter, for a news paper, but decided to have a family instead.” I ventured with a totally inadequate analogy. “But you can’t be a girl. You were born a boy and you will grow up to be a man. Boys and girls have different parts, you know. You have to try to adjust to that. If you are feeling something now it will probably change soon, especially when you start to mature. There are lots of great things ahead for you, as a boy.”

Jack squirmed in his seat. He literally looked miserable almost like he was in pain. I had not seen this behavior in him before.

“What’s wrong, Jack? Do you hurt somewhere?” I considered pulling the car over and see what was wrong.

‘Mom, you said you were on my side and would help me. I don’t want to be a man. I don’t like the parts I have. I want to look like Joanie and Brenda.”

I have no idea what I expected Jack to say; I just wanted him to open up to me. But I wasn’t ready for this. I was regretting having this talk; I should have just let him alone. It might have just worked itself out. Now was he really telling me he didn’t like his boy parts? I regretted bringing physiology into a discussion with my 10 year old boy. I had no idea how I should answer that and I wondered how he knew what his older sister and his friend Joanie looked like. I didn’t want to find that out and decided to try to ignore any discussion of girl parts. I did pull over to the curb suffering the horn from the car behind us. I took his hand, held it tight and looked into his sweet eyes

“I am on your side sweetie. I love you dearly but I have to tell you what the reality is. You know what reality is, don’t you?” I paused knowing full well how reality and fantasy blend with children, well with some adults too.

“Yep. Reality is not like TV or what’s in books, except research books.” He quickly answered with the pride of a ten year old.

“Close enough. The reality is you’re a boy and will become a man. If you were meant to be a girl it didn’t happen and I can’t change it.” I repeated again and added. “That’s reality.”

“But what if I can’t change how I feel? How I feel is reality too, isn’t it mom?”

I was definitely overmatched in this debate. I drove on; we only had a few minutes before our appointment. I felt like I wasn’t making progress and that was another question I didn’t want to answer.

I used the few minutes finding a parking spot to consider how I wanted to end our talk. Finally, as we were about to get out of the car I gave it my best, “Jack, maybe you can’t change the way you feel and maybe the way you feel could be a good thing but you certainly are going to have to adjust to how you were born. And you can’t pretend you are a girl. We’ll finish this talk on the way home.”

I took his hand and we walked up the street and into the dentist office.

Choices

Chapter 6

I spent the 45 minutes while Jack was with the dentist just sitting in a daze in the waiting room. I thought about how I could have missed what Jack had told me; that he thought he should have been a girl. Jack was ten, almost eleven; why had I not seen this in him, even just a little? What kind of mother was I? This wasn’t something a good mother would overlook. Putting aside how utterly crazy the thought of a boy wanting to be a girl was, I went back over his life in my mind and wondered if I had caused him to feel this way.

First, I wondered about his father; wondered if Don’s cousin Jack, the wonderful man who lost his life in the war in Germany, was really my Jack’s father. As a toddler I often compared him to his ‘Uncle Jack’. There was that resemblance; delicate features, sweet eyes and long lashes. Perhaps I treated my little Jack differently because of my passion for Captain Jack Staub coupled with the guilt and grief I felt when he died, and still feel at times.

Second, I had to admit that I actually did think of Jack differently, I guess, before he went to school. I remembered saying without thinking more than a few times how he could have easily been a girl. But he was just a little tike then and I wasn’t serious. Now I wondered if I may have been serious, subconsciously, and started something in him that was now emerging.

Third, I vividly remembered Jack’s first haircut. It wasn’t unusual not to cut boys’ hair until they are four or five. My memory was clear of the day we took Jack into town the summer before he started school to cut those long nearly shoulder length curly locks. I don’t think he understood what was going to happen and when it was over he just looked so sad. I didn’t go into the barber shop with him, Don did. But I watched through the barber shop window while waiting in the car. Jack sat quietly waiting and watching. I could see a look on his face I had not seen before. Yes, he was scared but more than that he seemed so puzzled. It was like he didn’t know why he was there. He didn’t seem to understand or relate; farmers in overalls chewing tobacco; spittoons on the floor, the smell of cigarettes and cigars. When he climbed up into that huge chair with the booster seat, I noticed he was staring at something, not watching what the barber was doing or listening to the banter. He was looking straight ahead, through the mirror at the calendar on the wall above his head.

I now remembered exactly how I felt when I saw Jack staring at the calendar of the Vargas girl through that mirror. My little boy was losing his hair and was staring at a print of a young beautiful woman wearing a filmy gown with beautiful long hair cascading over her shoulder. I literally cried as the scissors began cutting and the locks fell first to his small shoulders and then to the floor. I do remember that Jack didn’t talk about getting his hair cut and thinking back on it I could see how it changed him, not only how he looked (like the boy he was) but his disposition. My sweet joyful Jack became quiet, almost guarded.

So I sat there waiting for Jack to finish with the dentist second guessing myself and what kind of parent I was. Did I do this to him; make him start thinking about how girls are? Had I sub-conscientiously passed this to him? Did he hear me say that many years ago and believe it, and now it’s coming out? Did I treat him differently? Does he think girls have it better, or get more attention? What had I done? Did I ignore him telling me earlier, as he claimed, because I wanted a girl? All I had was questions.

Then I defended myself. I could think of no time that I really acted on my thoughts about Jack being a girl-like nor did I treat him differently. I didn’t dress him different than Timmy and while maybe Brenda played dress up with him a few times so did she with Timmy a couple of times. And I was sure that since he’s been in school I’ve treated him like the boy he is.

Of course I also wondered what if he had a point that there was some mistake. I couldn’t accept that but the thought crept into my head. He was not a strong, hefty boy; not at all like Tim. He was fine boned, more like Brenda. His physical characteristics were girl-like in a way. Was he supposed to be a girl; was there some mistake made when he was in my womb? No, I concluded, Jack was a boy. I had no doubt; I was being silly thinking such thoughts.

Whatever it was I knew I had to try to fix it now, before it was too late.

I was brought out of my daze by the sound of Jack happily running to me and giving me a hug. He was in a much better mood than during the ride and talk on the way to Wheeling. I think he was glad he didn’t have any cavities.

I told him I would take him to Walgreen’s for lunch at the counter but that I needed to run in to the department store for a couple of things first. Jack loved to go with us to Wheeling and have lunch at Walgreen’s and he loved to look at the displays in the windows of the stores. It was only a couple of blocks to the best department store in Wheeling, Stone and Thomas. Jack was skipping as we went into the store and took the elevator to the second floor, women’s department. I needed a new dress for fall and as I browsed Jack paid close attention and I couldn’t help notice how interested he was. I wondered if he was just more relaxed after our talk or if he was he putting on a show for me?

I lost track of Jack for a moment and out of the corner of my eye noticed that he had wandered over to the girls department. I watched him for a few moments. He didn’t touch anything but looked at the rack of dresses for girls his age. He then focused on a girl’s dress on a manikin. It was a cute dress in an off red with a pattern of little black squares and ovals. It was a yoked dress with a full gathered skirt and a white lace collar, short sleeves and button back closing. The manikin was fitted with white lace socks and Mary Jane strapped shoes. It was a cute dress and I found myself admiring it. Jack just seemed so transfixed. Part of me wanted to ask him what he thought; part of me wanted let him see it up close, touch the dress or… I pushed that thought out of my mind. My heart was pounding, I felt flushed. I knew I had to get him out of there before I did something I would regret or someone noticed. Maybe I was the problem.

We both had soup and a sandwich at Walgreen’s and I treated Jack with a Coke. He didn’t say anything but I felt he wanted to.

On the way back to the car I couldn’t help but feel like I was not handling this well. I shouldn’t have taken him into the store. I should have kept him out of the girls department. Boys don’t belong there anyway or want to be there. But I should have known better after our talk and what I knew Jack had been doing. I felt so guilty. On the drive back to Moundsville, I tried to continue talking with Jack.

“Jack, I’m still trying to understand and I need to so I can help you. I saw you looking at the dress on the manikin. What were you thinking? I don’t get it. Do you feel like you should have been born a girl, or do you feel like you are a girl? Why are you so interested in this?”

“Both I guess. Mom, you’re asking too many questions.” Typical, I thought, our children hate being questioned.

“But you seem ok as a boy. You play with other boys. You like basketball. You just read a book about the Battle of Britain.” I stated without asking. I felt like I was arguing with myself, not Jack.

“Yes, but I know girls who like basketball and read books that aren’t girl books. And I also read Nancy Drew. But they get to wear dresses to school and have long hair.” He made it sound so great to be a girl. If only he knew how girls and women were hardly entitled and that it is often more of a burden than wonderful. I knew I should pull back and not react. But I did, of course.

“What? You want to wear a dress to school?” Jack’s hair was already longer than it had been since he started school and the thought of my Jack going out the door in a dress with shaggy hair now almost covering his ears terrified me. I had given him the 75 cents to go get a haircut but he came back and told me the shop was closed. The next Saturday I sent him back and this time he came back and said it was too crowded. I hadn’t pushed it again, yet.

“Mom, I know I can’t do that. But I want to and I …” he didn’t finish. There were a few moments of silence before I asked: “You what?”

“I have.” He said trying not to divulge whatever it was that I just knew I didn’t want to know.

“What have you, Jack?” I asked and waited for what I dreaded.

“I’ve worn a dress, mom.” Then he just let so much out I couldn’t believe it. We really hadn’t talked about the details of what he had been doing before. I wanted him to talk and he did. I guess he had been thinking about what to say in the dentist office and he was feeling at ease with me knowing more. I knew he had taken my and Brenda’s personal things and I guessed he had been into Brenda’s dresses on the third floor, but I wasn’t ready for the full confession he now gave me.

“I’ve always dreamed about being a girl.” He began tentatively with his head down not looking at me but with serious determination to open up. I had succeeded in gaining his trust. “When I was little I loved the dolls Brenda had and played with them a lot. When I started school I felt I should be with the girls not the boys and a teacher yelled at me ‘cause I got in the girls line. When we moved to the house in town I started doing things. Mom, I’m sorry. I took your things, and some of Brenda’s. I go up to the third floor and put a dress on sometimes, but they don’t fit well. I like to look into the big mirror up there and pretend I’m going to school or a dance. And I almost always sleep in the slip I have hidden. I sneak it into bed after the lights are off and put it on.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything. Jack was talking and I wanted to know everything, but wished I could just go back and not know any of this. I put my hand on his shoulder to let him know I was not upset. I was upset but I couldn’t let him know. He continued.

“And last year when you let me spend the night at Joanie’s, well, uh we played dress up. We both put on dresses and played make believe. We didn’t do anything bad. It was just fun, mom.” Now he was looking at me and into my eyes.

I wanted to ask where Hilda was during all of this but didn’t. Joanie’s parents were good friends of ours. John was our doctor and they lived in a big house in town while we lived on the farm and Hilda was a wonderful mother. As kids Jack and Joanie played together a lot when the parents socialized and Joanie liked to visit the farm. She had stayed over on the farm several times and Jack loved showing her how to gather eggs and feed his cow. So I never thought it was a problem for an eight or nine year boy to spend the night at the home of a playmate, a girl, when Hilda asked me. I sent him off with his boy pajamas and didn’t think anything of it. Why would any mother worry about that? They both were just so young and innocent. There was more.

“I’m sorry about looking at the dress in the store.” He continued. “Are you mad? I look all the time in the Sears’ catalog but that’s not the same. I wish I had that dress, mom.” He quickly added, “Not to wear to school.” He looked over at me to see my reaction and gave me an impish smile. I never thought of Jack as being manipulative, Brenda was, but not Jack. I had the sense he was working me over. I said nothing. He went on.

“I mean, just for the third floor. Just so I can pretend.” He tried as some kind of justification.

“Jack, we can’t do that.” Now I was clearly defensive. “First, I can’t afford it. It’s not practical. Second, how could I explain it to your dad? And third…” I reached for the real reason. “It’s not good for you. This thing you’re doing, and this fixation isn’t good. I’ve told you that. I think we have to find a way for you to stop this and getting you a dress would be in the wrong direction. Maybe you need to go out for the basketball team. Get more involved with other boys. Discover the wonders of being a boy.” My agitation was showing but I just felt I had let this get out of hand and that I had to bring this boy back to reality.

“You don’t need to be spending your time on the third floor in a dress pretending to be what you are not, and never will be.” I said harshly.

I was giving it everything I had but Jack just gave me a look of exasperation. I couldn’t believe I was trying to justify not buying my son a dress. I wasn’t sure I was succeeding. He sighed and turned away mumbling something.

“What?” I asked more calmly.

“Nothing.” He resisted.

“You said something. Don’t lock up on me, Jack.” I commanded.

He turned back to me. “You said you were on my side. You wanted me to talk and I told you everything. Ok I can’t have the dress but now you want to tell me what to do”.

I was definitely losing so I waived the white flag. I had to make a concession or lose him.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t make you go out for basketball unless you want to. It might be fun but it’s your choice. Let’s go back and focus on what is going on with you and I promise I will be fair. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

Jack had given me more information than I had imagined. I had hoped that my conversation with Jack would be the end of this; that I could reason with him and he would take my openness and trust and change his behavior. I presumed that I could control this but Jack revealed so much more than I had imagined. I almost regretted reaching out to him and I didn’t know where to go from here. I had to end this conversation hopefully on a positive note; we were almost home. But I didn’t want to lose Jack’s trust. I was up to my neck in this now.

“Ok, I hear you Jack. I’m glad you have told me and no, I’m not mad. Just worried. I haven’t heard of any of this before. I didn’t have any brothers so I don’t know if this is just something that some boys go through or what. I do love you and my biggest concern is to protect you. I will try to find some answers for you and try to make things better. For now we need to keep this between you and me.”

“Don’t worry mom.” It seemed like he didn’t want confrontation and was happy to have someone who knew what I felt and still loved him. “I love you mom,” he added. Now I was starting to cry. I thought about Elaine Rogers and how she loved her problem child. I turned my face away so he couldn’t see my eyes tear up and composed myself. I think he was really relieved that he told me all about this and that I listened. I could tell he wanted to say something else.

“What is it Jack?”

“Mom, if I save my own money can I get the dress?”

“Jack!” I yelled. I looked over at him and he was smiling. He had me. We both laughed and I saw in that moment how fun Jack could be, and how cute he was, as a boy.

Then he said. “Seriously, Mom, can I go back to the third floor some, again”.

“Oh, Jack. I think that should be on hold until I figure this out. Can’t you just not do this and give me some time.”

“Mom, when I do it I feel so good and no one knows. I’m not hurting anyone.”

“Jack, I just can’t see how it is good for you. I know you say no one is getting hurt but someone could. And I’m just afraid that if you continue to do this it will get worse and you’ll be spending too much time doing something that you will eventually have to stop. It just doesn’t feel right for me to say yes.”

I was on a rollercoaster and I could tell I was putting Jack through my own ups and downs. One minute I think it’s innocent and will pass, and the next I know it could upset his whole life, and mine too. Jack started to pout and then his eyes started to tear up.

I just couldn’t forbid him to stop whatever it was that seemed to make him so happy. So I went with, “I’ll tell you what. I won’t say yes, or no. Just make sure you’re really careful and that you don’t mess anything up. Stay out of your sister’s room and don’t take anything of hers. She would have a cow. Your homework must be done and your room cleaned up. If you abide by that I’ll not say anything and will keep an eye out for you.”

What was I doing? First, I have thoughts my son should have been a girl and now I am turning a blind eye to this crazy behavior. Maybe I was the problem. I guess I was now deeply involved and didn’t have a clue how I would solve this. But Jack was elated.

“Thanks Mom. You’re the best”.

“Or the worst, Jack. I just don’t know which.” I told him we were going to need to talk again as I pulled into our driveway.

But we didn’t, not for awhile. It was easier not to talk and I just hoped it all went away. I literally shut down and put my head firmly several inches into the sand.

(Note: The author humbly appreciates those who may be following the story of Miriam and how she deals with the issue her 10 year old son revealed to her in 1955. I am taking a brief hiatus of posting a chapter each day while traveling and intend to use the time to edit and proof the next few chapters. Thanks to all for the kudos. Posting the next chapter of Choices should resume at the very end of May. Criticism and comments are welcomed.)

Choices

Chapter 7

Little by little I pulled my head back out of the sand. I knew I had to. I needed a plan and actually prayed to God the Controller. It couldn’t hurt but I knew in my heart that it was me who had to discover the reason behind this; the reason why this was happening.

October 14, 1955 – Friday - We’ve been going about our lives as if all is normal. But it isn’t. I know I should but I haven’t talked to Don, yet! I’m hoping I won’t have too; hoping to find a way to stop what Jack is doing or find something that will tell me it will pass. Jack seems fine which almost bothers me. Wouldn’t there be other signs. He’s not moody; just seems like a happy ten year old – boy, a happy ten year old boy. My life is almost normal again. I wish it was but I know it isn’t. Normalcy is just a façade and I fear what might be coming.

The only other things is that Jack has been very needy with me, affectionate, wanting hugs and kisses. I love it but is it what 10 year old boys do? I thought they started distancing themselves from their mothers. Tim did. Is this connected to what’s going on? He continues to visit the third floor and I am terrified when he does. I know what he is doing and I’m doing nothing? Why am I allowing it? Do I have a choice?

What I remember most about those days was the feeling that I had no choice. I saw any attempt to modify Jack’s behavior would bring other, more difficult, problems; confrontation, having to tell Don or others and the dreaded gossip machine. I wanted to avoid all of that.

For days I went back and forth on what to do but ended up with more questions; questions I asked God and myself. Did this happen in other families, to other boys? Or was Jack really unique? Is it natural for some boys to want to experience what it’s like being a girl? But Jack was doing more, and verbalizing more, than just testing. I thought boys didn’t like girls until they both started to develop and then it was pretty awkward. Was Jack going to grow up and not like girls romantically; was he going to be effeminate, or as my Dad often said ‘one of those boys who wore lace panties’, whatever that meant? He just didn’t seem effeminate to me, at least not like Reuben Rogers.

When I talked to Elaine Rogers at Bible study, the details of her son’s ‘troubles’ were not discussed. That would not have been polite. It was no secret that he liked boys. He liked them too much and was caught with a boy in bed. Well, not exactly in bed; but he was doing, according to reliable sources, what the Bible condemns. No one talked about it in the open but more than once I found myself talking to Lib or Hilda about him when it was just two of us. Reuben’s family attended our church and they were so nice. Elaine and Bob Rogers were well known and respected in the community. Bob was a prominent lawyer but the Rogers didn’t run in any specific social circle. Their life centered on the church. Reuben had always been different growing up. He was effeminate, even at Jack’s age. When Reuben was ten everyone knew he had problems. No one thinks that of Jack, at least I hope not.

I kept coming back to what caused Jack to be this way. And all I could think of was that I had caused it. Did Jack not get enough love from me, or did I secretly want a girl instead of a boy, and then send him signals that I thought he should have been a girl? After all, I did tell him that when he was little. But I didn’t act on it, and I haven’t said that since before we cut his hair, when he was five. I couldn’t discount that I was at least partly to blame. Maybe some boys are predisposed to this and I pushed him over the edge. That thought caused me much despair.

Sometimes I had such hope. Maybe Jack was just a little more into it and would come out of it. Did boys become better men by knowing more what girls are like? I kept going back and forth. Nothing seemed right.

I knew I had to get some real answers; I had to find out what this was. I felt so alone with this. I had no one to talk to; I didn’t even feel I should talk about this to Don yet.

My degree was in Journalism and my instincts were to do some research even though I never really worked in the field. (I had never had a paying job, actually). Investigate like a reporter would. I was a frequent visitor to our small local library so when I got the chance I stopped in. I found only one book on psychology, a text book someone had donated from a college course. I was afraid to check the book out; too many people would ask questions, and questions led to gossip in this town. I flipped to the index but didn’t know what I was looking for until it practically jumped out at me. How stupid. I had read about ‘cross dressing’ before. I guess I hadn’t made the connection because the term just sounded so awful. But I remembered that in one of my classes, there was discussion of men wearing women’s clothes in history and the theater. But that was different, or it seemed so. Those men, I thought, didn’t want to be women. They were just pretending for a specific reason. Jack was a boy who thinks he should have been a girl.

I had such high hopes that the book would to help me learn something, not completely deflate me and depress me. I didn’t like the term but knew I had to see what a reputable text book said I flipped to the page listed for ‘cross dressing’. My heart almost stopped. The reference was in a section titled:

‘DEVIANT GENDER-ROLE BEHAVIOR IN CHILDREN: RELATION TO HOMOSEXUALITY’

I quickly started reading and jotted down what the book stated so emphatically:

‘There is ample evidence to show that homosexuality, in a certain proportion of cases, has its roots in childhood. Follow-up observations in the literature, as well as anecdotal evidence, show a high risk of homosexuality in children with deviant gender-role behavior, that is, effeminate or sissy boys and Tomboyish girls, including boys who want to wear dresses and girls who refuse to. Family backgrounds of those children show no consistent pattern.’

‘Boys who wear dresses’? So Jack wasn’t the only one but I couldn’t accept the words ‘deviant’ and ‘homosexual’, especially when applied to my sweet and innocent Jack; he was only ten and he had no sexuality. I felt so alone, so in the dark and isolated. The book didn’t say what happened to these boys but the implication was awful.

I knew I had to talk to someone. But who? Elaine Rogers? She certainly faced a problem with a son and said she would listen as a friend hinting she suspected something. But I just didn’t want to confide in anyone in this little provincial town, especially a parent, a mom, whose son was the subject of so much gossip. The association would be so revealing. I felt lost with nowhere to turn. I had a child who had a problem and I couldn’t help him, and what I was doing was probably making it worse. I was afraid to ask for help. Who could I trust? Who would listen and try to understand? I considered seeking help from our pastor but while he probably would be discreet, I couldn’t take that chance. And what could he do; pray; tell me Jack was sinning and he must stop and repent? I knew what the Bible said. That wouldn’t help me help Jack.

So I did what I didn’t want to do. I confided in a friend. Libby and I had been friends since high school and her husband, another Jack, and Don and I were very close. She had two sons, and Lib and I were as close as could be before they moved to Pittsburgh. We had a lot in common, not just school but she was also an only child who now was the mother of sons. And she lived in Pittsburgh. Surely there were more resources in a big city. So I called her.

October 19, 1955 – Wednesday – I told myself I would not say anything to anyone until I figured out more about my Jack but called Libby today. I hoped that she would tell me it’s just what boys go through; that either her Steve or John, a little older than Jack and Tim, went through something similar. They haven’t and she didn’t help much. She felt I have a real problem on my hands and that I should take Jack to a doctor in Pittsburgh.

I can’t do that, yet. I trust Lib but hope she doesn’t say anything to her Jack, or anyone.

“Libby. It’s Miri. How are you?” I started.

“Miri, this is a surprise. Everything o.k.?” I guess it was a little unusual to call long distance in the middle of the day.

“I need to talk to you about Jack.”

“You want him, don’t you Miri? You’ve always had your eye on my husband.” She and I always teased each other about our men.

“Not your Jack! My little Jack.” I tried not to sound too frantic.

“Oh, what’s up?” She asked now serious also.

“You’ve got boys. Have you had any issues about, well, I don’t know how to say it, about wearing your things.”

“What?” I almost heard her chuckle through the phone. “No, no. I don’t think so. No, I know there’s nothing. Are you saying that Jack…”

“Yes, I caught Jack wearing something of mine, a slip. And he’s been into one of Brenda’s dresses up on the third floor. And…” It felt good to actually voice what had been going on to another person but before I could finish Lib interrupted me.

“Miri, I hope you put a stop to it. Have you talked to him?” My heart sank. I had feared that no one would consider, even for a second, letting it continue a good thing.

“I did.” I quickly answered meaning that I had talked to Jack. “And I tried to put a stop to it but it’s deeper than I thought and I just don’t know what to do. I can’t find anything on this and I am losing my mind.” I explained.

“What did he say? Did he deny it? Did he tell you why? He’s too young for it to be..” If I wanted questions I wouldn’t have called.

“I know. But that’s just the thing. I got him to talk, gained his trust and he says he wants to be a girl or should have been a girl. It’s driving me crazy.” I was regretting calling Lib and deeply regretted telling her that much.

“Wait a minute. He told you that. That doesn’t sound normal, Miri. What are you doing? What are you going to do? You told him to stop, didn’t you?” I had no idea how to answer her and just hoped the operator was not listening in.

“Well, sort of. I don’t want him to withdraw. I need to keep his confidence. And no, I don’t know what to do. That’s why I need you. I need your take and advice. And I need your confidence. I haven’t even told Don. You cannot tell your Jack.”

“You have my word. But Miri, you’re letting him continue to do this? What’s he doing?”

“He goes to the third floor and dresses up, I guess. I haven’t seen it but that’s what he tells me. He plays up there, reads and does his homework.” I confessed.

“Miri, this doesn’t seem good. I have a friend who has all kinds of problems with her 12 year old boy. Not this kind of problem but she swears by a psychiatrist she takes him to. I really think you should take Jack to see him.” My good friend was reacting exactly the way I guessed anyone would and she was giving me advice I just didn’t want to take, not yet.

“I’ve been dreading doing that. I really just want this to go away. I don’t know what to do. I’ll think about it.” I told her. Lib pledged her sympathy and support. She told me she would pray for us. She gave me the name and phone number of the Pittsburgh psychiatrist and we ended our conversation. I hid the paper I wrote the information on in my purse and hoped I would not need it. Lib never asked me about our conversation again, which I suppose was strange, and I never brought it up to her again.

(Miriam is back trying to understand and help her 10 year old son in the small West Virginia town where she lives in 1955. Follow Miri as she tries to cope with Jack and with her conflicting emotions of fear, anguish and love.)

Choices

Chapter 8

My failed attempt to find consolation from my friend literally depressed me. In hindsight, I now wonder if I really expected some understanding, or if it was just wishful thinking. Coupled with the stark and so negative description of what I read at the library about what my son was doing, cross dressing, and Libby’s immediate and only advice to get treatment, I was a basket case. I was grouchy with the kids and I snapped at Don when he didn’t bring milk home after I had called and asked.

In any case I tried to go about my daily routine, meeting the needs of my family; cooking, cleaning and doing laundry as best I could. I attended a Women’s club meeting, talking to other mothers but never about boys and such strange behavior. I felt I had nowhere to turn so I just went straight ahead; worrying but not acting. As the days wore on I felt I was failing Jack, and my whole family, except Jack didn’t seem any different than he had ever been, at least not to me. To me he was a normal boy. Normal but for that one huge difference; he was doing things that boys, normal ones, don’t do.

As always something happened again testing both my faith and my parenting skills.

November 1, 1955 – Tuesday - Halloween was different this year with Brenda in boarding school and Tim, well, Tim just wasn’t interested in Trick or Treating. I worried he was out last night tricking without even asking for treats and getting in trouble. But he came home early and without a problem, at least none that I knew of.

Jack’s about to turn eleven but he still wanted to go out. I was heartbroken because he had no one to go with and he didn’t want to go with his friends. i.e. boys. He called Joanie but she was going to a Halloween party with some of her friends, i.e. girls and naturally didn’t ask Jack. I gave him a couple of options for a costume and he went up to get dressed. I almost don’t want to write this in my journal but he came down in a dress and I just about flipped out. I guess he got it from the third floor. He asked me to do some makeup. Don was out in the garage and Tim had already gone out so they didn’t see it. I yelled at him to go change before his father came in. Yes, I outright yelled at Jack who really was just being a kid. I really hurt his feelings because I reacted so badly. He ended up staying home and he and I watched some TV and he went to bed early. He was so sad last night and I’m so sad, and guilty, today.

I tried to rationalize my reaction to my son in a dress.

I wondered if my leniency (allowing him to go to the third floor and do what I knew was wrong, or if not out and out wrong, was dangerous) sent the wrong message and emboldened him. In those days I had already convinced myself I was contributing to the delinquency of a minor, my own son. I couldn’t keep those insidious words ‘cross-dressing’, ‘deviant’, and even ‘homosexual’ out of my head.

What I actually did was congratulate myself for being firm. I was sure that Jack was using the day when kids can dress up to test my limits and take his fixation another step. But kids dress up as ghosts and goblins, or characters from movies. Boys don’t dress up as girls. It wasn’t done and no one would understand. I just couldn’t face what people would say if I had let him go out that way. ‘Oh, Miriam, Jack made such a cute girl on Halloween’, I could hear my friends say, and then they would give me that look that said ‘How could you allow it’? I was so glad I had put my foot down.

The other side was that I knew I hurt Jack so much. He pouted for days and barely talked to me. I was afraid I had damaged the trust I had built up with him. I decided to give it some time and hope he would come around with me.

November 11, 1955 – Friday – Today is Jack’s eleventh birthday and on this day I always take a few moments to think of Jack Staub, who died on the day Jack was born. I am sitting alone in the sunroom with my morning coffee thinking of both my little Jack and the wonderful man I still love. Don must never read this; he would not understand that my love for his cousin does not diminish how deeply I am in love with him.

I have faith Jack Staub will watch out for his namesake, and for me, and help us both understand what is going on. Now would be a good time to give me a sign, Jack. Ha, ha..

But today is my eleven year old son’s special day. I’m hopeful that he can now start to see all the good that is ahead of him. Eleven is surely Jack’s lucky number and right now I’m hoping eleven comes through and helps him find all the great things he has to look forward to, as a boy. We are going to celebrate with dinner at the Elks Club followed by cake and ice cream at home, just the five of us.

We gave Jack a new bike for his birthday. He was excited but I sensed he was hoping for something else. Did he really think he would get a dress for his eleventh birthday? He didn’t say anything and he didn’t have to. I could see it in his face. I wasn’t receiving any good signs from either Jack Staub, or from God. I hated this thing that hung over my family. I was the only one who knew (other than Libby who was no help) and I hoped that I could ride it out at least until he started changing as long as Jack seemed content with our arrangement. Then he would stop this on his own, I reasoned.

Of course I was wrong.

November 15, 1955 - Tuesday– I am up again unable to sleep. I have to do something. I have to get help, real help and I’m going have to have a talk with Don.

Jack came home from school today and hurriedly went to the third floor. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I waited and went to the third floor stairs and listened. It was quiet. I took off my shoes and crept up a few of the stairs. Still quiet. Then I heard movement and then a drawer close. So I called to him and we talked without seeing each other. But then I pushed the door open and I saw him, my son, in a dress. I can’t explain how I feel about this now. I have a new perspective that even as a mother I cannot understand and I know I can’t ignore this.

“Jack, are you up there?” There was no noise for a moment then it was like he ran to the front room.

“Don’t come up mom! Leave me alone.” He yelled. I debated what to do. I wanted to talk to him and let him know I loved him. I really didn’t want to see my son in a dress again (I had really just glanced at him on Halloween before I yelled at him and he vanished back upstairs crying). My intentions in going up were to of put this to an end, one way or another. I told myself to first try to regain his trust.

“Jack, its ok. I just want to talk. I won’t come all the way up.” Silence. “Jack, I love you. Remember we talk to each other.”

“But not now mom. I’ll be down in a minute.” He protested.

“Just let me come up and we’ll talk. You can stay hidden, if you want.” I offered.

There was no answer. “Jack I’m coming to the top of the stairs.”

“Ok but no further.” He sounded so scared. I almost turned and went back downstairs. I went to the top of the stairs but couldn’t see into the front room where Jack was.

“Jack, are you dressing up in Brenda’s things?” I asked trying to sound cheerful.

“You said I could.” Came the response.

“Not exactly. I said I wouldn’t say yes or no. But I get your point. Jack, I’m not mad at you. I just want you to be safe. You should be out playing with your friends. I don’t know what to do about this. Jack, we have to do something.” Then I pushed. “We're going to have to go see a doctor.”

I wasn't planning on trying to force his hand, but the reality of the moment took over.

I waited for a response. I heard Jack come closer to the door of the front room. Then he appeared. Actually he only half appeared, peering around the door jam. I could see half of his face and saw he was wearing one of Brenda’s dresses, a summer sun dress. He had brushed his longish hair to the front and had tried to tease it. I did not get a full view and really didn’t want to.

“I don’t want to see a doctor. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He said emphatically, very emphatically.

“All right. What do you want? What are we going to do?” I was hoping he would give some ground and work with me.

“Nothing.” He said. I could hear the pout in his voice.

"Nothing won’t work, Jack.” I waited but no other response came. “It's either see a doctor or you have to stop doing this." There I did it. I did what any mother would, any good mother. It was the right thing to do and it was in his best interest, I was certain.

The door slammed shut and I heard nothing. I waited several moments and called to him. Again nothing! I tiptoed to the door and whispered.

"Jack, we have to talk." More silence. I turned the door knob and gently pushed the door open just a crack.

My heart sank at what I saw. The figure was lying on the bed with his back to the door, to me, with his legs tucked under the skirt of the dress he was wearing. The figure looked nothing like a boy. I hesitated but finally went over and sat on the bed next to him and rubbed his back. He was crying.

“Jack, look at me.” As much as it bothered me I knew I had to somehow regain his trust. That meant I had to face my son wearing a dress and look into his eyes. He had to see that I cared and that I loved him. He turned his head and I saw his face. I pulled him up to a sitting position and I put my arms around him and hugged him. It took only a moment until I felt him returning the hug as he buried his face against my chest, sobbing. My heart sank and I stroked his hair.

“I love you.” I said intentionally not using his name. “You are special to me and you have to believe that I want to make things easier for you, not harder.” I felt him nod yes.

I pulled his face up and looked at him, kissing him on the forehead. He looked into my eyes and as a mother I could not love a child more than I did this precious boy at that moment. I no longer wanted to put an end to this, not if it meant that I would be the one to hurt him so. Yes, I wanted it to stop and I wanted my son to be a normal boy. I wanted both. But that moment holding my eleven year old son wearing a dress and feeling his deep pain changed me, changed everything. I somehow knew my job was not to make this go away, or to just hope for some divine intervention. My purpose now was to get help for Jack, and for myself.

In the moments that we sat holding each other I made a resolution. I resolved that any help had to first ensure Jack’s safety both physically and emotionally. This girl issue had to be addressed but I would not allow anyone or anything to hurt my very fragile child. I knew that was a tall order and doubted that it was possible to find anyone, especially a professional, who would care the way I did.

“I’m sorry I said you would have to stop this or see a doctor.” I finally said to him.

“That’s all right mommy.” He answered. He had not called me ‘mommy’ for years.

“And I’m sorry I yelled at you on Halloween.” I added.

“I know mommy.” He said tightening his hug. “I know you love me and just worry.” He certainly showed he knew how conflicted he made me feel.

“Sweetie.” I said to get his attention. “I won’t make you go see a doctor. At least not now.” Then I added really talking to myself. “But I know I need one, that or a miracle.” I had not planned on bringing religion into our private moment.

“Mommy, God doesn’t grant miracles just ‘cause you ask.” He surprised me with his insight.

“You’re right.” I affirmed. He continued.

“It has to be something really important and He only helps somebody who really deserves it.” By then I knew where he was going with this. I let him talk. He was smiling now and he brushed his hair away from his eyes looking happy and cute.

“I asked God to make me become a girl, but when Isaac got sick with polio but now he can walk with a brace, I knew God was really busy.” I couldn’t say anything. Isaac was in his class and he developed polio when they both were in the first grade. Now Isaac was back in school after two or three years of treatment and I thanked God and modern medicine, as well as Dr. Salk for protecting all children with the vaccine that was readily available by 1955. Jack continued. “God will help me when he gets some time.” I almost laughed, for joy of course. My precious child had been given such a burden, one that doctors probably couldn’t help, and one that seemed insurmountable to me, but he had faith, faith in God, the Benevolent Controller. I didn’t share the same faith in God the Controller so I carefully did not affirm his premise.

I kissed him again and stood up. He also stood and faced me almost posing. He swayed from side to side letting the skirt of the dress he was wearing swirl around his legs like any girl would do. I knew he wanted my approval. I smiled but did not say anything about the dress or how adorable he almost looked.

I told him to change and come down and help me with setting the table for dinner. As I retreated from the third floor private world of my eleven year old, I knew I was the only one who help my child but that I would need help. I just had no idea where, besides with God, to start.

(Miri finally takes some action about her 11 year old son but not before she thinks things through.)

Choices

Chapter 9

I was fully aware then, as now, that it was not acceptable for a good Methodist woman to drink alone in the middle of the day, especially a married one with three wonderful, and normal, children. Well, at least two thirds of my children were normal. My mother, the Supreme Methodist or the “SM” as I often called her, never really did school me on when drinking alone was acceptable, and that lack of clarity was all I needed to absolve myself of any guilt on the day after I held my sundress clad son feeling something deep inside me that I could not explain. In my defense I did not start drinking until well after noon.

To be honest, my turn to the bottle, actually a glass, some ice, soda and a hefty shot of scotch, was not due to depression, or despair, or fear, or guilt. Jack did not drive me to drink, although what he was doing would, no doubt, reasonably qualify as an understandable justification to imbibe. No, I needed help thinking things through, and with planning. I did my best thinking with moderate assistance. So there I was, sitting on the sun porch in the middle of a cool but sunny mid-November day, accompanied by Johnny Walker, Chesterfield and hopefully God, considering all the possibilities of what might be ahead. Even with the liquid help, and all the nicotine my lungs could handle, each of those possibilities seemed likely to end with disastrous consequences.

The first item on the agenda as I lit my first cigarette was how to tell Don that his son had been wearing dresses on the third floor for the last two months, with my knowledge and tacit permission. I was fully ready to face the music the evening before, just a few hours after Jack and I had such a special moment, but I got cold feet. Actually, it wasn’t the feet that stopped me; it was the guilty heart and the fact that I had no defense.

My husband wasn’t one of those men who looked down on women, or thought we were dumb or incompetent. Don Roberts treated me with respect, and love. He never complained as long as dinner was on time and the house was clean, and I was there when he needed me, if you understand what I mean. But he was gentle and sweet and listened to me. We talked about everything; everything except religion and buying airplanes. My faith was personal, and in my heart and in my soul. While he never tried to claim his faith as a defense for buying the Cessna 180, Don obviously felt closer to God at eight to ten thousand feet above sea level. When I finally relented and flew with him, I too felt closer to God, but it was not a good feeling. Thank God for flasks.

As a family we went to Simpson United Methodist, where Don openly prayed, tried to sing, read the scriptures and listened to the sermon. He knew in Moundsville he needed to be seen as faithful, and he certainly knew to be otherwise would bring the wrath of the SM. It was perhaps the one thing we did not share; an understanding of God, either the Controller or the Creator, and the force that makes things happen. So after church he would actually practice “his” religion, as well as takeoffs and landings, in the Cessna on Sunday afternoons, weather permitting.

Don the father was more than any woman could ask. He was involved, funny, and sometimes childlike. It often felt I was a single mother of four children instead of the married mother of three. The kids loved him though and he them. Don was not a hard driving father trying to mold his children, in sports or career, but he was a hands-on dad who gently guided them and taught them, sometimes teaching things they did not need to know.

So my reluctance to telling Don about Jack wasn’t because I feared what he would do. I knew Don and he would never react with anger to any of his children no matter what they did. Sometimes I prayed he would, especially with Tim. No, Don wouldn’t yell at Jack or, God forbid, spank him. But he would hurt for Jack and he would definitely be upset that I had not immediately talked to him. He would take it personally and if he didn’t out and out blame me, he would put me through a grilling. He would see it in terms of our failure, collectively as parents but specifically he would look to what I had done. Taking a hefty drag on the Chesterfield and more than a sip of the scotch, I felt that he would have sufficient justification to accuse and convict. I wasn’t prepared for that without some answers and someone to back me up.

So I decided not to tell Don about his cross dressing son until I had talked to someone other than friends or family. I knew I could no longer put off reaching out to a professional. That led to the second item on the planning session and to the second scotch and soda.

Before I could think about my next step I had to weigh the merits of waiting until after the holidays. I really didn’t need to be dealing with this in the middle of November with so much to do. My mother wanted me to have Thanksgiving dinner at my house since I had the huge formal dining room. My cousin Ceil Riggs was coming from Baltimore and bringing her roommate, Caroline. Cecilia (she never used that name) was a professor of chemistry at Johns’ Hopkins and was like a daughter to my mother and father, since they took her in when her parents died during her junior year in high school. She wasn’t married and had no brothers or sisters. She would visit every summer on the farm and come once in a while for a holiday. With Ceil and Caroline, my parents, my aunt Lottie, Don’s widowed mother and the five of us I would have a house full and didn’t see how I would have any time be running all over seeing doctors. After Thanksgiving it would be a mad dash to Christmas with Brenda’s recital and Tim laughably playing Joseph in the annual Simpson Christmas play, I seriously considered just waiting until January.

To wait felt like I would be failing my very troubled and hurting son. I dismissed waiting.

I resisted the third scotch when I got to the third item I was discussing with myself; how to contact a doctor. I laughed out loud when I thought about actually talking to one. I saw myself trying to explain to some older man what Jack was doing and how I had been allowing it. I didn’t see that going well. How could a man understand Jack, or a mother’s love? He couldn’t and the obvious conclusion would be that it was the mother’s fault. I was prepared to accept blame but I couldn’t accept what that would mean for Jack; an official medical designation of Jack and what he was, or at least what the medical community would likely conclude he was; a deviant, homosexual, cross dresser. Jack would be categorized as sick, forever and ever. I had resolved to try to avoid the labels, as unrealistic as I knew that was.

Of course there was the doctor in Pittsburgh that my friend told me about but I dismissed that for more than a few reasons namely logistics and trust. I needed to talk to a doctor I knew and would be discreet and, thanks to the help from Johnny Walker, I realized that could be only on person, Doctor John Benson.

There were two doctors and their wives we regularly played Bridge with. One was John whom Don and I had known since high school. We were very close to both John and his wife, Hilda. He was well known and liked and I felt he could be trusted. He knew our family well and had visited our sick children many times. Our families had often done things together; dinners, picnics, etc. He helped finance the Cessna so Don could fly him and another doctor on hunting trips. The Bensons daughter, Joanie, was the same girl Jack said he played dress up with.

As our doctor John had stitched Jack up more than once (Jack was often on the wrong side of a thrown rock or the one who fell down the stairs). Besides Joanie they had an older son who was now in college. They also had a daughter who died as an infant. John knew us and our children intimately but he had a way of making you feel at ease. I knew I could talk to him without feeling guilty or ashamed.

John Benson was also very well trained. He graduated from medical school at Johns Hopkins, and then interned at a major hospital in New York. He came back here to start his practice and over the last 15 years had become one of the most popular doctors in the Valley. He knew his stuff. I knew he would at least listen to me. He was the closest thing I had to a brother.

As I ground out my fourth Chesterfield and picked up the now empty scotch and soda glass, I resolved to find a private moment to talk to John at Bridge Club just a few days away. With everything finalized, I moved, and seconded, that the meeting be adjourned.

* * *

November 19, 1955 Saturday – It is so late, actually Sunday morning. We hosted Bridge Club tonight. I was hoping to talk to Dr. Benson, our close friend and our family doctor about Jack. I wasn’t able to go into details but he is making time for me at the hospital on Tuesday. Am I ready for this? I hope so. I am ecstatic; well, relieved. Now I need sleep.

When we hosted the Bridge group the weekend before Thanksgiving, I waited for a chance to talk to John alone. I guessed I wouldn’t be able to go into specifics about Jack but wanted to see if we could meet privately. I finally got the chance when we were at separate Bridge tables and both he and I were dummy. John got up to mix a drink and I followed him to the kitchen.

John gave me a little hug like he always did and asked, “How’s everything, Miri? The kids driving you nuts?”

“Well, they are active but I’m managing.” I paused, nervously. I’m sure he could see I wanted to say something. He just looked directly and raised his eyebrows. It was a silent command ‘Tell me what’s wrong’!

“John, I need to talk to you. Privately, alone. Not in your office. I can’t tell you anything now. Just you and I.” I blurted this out like I was losing it and John could see how serious I was.

“Is it Don?”

“No, we’re fine. It’s Jack. I need to talk to you alone about Jack. It’s something he’s doing. He…..” Before I could finish Fred and Barb came in the kitchen. The hand was over.”

“Down one. Don always overbids.” Barb proudly announced. “What are you two all serious about” she continued.

“Getting some free medical advice.” I managed. I went back to the bridge table. John came back to his table and gave me a reassuring look.

For the rest of the evening I tried to have another moment with John but there were just too many people around, including my husband. When everyone was leaving John put his arms around me as usual and whispered “Meet me Tuesday at noon in the hospital cafeteria.”

* * *

By the time Tuesday morning came I was a nervous wreck. I was careful not to get dressed up, or wear much makeup, because it might lead some to draw the wrong conclusion. Meeting John wouldn’t otherwise arouse suspicion I was sure; Hilda and I had lunch there once in a while and John would join us.

I didn't see John when I entered the cafeteria, got a sandwich and tea, and found a table. John was late but finally appeared, saw me and motioned he was getting a tray. When he had his food he sat down and wasted no time.

“What is this big problem? Did you say it was Jack?” He asked.

“Oh, John. I don’t know where to start.” I really didn’t but it was now or never. “Maybe it’s not that big a deal but I’m going out of my mind. Jack has been doing something strange and I don’t know how to handle it.” It felt so good to finally be able to just begin.

He looked puzzled. “What do you mean strange? I’ve known Jack since he was born. He’s a nice boy. Joanie loves him.”

“He’s a wonderful boy.” Hearing myself call my child a boy knowing I was going to tell John about his proclivity for wearing dresses gave me a new bout of cold feet. I wanted to run but I didn’t. “Maybe it’s nothing. I shouldn’t bother you.”

“Miri, I saw the panic on your face last week. Out with it, what’s going on? What is Jack doing that’s bothering you?”

“I thought if anyone knew anything about this you would and I know I can trust you. I caught Jack wearing some of Brenda’s things. Tell me it’s nothing to worry about. Tell me this will pass.”

The look on John’s face almost scared me. I could tell he was switching from friend to doctor. He took a deep breath and began in a halting measured voice.

“Miri, I can’t tell you it’s nothing. It may not be that serious but, well, I would guess it probably is. I just don’t know enough about what is going on and I don’t have much training in psychiatry, which is where this probably falls”.

That didn’t really surprise me. He then pressed me for more details and I gave him a very abbreviated account of what Jack was doing. He listened and I just felt comfortable with him. When I finished I sat back and waited. He took a deep breath and continued.

“I know you Miri and I know you don’t want this to get out so I won’t intervene as a doctor unless you ask me. I know, from a medical point of view, men who dress as women are considered deviate and it’s usually a sexual thing”. I already knew that. I was waiting for some help. “At least that’s what I remember. Psychiatric treatment is usually indicated. But someone Jack’s age, I just don’t have a reference, professionally. I guess it happens but I’m drawing a blank. If it’s just a little maybe it’s normal, I don’t know, and maybe it will pass. A psychiatrist friend in Wheeling who treats children mentioned something to me once. I could check with him. You said he’s going to the third floor and wearing dresses? Have you confronted him?”

I felt better and John’s words put me somewhat at ease. I finally felt after all these weeks that I wasn’t completely nuts or alone. I told John about how I discovered what Jack was doing and that I did confront him. I relayed the conversations he and I had and how he expressed that he wanted to be or should have been a girl. I told him about how he admired the dress in the store and how he asked me to get it for him. I didn’t tell him about Jack’s confessing to playing dress up with Joanie, his daughter.

When I finished I searched John’s face for some reaction. I could see he was more than concerned and was trying to process all that I said. He looked at his watch.

“You didn’t buy the dress, did you?” I shook my head. “I only have a few more minutes, but try not to worry. I care about you and about Jack. I just can’t make a snap judgment here. First, I think you need to maintain Jack’s trust. It’s good he talks to you. Keep that up.”

Then this wonderful man said something I couldn’t believe. “We can’t let him down.” It was so genuine and sensitive. I knew John thought of me, and my family, as his family. Jack was like a son to him.

“And you will probably have to tell Don. Are there any other problems with Jack? School? Friends?” He continue to probe.

“No, actually his grades are better the last period, since he and I talked and he hasn’t had any issues with friends, although I haven’t seen some of them for a week or so.” I noted.

“So you are letting him continue to play dress up?” I knew things were going too well. I tried not to say something I would regret. The doctor’s question reinforced my feelings that as the responsible parent, I carried an unusual and unfair burden.

“I wish you didn’t say it like that. That sounds so awful John. It sounds as if I’m encouraging him. I don’t think that I am and he wouldn’t call it ‘playing dress up’. John, that’s the really hard part, since you bring it up. I feel responsible at times and I would almost feel better if Jack had other problems. Then I wouldn’t be dealing with just this.” I took a moment to think about Jack. “But Jack is just so normal otherwise. He’s easygoing, helps around the house, has friends, boys and girls, does great in school.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ve known Jack for what, ten years now. I didn’t mean to put it on you. He is just a good kid.” John looked around to see if anyone could hear us. “I do worry though. Miri you do know that you would be criticized for not stopping it; that you would be the mom who let her son become a sissy. Most people would tell you to forbid it and would expect that you punish him for what he is doing. And maybe you should.”

That surprised me and struck me directly in the heart. Was my good doctor friend telling me I’m not handling this right? I took a deep breath, let it out and confessed.

“It’s not like I haven’t considered it. Yes, maybe I should. I would be mom of the month around here if I did John. But what would that do to Jack? I mean I know he’s suffering and I can’t see where punishment is going to take the suffering away. It’s not an easy choice, John.” I said as strongly as I could in public. I thought I saw a slight grin on John’s tired face. Looking back I know he was testing me and trying to see if I had thought about what was coming. “Sure, he’s going to have to adjust sometime and yes it’s never easy growing up. But I have to find a way to make it easier. I have to make it so he understands and then he can accept that he’s a boy and going to be a man. I’ve told him that. I can’t help him if I lose him now.”

“Just be careful, Miri. I’ll do some checking and talk discreetly to a colleague or two. I’ll get in touch with you in a few days.” He announced as he stood up, gave me a reassuring hug and disappeared back into the hospital.

On the drive home I felt better, and worse. Nothing had changed and I was still in the dark. Now with only a glimmer of hope I had to turn my attention to other things. Family was coming in two days and I had to prepare the house, the food, and especially Jack.

(Miriam finds strength and discovers a path that might help her son, but some of what she is told scares her.)

Choices

Chapter 10

The tears were running down my face before I finished rolling out the fourth pie crust the same day I talked to John Benson, our doctor friend. I hated the emotional rollercoaster I was on. I thought I was just being hormonal (I was on the edge of that dreaded menopausal thing) but I knew it was more than that. In that moment I hated being a woman, hated being a mother, hated that I had a son who told me he wanted to be a girl. I wanted to run, wanted to be somewhere else and wanted to be someone else. For a brief moment I understood Jack. He didn’t want to be who he was and neither did I. I was a powerless, emotional married woman. The difference was that I knew I couldn’t escape my life, my identity, my gender, and Jack thought he could.

I covered the crusts, two for apple and two for pumpkin, took off my apron and headed for the third floor. Jack would be home in a few minutes and I wanted to meet him on his turf before he dove into whatever fantasy he had in his immature head. I needed to talk with him without the dress.

I sat on the unmade bed of the large front room just above my own bedroom and just looked around. This was Jack’s world. His books were arranged neatly on the curved shelf bordering the windows of the castle like turret at the center of the house. The full length mirror was conveniently arranged across from the bed so that I was seeing my own reflection as I sat there. I imagined Jack, in whatever girl thing he chose to wear, sitting where I did then looking at his reflection, seeing what?

My eyes were drawn to the magnificent antique mahogany bureau that sat adjacent to the bed. Within its many drawers I kept out of season clothes, mostly for the children, as well as keepsakes, christening gowns, baby blankets and other items with which I could not part. I wondered what else might be in those drawers and was tempted to search, and yes, I thought momentarily, destroy. But after my bonding with Jack wearing a sundress recently in that same room, I just couldn’t reverse course. I felt I was on a path, a narrow one, that I knew couldn’t possibly end well. I just didn’t see any other choice.

I found myself crying again, alone and crying, which was a complete different feeling than a few days before when I was alone and drinking. Then a hymn came to me. It was one my mother often sang in the mornings so I guess it was just natural that it would come to me. More than that was its meaning and significance to what I was facing. The words and melody just took over and I started singing, singing and crying:

Jesus, keep me near the cross,
There a precious fountain—
Free to all, a healing stream—
Flows from Calv’ry’s mountain.

In the cross, in the cross,
Be my glory ever;
Till my raptured soul shall find
Rest beyond the river.

Near the cross, a trembling soul,
Love and Mercy found me;
There the bright and morning star
Sheds its beams around me.

In the cross, in the cross,
Be my glory ever;
Till my raptured soul shall find
Rest beyond the river.

Near the cross! O Lamb of God,
Bring its scenes before me;
Help me walk from day to day,
With its shadows o’er me.

In the cross, in the cross,
Be my glory ever;
Till my raptured soul shall find
Rest beyond the river.

I had barely started the last stanza when I saw Jack come quietly into the room. I had not heard him coming up the stairs over my halting voice. Crying significantly interferes with singing. He stopped and we looked at each other as I continued:

Near the cross I’ll watch and wait
Hoping, trusting ever,
Till I reach the golden strand,
Just beyond the river.

He looked so somber as he watched me sing, and cry, but what he did next was a moment that I shall cherish forever. Jack came over to where I was sitting and took my hand and sang the last refrain with me. I felt a joy deep within me and my crying stopped. I saw our reflections in the mirror, a mother and child singing together with broad smiles on their faces. I heard our voices blend together, an adult woman singing alto and an eleven year old singing in an almost perfect choir boy soprano.

In the cross, in the cross,
Be my glory ever;
Till my raptured soul shall find
Rest beyond the river.

When we finished he sat down next to me and hugged me.

I wasn’t then, or now, a religious zealot prone to break out in scripture or song, nor was I thinking about church, or God, when the hymn popped into my head. I was raised in a rather strict Methodist home. My mother, the SM was certainly strict, so I really shouldn’t have been struggling with my faith. But I was. It was that God the Controller thing, the one that, had I been thinking about it, would make me ask why he would give this burden to me, or, especially, to my innocent son. When I heard my son’s voice, however, I saw in the hymn, the so relevant words coupled with the powerful melody, coming to me just before Jack arrived, a sign. It couldn’t have been more real for me, as a sign from God, the benevolent helpful one, than had it been neon and blinking.

“Mommy, I love you.” He softly said after we finished the final refrain. He didn’t ask me why I had been crying, or why I was singing. I suppose he knew in some way that I needed some help with what we were facing. I knew that I received that help from the hymn; the words (Help me walk from day to day, with its shadows o’er me.) perhaps the most inspiring. I suddenly felt that regardless of what had been laid before me, I would not be walking that path alone.

“I love you too, Jack.” I responded automatically. “Jack, we need to talk. I need you to listen.”

“Yes mommy.” He was almost cute being so serious.

“I will never abandon you so I need you not to abandon me. Do you understand?” I told him gathering my strength

“I think so.”

“First, for the next few days you have to stay away from here.” A look of disappointment came over his face. “Wait! Hear me out. Aunt Ceil and her friend Caroline are coming for Thanksgiving and Caroline is staying with us for a couple of nights. She’ll have to sleep up here.”

“Oh.” He said. “Why doesn’t she stay on the farm with Aunt Ceil?” He asked. That was complicated. I actually said that to Jack. “It’s complicated.” I didn’t want to explain too much to Jack but I did: “Your grandmother worries about how it would look, two women travelling together, and staying in her house together. We have an extra bedroom. On the farm Aunt Ceil and Caroline would have to share a bedroom.”

In those days I didn’t feel that I could easily explain Ceil and Caroline to Jack. I couldn’t explain it to myself and well, to be honest, it was something I didn’t think about. I knew they were more than roommates. Back then I doubt I even knew the term lesbian and I never heard anyone gossip about women being lovers or sexual with each other. Homosexual men were the threat. They were deviant, dangerous, and sinful. Whatever went on between my cousin Ceil and Caroline was just not the same as what Elaine Rogers son was doing. Boys and especially men didn’t have physical relationships, not good ones. Two women living together was accepted as all right; they were just two women living together as a convenience until they found the right man.

“Oh.” He said again as if it made sense. “Caroline is just staying two nights.” He asked.

“Yes, but listen. She’s going on to visit her family in Iowa for a week and Ceil in going back to Baltimore.” I explained. “Jack, I’m think you shouldn’t come up here as much until after Christmas.” He didn’t say anything and just looked at me. “I’m going to have to talk to your dad about this Jack.”

“No. Don’t.” He pleaded.

“Jack, I can’t avoid it. We have to have faith that he will understand. Jack, he loves you and he needs to know what you are going through.” I reassured him.

“But he will be mad.”

“If he gets mad it will be at me. I know your dad pretty well and I know he will still love you. He will want to help you.” Jack didn’t look convinced but gave my hand a squeeze.

“You won’t let him put a lock on the door will you.” Jack had a good insight into his father. That is exactly how he would probably approach this. He wouldn’t get angry, wouldn’t lash out and would definitely avoid talking about it, especially to Jack. He would just take prudent measures to control or eliminate what Jack was doing. So I told Jack the only thing I could.

“No, I won’t let him do that. You see, Jack, that’s just the thing. You and I can’t just go on like this and if I don’t talk to your dad, or a doctor, then, well, …” I didn’t know what to say and fumbled for the right words for the longest time, holding his hand. “If we don’t face this, well, bad things are going to happen. I don’t know what they are exactly but together we need to find out before it’s too late. And the only way to find out is for me to talk to your dad and check out what a doctor has to say.”

I could tell he was skeptical. I didn’t tell him I had already talked to our doctor, John Benson, the father of his friend Joanie. He started to say something but I wouldn’t let him.

“Remember you have to trust me.” I took a breath. “Once a week. You can come up here once a week until after Christmas. That will give me some time, Jack. That’s fair isn’t it? Can you do that?”

Of course he didn’t say anything right away but I gave him a kiss on the cheek and a hug. Then I heard him say he would try.

* * *

Thanksgiving was uneventful, almost. I had lots of help with the food, especially from Caroline. She made a carrot ring that was better than anything I could ever do. Jack helped in the kitchen more than his sister did. Brenda was busy planning a hefty social agenda for the weekend. Tim, Don and my father spent the morning trying to get a better signal for the TV so they could watch football between the Packers and the Lions, as ridiculous as that sounded to me at the time. Ceil was right there with them.

Jack was enamored with Caroline. She was stunning in many ways and I was a little jealous. She was my age but had the figure of a twenty year old, not having children obviously helped, and she dressed like the women you saw in Ladies Home Journal. When I asked, she told me she only shops at the exclusive stores in Washington. Her nails were beautiful, long with perfect polish and her makeup and hair exquisite. I hoped that Jack was smitten with this almost perfect female because he was a boy soon to be a man, but feared he saw her as a role model.

After all the food was on the table, the twelve of us stood at our places, held hands and said the Lord’s Prayer followed from a too long message of thanks from my mother, the SM. When we were seated and the food began circling around, each of us took turns verbalizing what they were most thankful for. It was a tradition. I was afraid of what Jack might say but he was rather boring, thank God, mentioning his family, especially his mom and dad.

Brenda went on and on about being thankful about things at school, teachers, especially her piano teacher, but, trying to be cute, I’m sure, mentioned a certain boy she was a little sweet on. My father, the one and only Al Hartman, saw that as an opportunity.

“He just seems a little prissy to me.” Dad threw out menacingly gesturing with the carving knife and trying to get a rise from his granddaughter, and probably me.

“Not all boys grew up on a farm.” I quickly noted trying to deflect and protect my daughter.

“No, but the slicked back hair and blue shirt with the ruffled collar aren’t real manly.” He continued.

“Dad!” I warned and then said something I so regretted. “At least the shirt isn’t pink.” I don’t know what made me continue a conversation with my father, in front of my children as well as Ceil and Caroline of all people, about clothes and references to sissy and unmanly boys, especially knowing my son seemed rather drawn to ‘unmanly’ things. My response seemed automatic and I said it before I thought it through. But it gave my father what he wanted; an opportunity to create the very atmosphere I knew would probably plague me in the future.

“No.” He said with a broad smile and the attention of everyone at the table. “But I bet his silk panties are.” He laughed; loud and proud was he. But he was the only one who actually laughed. Tim chuckled and Don smiled. Ceil frowned and Caroline, well, to her credit, just stared at him, coldly. Brenda, beet red, got up and stormed off and a few moments later we all heard the familiar slamming of the door. This time I felt she was justified.

I tried not to look at Jack but my heart broke for him. I couldn’t imagine what he was feeling or how painful it probably was for him to have to endure such pervasive attitudes. Then I heard his voice, Jack’s voice, faintly.

“So.” He said looking down to the far end of the table at his grandfather who was now busily carving more turkey and did not hear him. Jack was sitting next to me. I put my hand on his arm. He looked at me and I shook my head from side to side. He gave me a small grin and that potential disaster was avoided.

* * *

The days after Thanksgiving remain a mystery to me and my journals are of no help. I know I was more than busy. Caroline left for Iowa Friday morning and I remember spending most of Saturday on the farm with Ceil. Jack came with me and we all helped my father with chores, farm chores. Ceil was back in her element in the barn among the cows and chickens. Jack pitched in and helped like he always did.

Sunday we all went to church, except for Ceil who never did anything in public in Moundsville when she visited even though she grew up there. She left to go back to Baltimore after we got home from church.

Monday was back to normal. Brenda was back at boarding school in Wheeling and Tim and Jack went back to school. I waited to hear something from John Benson but each day wore on with no word. I told myself to be patient. By Friday my anxiety was through the roof. Finally, late in the afternoon, the phone rang and I raced to pick up the receiver.

“Miri, Dr. Benson. I have that prescription ready for you. You can pick it up at the office anytime.” He said rather cryptically. I didn’t understand at first, but quickly recovered.

“Sure. Do I need to see you?” No call was private back then.

“Yes, I want to go over it with you so just tell the receptionist when you get here.”

“I’m on my way.” It was his way to get me to his office without raising suspicion.

I quickly changed my dress and put on some lipstick and walked the three blocks to Dr. Benson’s office. There was nobody in the waiting room and the receptionist waived me back to John’s office. I guessed he was through with patients for the day. The nurse had already gone. I heard the receptionist call to John that she would lock the door as she left. We were alone.

“Miri, I have some information. My friend in Wheeling, Dr. Ellis, a psychiatrist, had one young boy who verbalized he was a girl but there were many other issues with him including some development problems. As far as the medical literature is concerned most of it is termed as aberrant behavior and psychiatric intervention is recommended. I couldn’t find any studies or case histories. That doesn’t mean much though. Dr. Ellis felt maybe your situation was rare, especially from the standpoint that Jack comes from a pretty normal family and doesn’t have any other issues. He felt that there might be something else going on and speculated that Jack could be suppressing something that happened to him. He thought that if he would need to talk to Jack so he could rule out any psychological trauma as a cause of the behavior. If there was some root cause it would require treatment sessions.”

I listened. Mostly I liked what he told me. It made sense. He continued. “Dr. Ellis is concerned about letting it continue unchecked. He saw nothing good coming from that. Letting it go on without help only postpones the inevitable and will increase problems for Jack later. And he noted it won’t be long before Jack starts developing and he’s afraid that when those boy urges start and if he’s still dressing in girls things then, well,” He stopped before he finished the sentence.

“Well, what?” I no longer liked how this was going and I felt myself getting angry, not at John, but I didn’t like the probable outcome. I guess I was defensive. “What, a queer!” I knew it was wrong for me to lash out like that and it was a word I never used, at least not to refer to homosexual men. I wasn’t proud of myself. I think I had some illusion this would be easy.

“Miri, he didn’t say that.” He assured me.

“I’m sorry to be blunt but isn’t that what he meant?” I had read this much at our little inadequate library.

“Probably, sure or worse. But …” He started to explain but I didn’t let him. I just plowed ahead jumping to conclusions.

“So if I let him continue he’s going to be like Rueben Rogers. And if I try to stop it now, then what?”

“Miri, I think he was saying if Jack gets help now, professional help, there are things that will make it easier for him to accept the inevitable changes that are coming down the road; accept becoming a young man so he can have a normal life.”

I didn’t really expect this from John. I thought that he would know that either way Jack’s chance at a normal life was in jeopardy. I had hoped for some understanding and actual help but it sounded like the doctors would assume the worst. I took a deep breath and tried to control my anger. I had promised Jack I would protect him. I decided to give John the benefit of the doubt.

Then he dropped a bomb. “Have you heard of Christine Jorgensen?”

‘Christine who?’ I thought. Was she a doctor, a sociologist? Good, I thought; a woman doctor might understand.

“A doctor?” I asked naively.

“Christine Jorgensen is a guy who became a woman. There were lots of stories a couple years ago. Dr. Ellis gave me this.” He threw an old Pittsburgh Gazette on the table. The paper was a couple years old but there on the front page was a story about a young man (he had been in the army) who had surgery in Denmark and was now living as a woman. I read through the first few paragraphs.

“Stop it. This is crazy, John.” I shrieked. “We’re talking about my little boy, my baby and you throw out this weird stuff about some man who has god-only-knows what insane issues who had surgery. Surgery, mutilating surgery! No. You don’t think…. What do you think?”

“I think you are a good mother who loves her son.” He answered piously. “I think you are struggling with this. And I am with you.” He continued while I steamed. “I don’t know what I would do in your shoes. I’m not comparing Jack with this Christine person; just that I think we should be aware there are stories like that out there. I’m not sure I would put Jack with a psychiatrist either, yet.” He stopped talking waiting for me to say something.

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I don’t think Jack is ready for that yet. I have to ease him into that and well, with the holidays. I just need some time.”

Then John added. “Miri, I want you to see Dr. Ellis. I think he can help you.”

“Help me.” I said. “He can help me by telling me what I do about a son who wears dresses every chance he gets.”

“He’s not Freudian, Miri. He’s not exactly a behaviorist; doesn’t subscribe to the oedipal thing.” I took enough psychology in college (one course) to know about Freud and that mothers are the ruin of men; that was my take on what was being taught.

“What do you mean?” I asked my interest genuinely piqued.

“Dr. Ellis doesn’t treat behavior, doesn’t try to change his clients, that’s what he calls them, clients, not patients. I spent about three hours with him last evening and he explained it all. Except where there is a psychosis he tries to get his clients to understand how certain behavior could be dangerous and have negative consequences. He then works with them on modifying the behavior, controlling dangerous impulses to give the client a safer and happier life. Helps them to manage things and accept themselves.”

“Manage? Accept?” I couldn’t grasp what he was trying to get across to me. I was managing the situation, and accepting. I needed answers.

“Miri, I can’t convince you but please. Go see him. I trust him. You will too.”

John Benson was right. I needed someone that would help me manage what Jack was doing. I didn’t see how that would help Jack when he started growing hair on his chest and his voice dropped but after thinking about it, at least Dr. Ellis might not blame me. As far as answers, well, where else was I going to turn.

After I had calmed down some I told him. “I’ll think about it. John, I have to talk to Don. I’ve been avoiding that.”

“Have that difficult discussion with Don. He’s a reasonable man. Then, why don’t you make an appointment with Dr. Ellis, just you. Jack needs help but so do you. You won’t be able to protect Jack all by yourself. You will need lots of help. Promise me.”

“I will. Thank you for this John. I don’t know how to thank you.” I gave him a hug but then added. “John, I don’t want Jack to hear about this Christine person. That’s just too insane, too much for an eleven year old boy, too much for me.”

John burst that bubble. “Maybe he already has. You may not have focused on it but it was in the news and it was sensational.”

I left John’s office in a daze. As I walked back home Elaine Rogers drove by with her son Rueben in the passenger seat. He waved at me. I smiled and returned a half wave. Humming the melody from the hymn ‘Near the Cross’ I felt I now belonged to the group of residents of Moundsville who had a deep secret and a heavy burden, but was not alone.

(Miri sets the mood for that difficult discussion with her husband about their son. Will it soften the blow?)

Choices

Chapter 11

Sex was not a topic for open discussion in Moundsville, at least not in the circles in which I moved. It wasn’t actually talked about privately either. I didn’t discuss it with friends, my doctor, the pastor or especially my mother, the SM. We weren’t ignorant, however, and were keenly aware that a man named Kinsey published books about sexual behavior; awful disgusting books that were not available at the library, or the book store in Wheeling. Most of what we knew about the Kinsey books we learned on Sunday mornings from Pastor John, who emphatically warned how dangerous and unchristian they were. I presumed he had studied the matter before arriving at his conclusion.

So I was surprised when I started thinking about sex before I made it back home after visiting Dr. Benson. I doubted that sex had anything to do with the dual competing messages of hope and dread I came away with from the talk. It might have been because it was a Friday and well, Don and I sort of had a Friday thing; something we certainly didn’t talk about. More likely I was subconsciously mapping out a strategy for how to tell my husband of over 16 years that I had been letting his second son wear dresses in the room above our own bedroom. I probably started thinking about sex because I wanted to create a certain atmosphere that would be more conducive to understanding. Understanding seemed central to mitigating any possible harsh judgment that I may have instigated, encouraged or enabled the aberrant behavior of our son. My experience was that sex often helped men understand the harshest realities.

I had three items on my agenda as I walked into the foyer of our home; drinks with Don when he got home, prepare his favorite meal and an early bedtime. Truthfully, I was almost devoid of hope, and overwhelmed with dread, about talking to Don, not so much from fear, but I just knew how hurt he would be, how deeply it would affect him. It had been excruciatingly painful for me to see my son in a dress and to hold him dressed that way, but it would kill Don, I was certain. Don was caring and sensitive that way, but he also wore his manliness proudly. I had serious doubts that he could be anywhere near as accepting and understanding as I had been.

I stood there wondering what to do first, and thanked God, literally thanked Him, that I was not alone. Actually, I thanked Him that I was alone, in the house. I give Him credit; somehow He had arranged for Don and I to be alone that particular Friday night. Brenda was staying with a friend from school in Elm Grove, a suburb of Wheeling, and my father was picking up the boys from school for a weekend on the farm. Things happen for a reason.

I headed for the kitchen, peeled carrots and potatoes and shoved the roast I had ready into the oven. Then I went to our bedroom, sat at my desk and jotted down everything John Benson had told me in my journal, even about that Christine person. I could hardly think of her (or him, as I wrote at the time) as a woman. John had offered to let me take the newspaper that had the article describing in some detail the change from man to woman but I certainly didn’t want it in my house.

Next, I ran warm to hot water in the bath, added more than a few drops of my Yardly English Lavender Bath Oil, stripped and placed my body, and my thoughts, into a much better, and sweet smelling, atmosphere. I sat there feeling so, well, so wonderfully female that I became almost happy. The dread seemed to wash away and I started to actually look forward to my evening with my husband, the one who I loved so much, and who loved me. Yes, my resolve to have that deep conversation helped lighten the burden, and the evening I had planned leading up to the revelation excited me, all of me.

After I washed my hair I stepped out of the bath and looked at myself in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. That wasn’t unusual, I always looked and, mostly, admired the woman I was. The backdrop of the coral colored tile framed my so white nude body in an almost picturesque way; not that I had ever seen any similar pictures. I certainly wasn’t stunningly beautiful, like Caroline. Most of my assets screamed childbirth and nursing times three, but I was reasonably fit and considerably female, I thought. I liked that. That’s when I mentally tried to get a nude picture of that Christine person in my head. I laughed to the mirror and shook my head from side to side. I was a woman and I wasn’t created by some surgeon in Denmark.

I hadn’t planned how to dress for that evening. I didn’t have to. It was almost automatic. I started with my new seamed stockings and garter belt. In those days most all women wore stockings and garters under a housedress, or a better one, to go to the store. Usually the garter hooks that held the stockings were attached to a girdle, which inflicted varying degrees of torturous confinement. Using the women’s room when out was a major ordeal unless you had one of the earlier girdles with no crotch. The garter belt was a better choice for going to the bathroom. Don liked the convenience it gave as much as I did. I added matching panties and bra, my sexiest. I dried my hair, of course spurning the bun I often put it in and giving it a wave that fell around my shoulders just the way he liked it. I carefully did my makeup, put in my diamond earrings and added the matching necklace. I slipped into my brown alligator pumps with three inch heels that I had only worn once before. The dress I chose was my favorite and his too; red silk, capped sleeves, calf length with a full skirt. Oh yes, the neckline was plunging, especially designed for cleavage viewing.

For the Coup de Grâce I went with Evening in Paris, rejecting each of the other two fragrances on my vanity, Midnight in New York and All Night in Wheeling.

I was in the kitchen wearing my best plain white apron when I heard Don coming. I had the scotch and soda ready and posed myself next to the stove holding my drink, and his, when he came through the door. He looked at me and he broke into that broad manly smile. Before he was able to take the drink or even put his arms around me I was sure there was the intended reaction. I’m very observant that way. He hugged me almost spilling scotch and soda down my back and I felt him breath in Paris, the Evening variety. He rather subtly slipped his hand down to my backside and through the silky material of my dress checked to see how confined I was. Judging by his built-in indicator his approval was complete.

“Am I to assume we are alone tonight?” He asked after he kissed me with some passion.

“I told you that this morning.” I really wasn’t sure I had told him but when dealing with men I always assumed they wouldn’t remember what they had been told. He stepped back and looked at me the way any woman loves. It was sheer power to stand there, dressed so perfectly, feeling so sexy, being admired by the man you love. I can’t imagine what it feels like to be a man and become erect. With Don’s lustful admiration and his cute smile on that precious face with a five-o-clock shadow I not only imagined the deep warm, and yes, wet excitement that I was sure trumped any erection, I felt it.

He opened the oven to see the roast with potatoes and carrots and he kissed me again. Food and sex seemed to be equally appealing.

“Right.” He said as if he remembered. “But all this.” He teased suspiciously. “Did you blow the charge account at Stone and Thomas again?”

That’s when I fell apart. I started crying and flung myself back into his arms spilling his scotch and soda. He held me as I sobbed like the stupid weak emotional female I was.

“What’s going on, Miri.” He asked. As I felt him holding me so tight I considered just coming out with it. I felt so safe in his arms. But I couldn’t ruin the evening I had planned and he deserved. I didn’t want to miss either. So I stalled.

“Honey, I don’t want you to worry. We need to talk, and I will but please, let’s just enjoy tonight. We need to eat and I need…” I pushed away from him and looked up into his eyes. “I need you. More than ever, Don, I need you.” I’m sure he thought I meant a physical need which was true, but I really was thinking of more emotional support. I wasn’t in the habit of being demonstrative or manipulative but I pushed myself against him and touched him. I felt his excitement.

“I need to be close to you tonight. Then we will talk.” I whispered in his ear.

Of course he didn’t object to what I proposed. He didn’t say anything. I felt his hand pulling my skirt up and checking the details of my garter belt, the tops of the stockings and especially the lace on my panties.

“You’re scaring me Miri.” He then said and started to say something else. I put my finger over his lips, then kissed him again and moved his other hand inside my dress to a breast. He obeyed.

We had two more drinks, ate by candlelight and had some pie leftover from Thanksgiving. That’s when I took his hand and led him up to our bedroom. I pushed him down on the bed in the dark and lit a candle. He watched as I unbuttoned the dress in the back, pulled my arms from the sleeves and let it fall to the floor. I stood in front of him for a few moments in just my bra, panties, garter belt and stockings. I glanced in the mirror to my left at my full length image and so admired the complete mature woman standing in the dim light. I opened my dresser drawer, the one with all of my sexiest things, and took out the beautiful peach full length gown that I had been saving. I unhooked my bra, let it fall and pulled the nightgown over my head and let it fall around me.

I checked to make sure he was still awake and noticed not only was he awake but he had stripped to just his briefs, white of course with large bulge duly noted.

Then I reached under the nightgown and removed my panties. Don sat up and motioned for me to come to the bed.

“Oh no.” I told him. “I’ll be right here but you have to go prepare.” He knew what I meant and after trying to reach for me reluctantly headed into the bathroom. I pulled the sheet down and laid on top of the bed. I heard him washing, brushing his teeth and taking care of other matters. Soon he turned out the bathroom light. It was dark again, except for the dim candle on my vanity. It was so quiet and peaceful. As he slid into bed I was on my side. He cuddled up against my back and reached around and felt my breasts. He was aroused and wearing protection as expected.

Don and I always enjoyed each other immensely. He was so gentle and caring in bed. He always made sure I was happy. And he was fun and playful. I liked how he touched me. Sex was often his idea but he made sure I came around. I guess like most men he could do it every night but with the kids and busy lives we weren’t making love very often. I never said no to Don in bed. I let him know when I had my period but any other time was a go. This night was different, and special. We rarely had the opportunity to enjoy each other like we were this night and I worried that what I was going to tell him, after we made love, would change things between us.

He gently caressed my back and continued to fondle my breasts. For all the planning and effort I went to, and how excited I had earlier been, I suddenly wasn’t in the mood. I’m not sure if he sensed I was not responding but he said nothing. He just continued. I guess his closeness was reassuring. As he touched me I thought about how I would begin to explain about Jack; what I would say. I couldn’t start while he was trying to make love to me. I couldn’t ruin his moment. He moved his hand down and pulled my nightgown up. He touched between my legs and I rolled over on my back and opened my legs a little. I was feeling his gentle touch but thinking about Jack. I thought about girls becoming women and boys becoming men. I thought about how different men and women are. Interests, clothes, emotions, sex. My thoughts returned to Don as he gently pushed his finger inside me and then up trying to find that special place. He found it and I felt excited again, suddenly wanting him as badly as he wanted me. I pulled him on top of me and felt him push into me. I grabbed him and pulled him as close to me and as far into me as I could. He tried to pull out and back in but I wouldn’t let him. I held tightly.

“Just hold me like this for a while.” I whispered.

He did. For what seemed like minutes we just laid there; coupled together; him completely inside me. I felt his weight, the fullness inside me, his power. I became lost in the intimacy; it was peaceful. Something about that moment was so reassuring, or maybe affirming. I was a woman and loved who I was. I was a mom and a pretty good one. I loved my kids and wasn’t going to let anything hurt them. I was a wife who had a loving and caring, not to mention sexy, husband.

After a few moments, I could feel his so special twitching inside me. He was ready and so was I. I released my grip and let him push in and out. He released and I felt that surge. I was more excited than ever and he kept with me. Soon I was on the verge of that ecstasy only a woman could enjoy.

“Take that Christine!” I screamed as I climaxed.

“Who?” He limply asked rolling off me. “Who in the hell is Christine.” I don’t think I was aware I yelled that at the height of my climax. I didn’t answer.

“Are you Christine? You’re not developing a split personality, are you?” He laughed with a deep roar showing he had no serious concern about my sanity. I wasn’t so sure.

I hit him on the arm and also laughed. “I have no idea why I said that.” I lied.

“Well.” He astutely noted. “Something is definitely going on with you. I could get used to this Christine person if she can be like you were tonight.”

“Doubt it.” Is all I could muster. It was time to face the music but I didn’t know where to start so I just asked. “Don, when you were a kid did you ever think you should have been born a girl and not a boy?”

“Jesus, Miri. Where did that come from? Of course not. What’s going on?”

“Don, we have a problem. It started a few weeks ago. Actually I don’t know when it started but it has to do with Jack”

“What started? Jack, is he ok? Why haven’t you said anything?” He admonished.

“Just listen. Please. This is hard enough.” I rolled over and lit a cigarette. Don didn’t smoke after sex, or before for that matter. He sat up and watched me. “Don, I haven’t said anything because I was scared. I thought I could deal with this and not have to upset you but….” I started to cry. Don pulled me over and I rested my head on his chest being careful not to burn him.

“For God’s sake Miri, just tell me what going on.” I really didn’t want to start with telling him Jack likes dresses. That sounded just wrong, like Jack was some sissy, or well, like Reuben Rogers. And it was so difficult to say to my husband that his son told me he wanted to be a girl. Don wasn’t stupid though and he made a reasonable guess.

“Wait, Jack thinks he should have been born a girl? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” He said loudly and with some incredulity.

I didn’t say anything, just cried harder nodding in the dark in the affirmative.

“Christ Jesus.” He called uncharacteristically. “He told you that?” He yelled.

“Don, I can hear you, and so can the neighbors. Yes, we had a long conversation about it.” I confessed.

“When? What did you tell him? He’s not serious is he?” I knew that I needed to get it all out. I had to explain it to him so he would calm down and we could discuss it.

“I found some of my things in his closet in September, a slip and panties and he goes to the third floor and wears dresses and he told me he always felt this way and John Benson found this doctor in Wheeling and Jack and Joanie played dress up.”

It was a stream of craziness that I’m sure shook Don to the core. I knew I had not handled it well and he was confused and yes, angry. He stood up and without saying anything went into the bathroom. A few minutes later he returned now not completely nude.

“Wait, slow down. I don’t understand and God, Miri.” He said and then proceeded to say more, so much more. Actually he said little but asked so much.

“What were you thinking?

I sobbed.

“Jack goes up to the third floor and wears dresses?”

I nodded.

“And, uh, panties too?

I shook my head up and down.

“And you’ve known about this for almost three months?”

I cried.

“Don’t you think I needed to know about this?”

I nodded again.

“Jesus Miri, you talked to John before you talked to me?”

I stopped crying and gave him the sorry look.

“And I suppose you thought your little sexy show tonight would excuse not telling me?”

I couldn’t help myself. I smiled, just a little and he did too. He had asked his way to being less outraged and more reasoned. He sat down next to me and shockingly took a drag from my third after-sex cigarette. He coughed and handed the cigarette back to me. It was quiet in the dark room with the candle now burned down and barely flickering.

“Jack’s not a sissy. I don’t see my son as a sissy. My son’s not..” Don didn’t finish his thought. He of course was thinking what anyone would, what I had thought and what might be true. Sissy boys become effeminate men and were homosexual. We all knew that and it is what John had eluded to and what I had read at the library.

“Don.” I said before he said the word. “I think it’s more complicated than that.”

He sat there thinking but pulled me over to him and I rested my head on his chest.

“Ok, start at the beginning and tell me everything, and I mean everything.” He commanded.

For the next hour I just talked. I told him everything I discovered and tried to recreate my conversations, and the sequences with Jack exactly. At one point I got up, turned on a light and read from my journal entries over the last couple of months. He listened, sighing occasionally.

When I was done he didn’t say anything for what seemed like an eternity. Then he was rather declarative.

“Miri, I don’t know what to say. I have a son who wears dresses, or who wants to, or who thinks he’s a girl. I can’t believe this. I mean, Jack is just so normal. I haven’t seen any of this. Have I been blind? What kind of father am I? This can’t be. Are you sure?”

He was rambling. He couldn’t process this; at least at first. What father could? I told him he was a good father and we talked for what seemed like hours. We went back and forth. What to do, what not to do. What it was; what caused it. I told him about how I thought when Jack was young that he should have been a girl and how guilty I felt. I thought he might blame me but he didn’t. He couldn’t believe that could cause this now. He was a little hurt that I involved John and that I didn’t tell him first but he trusted John and seemed ok with it. We didn’t come to any conclusion or form a plan but we both thought it was time to talk to a doctor.

“Don?” I finally asked, “You’re a man, grew up a boy, have you ever heard of this? Did you know any boys who wanted to wear a dress? Do some boys go through this? Tell me it’s just a normal thing and he’ll get over it.”

“Wish I could? I just don’t know. I never even thought about putting on a dress. When we were kids, Jack, my cousin, once dared me to put on a dress. God it seems like just yesterday that he was killed in the war. Anyway, we were in Winter Haven in the twenties visiting our other cousin, Ann, and Jack and I were sleeping in her room. We were all about the same age. I didn’t accept the dare but he did. He put on one of her dresses and pranced around but he never said anything again about it.” He explained.

“But no boy I ever knew wanted to be a girl.” Then he had to add. “What boy would?”

I said nothing but I wondered if there was some connection between the man who gave his life in the war, the one with whom I made love to once, and my child who insisted he was a girl. What if Jack Staub, my son’s namesake and the only other man I ever loved, had similar feelings as my little Jack? What if he actually was his father, passing some genetic female anomaly to an otherwise normal male child? Was this a twist of fate, or God the Controller exacting a price for my adulterous sin? I would never know.

We were both exhausted. I glanced at the clock. It was after three in the morning and there was just nothing more to say. Except he did say one last thing.

“Fix this Miri. I don’t mean to be mean but you have to fix this.” He said rather meanly.

“I’ll do my best Don, but I need you. I need your help.”

“I’m here aren’t I?” Spoken like a wounded male. “You need to talk, I’ll talk. Want me to put a lock on the door. I can do that. Whatever, Miri. But don’t ask me to talk to Jack about this and don’t ask me to go see some doctor. You are the mother. You’ve let this fester. You have let him think this is ok. So fix it.”

I should have been mad. I wanted to tell him you can’t fix broken children like the old truck he and Tim worked on. I wanted to tell him that he may need to fix himself. I quietly rolled over not pleased with how this was ending.

“I will.” I said barely loud enough for him to hear me.

In a way I knew he was right. I was the mother and I probably was somewhat culpable. I carried the ultimate responsibility to Jack. In the afterglow of a wonderful evening with my man, I was almost happy he gave me the job to ‘fix’ Jack. Only I was in a position to do whatever would be necessary to protect Jack and help him.

I also knew it would take Don some time to get used to what Jack was doing, or actually, who Jack was. It took me time to become open to getting help, it would take Don longer. To me Jack wasn’t that a regular boy anymore, and he wasn't the girl he pretended to be either. That wasn't possible. I just didn’t know who he was, or what he would become. I was still scared and still on that lonely path. At least Don now knew everything, and he was still sleeping next to me. And I still felt the warmth of the love, and pleasure, he gave to me, his woman.

(The delay of this next chapter of the ordeal Miriam Roberts was dealing with in a small town in West Virginia in the mid1950’s was due to an obsessive rewrite by the author, not to mention compulsive editing and tedious research. It must have been a critical time for Miriam to necessitate such a delay.)

The most important thing that I have learned about life over time, especially as related to Jack, is that expectations are almost never realized, at least not fully. With the burden of telling Don about Jack behind me, I expected coffee in bed, a reward Don almost always provided the morning after great love making. On that Saturday morning especially, with children unusually not in the house, I expected some personal time with my husband, talking, reminiscing and even planning, in addition to the coffee. I had also not ruled out an encore.

Instead of waking up to the smell of fresh brewed coffee however, I awoke to sounds, man sounds, hard clanking and frightening pounding. I heard tools being used at the end of the hall where the stairs to the third floor was guarded by a door, a big solid heavy door. I knew immediately my expectations were for naught.

Without donning a robe I made it to the scene just before he pulled the trigger on the electric drill, almost tripping over the extension cord. On the floor of the hallway he had laid out two screwdrivers, a Yankee drill, a padlock, a hammer, an awl and a heavy duty hasp. Upon seeing me he lowered his weapon and just stared. Standing there in that sheer lacy peach gown, with nothing on underneath would normally be somewhat arousing to him, and also to me. But no, he turned back to his work and raised the drill to the first hole he had marked.

“Don, don’t.” I was able to say just before the loud whirring started. The drill sank into the wood confirming that men never tire of penetrating something, anything. Before he lined up the drill for the second hole I stopped him, grabbing the drill and coming dangerously close to injuring my right breast. That would have been a difficult explanation at the emergency room.

“Don, this isn’t the answer.” I told him. He lowered the drill and gave me a look I didn’t read at first. I couldn’t tell if it was anger, or disappointment or just confusion. One thing I was sure of, he was on a mission.

“Well, Miri.” He started as he again lowered the drill without taking his finger from the trigger. “Your answer certainly fucked things up.” He said resolutely pulling away from me.

I was devastated but refused to cry. I had hoped for some understanding but knew I had to stand my ground, without weapons, at least without ones plugged into an extension cord.

“Don, stop. Think about this.” I reasoned.

“I have Miri. We can’t let this continue. You can’t really believe letting our son go up there and put on dresses is good.” He charged pointing to the stairs that led to what he now obviously thought was a place of sin.

I couldn’t argue that what Jack was doing was good, but I knew it wasn’t evil either. I had to make Don understand that this wasn’t black and white, or even a floral print.

“Don, listen for a moment. No, I don’t think it is good. Don, I felt exactly like you did when I first discovered it. I thought I could make it go away. I knew how awful it was and was so scared, scared for us and scared for Jack. Don, I don’t like this any more than you do.” I explained.

“Then why didn’t you stop him?” He charged then added. “Enabling isn’t going to make it go away.” That was the question that I had to explain. Why hadn’t I done what most parents would do when I first found him in my slip? Why did I let him continue to do it?

“Because Don, I listened to him.” Now I was fighting tears. I don’t think I had actually verbalized the answer to that question before. “I listened to how deeply confused he is about this boy-girl thing, and I realized that there really wasn’t a choice if I was going to help him.” I had his attention now. Don started to refute that premise but I stopped him. “I found myself alone and crying trying to decide if it was better to forbid it, or stop it.”

Don started to look as if he was about to cry.

“Yes, Don I had a choice; risk becoming Jack’s enemy, or love him and help him figure out what was going on. Oh Don, I just decided I couldn’t help him if he hated me, or feared me or didn’t trust me.” The drill was now on the floor and Don took a step toward me.

“No Don, I hate this. Hate that Jack feels this way. I want it to stop as badly as you do but putting a lock on the door won’t stop it. What a lock will do is send a message. The message will tell Jack we don’t trust him and we don’t love him. And that won’t help us with answers.” I was on a roll and Don was in my arms, sobbing. Holding a man while nearly naked feeling him shake with almost open crying is a wonderfully powerful thing.

“And the message won’t be just for Jack.” I continued. “We have two other children. How will you explain the lock to them? ‘Oh, we’re just trying to keep your brother from wearing dresses.’ How does that sound Don? And don’t forget my mother. There is no way I’m having any discussion with my mother about Jack.” Where I found those words I will never know but I suspect they did not come from me but were a gift from the same power that gave me the words to that hymn, the one I sang in the room at the top of the stairs where Don and I now stood holding each other.

I think I made my point. He started gathering up his tools wiping his tears on his sleeve. It wasn’t the first time I saw my husband cry; he cried when his cousin died in France and when he lost his father two years before and he cried, with joy, when each of his children were born. Don was a sensitive man which I did not consider oxymoronic.

“So what am I supposed to do when I hear him going up there? I can’t stand it.” He cried with a contorted face. I felt, fundamentally, that this might be harder for Don, a man and father, than for me.

“I can only ask you to try one day at a time. Don, I need you. Jack needs you. He has agreed to limit this while we figure something out and I’ll make sure he stays out of the third floor when you are here. Until then just be the good father you are.”

He shook his head indicating he would try but I knew he would be challenged with whatever lie ahead as would I. For nearly a year each time I passed the door that led to the third floor and saw that solitary unfilled hole in the jam, I was reminded of the choices of life and that it was right for me as a mother, and a woman, to choose not to put locks on doors, or let others do likewise.

* * *

Don gathered his tools, and his emotions, and we enjoyed a nice breakfast together. We even wound up back in bed for some needed healing of our slightly damaged relationship. After that Saturday we didn’t speak of Jack or the problem again then, or for many days for that matter, except Don let me know he had his own expectations.

Sunday the children returned home and we all went to church, as was both required and, for me, necessary. I needed some spiritual uplifting. It surprised me that Don insisted sitting next to Jack instead of his usual place next to Brenda. I was even more surprised when after church Don suggested a game of basketball with Tim and Jack. Basketball was Jack’s sport, his only one, and while Don did put up the backboard and hoop on the garage for him, he spent no time on the court with his youngest son. Jack could dribble with either hand and hit almost any shot. Don couldn’t dribble with one hand and couldn’t jump and shoot at the same time. It was comical, but wonderful to watch the boys and their father play together.

On that Monday it took me three tries to get through to Dr. Ellis’ office finally talking to his receptionist. I was disappointed that his first opening wasn’t until December 20th, unless I could make an early evening time. I just felt I needed to go during the day when the children were in school and Don was at work. I was almost happy for the two and a half week wait; I had so many other things going on before Christmas. I even considered postponing it until January.

* * *

I simply have no idea why I was surprised by the question, but I was. In hindsight I suppose that the doctor was testing me and fortunately I did not react, at least not defensively.

“And do you participate when your son goes to the third floor of your home and wears dresses?” I was asked pointedly.

When Dr. Ellis dropped that bomb in the middle of my first visit with him just before Christmas I thought of two responses as his gaze bore through me. One; did I look like the kind of mother who would be actively involved with such bizarre behavior? Second; I would hardly be sitting in his office seeking help if I was so twisted to force my son into some sissy cross dressing perversion.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Preparation for my appointment to see C. Thomas Ellis, M.D. involved two equally important things. First was the image, the visual one. I wanted Dr. Ellis to immediately see a sophisticated, educated and concerned mother who would not, or could not, cause her son to want to be a girl and wear girls’ clothes. Second, I had to prepare mentally, no make that emotionally.

To create the proper image I went conservative; tweed gray suit with a straight mid-calf skirt and a fitted long-sleeve jacket. Under the jacket I wore my best white blouse with the high collar and lacy attached tie. I added my good church matronly black pumps. I did my makeup with what I thought made me look truly sophisticated, pulled my hair into a bun, and topped it with my favorite but reserved black hat. With the single pearl earrings I looked in the mirror and absolved myself of any guilt.

Preparing myself emotionally was not nearly as easy. Ever since I told my husband about Jack the atmosphere in our home was tense. He wasn’t mean or hostile; he didn’t lash out or say much. In fact he hardly said anything at all. That morning after I convinced him not to padlock the third floor we talked during breakfast and he made clear I needed to go see Dr. Ellis and come home with a solution; one that would ease Jack away from what he was doing alone in the big room on the third floor and toward being the boy that he was and the man he would soon become. I couldn’t argue with him; change was coming and I couldn’t see how Jack could continue feeling the way he did, and especially wearing dresses, and become a man, a successful happy one. Boys who were sissies, or as my father so vividly put, wore pink panties, weren’t the ones who married pretty well educated women and landed good jobs with respectable firms. They certainly weren’t church leaders.

Don also was home more. He would stop in for lunch and come home early. He sought Jack out finding things to do with him like never before; wrestling, taking him to the farm to shoot the .22, shooting basketball with him almost every evening, helping with homework. Not that he didn’t these things before, but it used to be rare. Now it was almost daily. For Don, I’m sure it had the dual purpose of accentuating everything boy, and making sure Jack had no time for anything else. I hoped it would work, but feared it would not.

I knew I would have to tell the doctor about everything, but I vowed to let him know how badly we wanted and needed a solution that would turn things around. While I somewhat related to Jack’s verbal, not necessarily visual, girl statement, I knew it was not best for him. On my way to Wheeling that cold wet dreary and drizzly December morning I went over what I would say to Dr. Ellis. I had to be honest, resolute and convincing.

I allowed myself enough time to pick up a couple of items at one of the stores near the Wheeling Steel Building. My father worked in the building and if I happened to see him I wanted a cover story as to why I was in Wheeling and in that building. The packages I carried when I entered the building provided a plausible story.

I nervously took the elevator to the third floor and found Dr. Ellis’ office at the end of the hall, took a deep breath and entered. I really didn’t expect Dr. Ellis to be in a white medical coat with a stethoscope around his neck but he looked nothing like a doctor, at least not to me. He was tall with thick brown hair lightly peppered with strands of gray. His hair was longer than what men typically wore in the mid 1950’s and he had a well-trimmed goatee and moustache. His eyes were a soft green and he showed a warm smile when I entered the office. He was standing talking to a woman seated behind a desk, obviously his receptionist. He was wearing a three piece tweed suit, just one shade darker that the gray tweed suit I was wearing. From his vest hung an exquisite pocket watch attached to a gold fob and chain.

“You must be Mrs. Roberts.” He said immediately extending his hand.

He introduced himself and his receptionist, and told me he would be right with me. He finished with his receptionist and motioned for me to follow him into what I assumed was his office. There wasn’t anything about the room I found myself in that resembled an office. There was no desk and no telephone. The one window had beautiful drapes that I noted would look nice in my home. One wall had a large bookcase filled top to bottom but the other walls contained various works of art, paintings and photography of different styles. There was a Persian rug on the floor. Two rather soft matching wing chairs faced each other flanked by a couch upholstered in the same fabric. There was no overhead lighting, just a floor lamp and two table lamps at each end of the couch.

After the introduction and some pleasantries I decided to sit in one of the two big easy chairs. I wasn’t ready for the couch. Strangely after I set my purse next to me and removed my gloves he didn’t initiate the discussion, or begin by asking me what was wrong. He just sat in the matching chair directly in front of me with his note pad in his lap and pen in his hand waiting for me to say something. That made me nervous.

“Did Dr. Benson tell you about my problem?” I finally began.

“I talked to him, yes, but I want to hear what you have to say.” I wondered if he doubted how real this was. I wanted to tell him to forget it and just leave, and I almost did. I just didn’t know what to say. I stammered and he let me struggle for a few seconds.

“Just relax and tell me why you are here.” He said softly. On the drive to Wheeling I had gone over in my head how I would tell a doctor that my son wears dresses and thinks he should have been born a girl. I practiced not being defensive, practiced sounding rational.

“It’s not me.” I irrationally declared defensively. “It’s my son, Jack.” Then before he could say anything I just blurted out, “It’s what I’ve done to my son.” And broke into tears. I thought I had absolved myself of guilt but my subconscious must have had other ideas. So much for me being a rational mother of a cross dressing son.

He handed me a tissue and told me to just start at the beginning and tell him why I thought I had done something to my son.

“Oh, I’ve ruined my son. He just turned 11 and he wants to be a girl and wears girls’ things and I think I caused it.” I continued to confess probably with the word ‘guilty’ across my face.

“Ok Mrs. Roberts. Let’s start over.” Dr. Ellis put his pen down and sat forward in his chair making direct eye contact. “Did Dr. Benson explain how I approach behavior issues?” ‘Issues?’ I thought. What Jack was doing was much more than an issue; it was aberrant deviate behavior, the books said so.

“Some.” I answered not wanting to challenge a doctor, yet. “But I’m not sure I understand.”

“I don’t want to spend all of our time talking about psychiatry, Mrs. Roberts, but it’s important for you to know about different approaches.” He clarified.

“Yes, go on.” He had my attention.

“The majority of psychologists and psychiatrists today are Freudian. To be simplistic that means they approach issues from how people act, what they do. They are Behaviorists and believe that humans are driven by basic instincts, much of it sex based, and, according to Freud and others, they need unlimited gratification of their desires. In Freud’s theory there rests within each of us a hidden self, a destructive one which if allowed would manifest itself in incest, murder and…” Dr. Ellis paused to make sure I was concentrating. “other activities that are either illegal or condemned. Are you with me?”

“Yes, I took a course in college that stressed Freud.” I noted.

“Not surprising. I do not subscribe to the Freudian model for many reasons but primarily I think it is just too simplistic and fails to take into account that some behaviors that are universally condemned in one culture, and roundly punished as well, are accepted as benign and innocent in another. I will make this more clear later.” He paused again to let me digest what he was saying.

“So much of Freud’s thinking came from his own cultural, religious and yes, gender bias. He was from Eastern Europe. He grew up in a Catholic society and his parents were Jewish. He had a tedious relationship with his mother. And of course, he was a man. Enough of Freud.”

Good I thought. Dr. Ellis looked at his watch. “I’m taking too much of your time.” Dr. Ellis became silent for a moment. It was almost as if he was deciding what to say.

“Mrs. Roberts I don’t normally spend so much time on therapeutic details but with what you may be dealing, I think it is important. You see, I began my career very much a student of Freud but something happened in my personal life, coupled with discovering the work of a wonderful pioneer in the field of psychiatry, Carl Rogers, led me to completely reverse how I work with clients.”

“Go on.” Now I was absolutely fascinated with this man and the way he talked.

“Mrs. Roberts, my son is homosexual.”

He closely watched my reaction. I showed none but just nodded. I was surprised that he revealed that to me, I had some experience with my friend Elaine, the mother of a homosexual teen. He continued.

“My wife and I didn’t handle it very well when he was growing up. Being a psychiatrist I thought I could fix it and I forced him into therapy with colleagues for several years. Eventually our relationship was fractured and he actually left home and joined the Army. He served in Korea and thankfully returned home safely. Now he’s living in New York with an actor and we have reconciled.”

“After our son left home I started teaching an undergraduate course at Ohio State, and still do. I drive to Columbus two times a week. About ten years ago while teaching there I met Carl Rogers when he came to give a seminar on psychological humanism and how it relates to therapeutic approaches. He’s a brilliant man and I stay in touch with him. Carl’s approach is, shall we say, much more benign than Freud, not focused on guilt.”

I really needed a cigarette. “May I smoke?” I asked.

“Of course. Carl’s theory is based on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. Have you heard of self-actualization?”

I shook my head that I hadn’t.

“Well, to be brief, Rogers works under the premise that all people strive to reach their full potential and to find the meaning of life. Briefly, the individual lives to become authentic and genuine. Of course, none of us attain that completely but in applying that theory to my practice I try to consider behavior, especially that which may be considered aberrant by society, as neutral.”

I tried as hard as I could to grasp what he was saying; I just couldn’t think of being neutral about Jack wearing a dress.

“Remember I told you my son is homosexual. Well, his behavior, sexual behavior, is both illegal and considered immoral, almost universally in the western world, but not in all cultures, I might add. But really when you think about it, what he and the man he lives with does privately is not that different than what I do with my wife privately in our bedroom.”

Or what Don likes me to do regularly in our bedroom, I thought.

“To me behavior is simply individuals striving to reach their potential and unless the behavior is dangerous, I work help them understand themselves, and what they are doing, without guilt. I work to help clients understand behavior and to be safe.”

“I also attempt to stay away from linking behavior to cultural values. I focus on what is in the best interest of my client. Yes, I even refrain from calling the people I see ‘patients’. Of course, some of my clients do have diagnosed medical, and especially mental, conditions that require treatment, medication and even hospitalization, and in that sense they are patients. But the majority of my clients need help sorting out behaviors that are, somewhat arbitrarily, either illegal or judged immoral.”

“Mrs. Roberts you seem to have a lot of guilt. You will need to work on that. As a parent I’m sure you influenced your son but in a very positive way. I doubt you caused him to be doing whatever it is he does.”

I took a deep breath exhaling as much guilt as I could. I was really starting to like this man, and to trust him.

“I know that I took too much of your time explaining this but it is important, I think. We can extend if we need to.”

Then he shifted. “May I call you Miriam?” He asked.

“Miri. People call me Miri.” I told him.

“If it’s all right with you I’ll call you Miriam.” I suppose he was trying to begin a professional relationship rather than a friendship. “I’m going to ask you some questions and just want you to answer as best you can. I’m going to listen and take notes.”

“Before we talk about your son I want to know why you feel you caused him to do what he is doing.”

“Isn’t it always the mother’s fault?” I wish I had not said that. It made me sound both defensive and sarcastic not to mention a little Freudian. It’s not how I wanted to begin.

“Miriam.” He said sternly. “I have a couple of ground rules with my clients. First, it’s best if I ask the questions. The exception would be if you have a legitimate misunderstanding, then you may be inquisitive. Second, I don’t judge, or blame or criticize. In this room, I want you to tell me what you think and what you are feeling. Do you like art Miriam?”

I wasn’t at all sure what art had to do with anything but since he reverted back to being so formal I just answered.

“Yes, very much.”

“I would like you to think of our time the same you would when visiting an art museum. And think of me as the museum guide. When I ask a question think of it as if I had pointed out a painting to you and told you just the basics, when it was painted and how. I want you to tell me what you see in the painting or in this instance what you feel or how you interpret the question. Some questions will be like a realistic painting of a scene. It will be so clear to you and you will be able to describe in detail everything in the painting; mountains, houses, people etcetera. Others will be entirely abstract and you will have to tell me what it means to you. I want you to be the art critic; I’m just the guide.”

“I understand.” I thought he was being slightly dramatic but it made sense.

“Then let’s start again. I can tell you are deeply involved with what is going on so I won’t ask you about why you think you caused your son to do what he is doing.”

“How old is your son?” He asked.

“Eleven.” He wrote that down.

“Is Jack his given name?”

“No that’s a nickname. We call him Jack after my husband’s cousin who was killed in the war, WW Two, not Korea.”

“Um, huh.” He continue to write his notes.

“His full name is James Edgar. Jack, the cousin, died on the day Jack was born. That’s why we call him Jack.” I explained. Dr. Ellis focused on his notes and did not look up.

“And what is he doing that you think is strange?” He asked nonchalantly .

“Wearing dresses. Don’t you think that’s strange?” I mistakenly asked.

Dr. Ellis looked up. “Mrs. Roberts.” He admonished. “No questions. Let me move on. When did he start wearing dresses?”

“Uh, I’m actually not sure when it started. He told me he’s been doing things for as long as he could remember, but dresses, uh, probably a couple of years.”

Scribble. “You have two other children?”

I thought it a little odd that Dr. Ellis didn’t continue asking about Jack’s cross dressing. “Yes, Brenda is sixteen. She’s in boarding school during the week at the Mount. And Tim, he’s thirteen.”

Notes. “And your husband, what does he do?”

“Don has a business in Moundsville. He owns properties and rents them out, a mixture of residential and commercial. He also does accounting for a couple of doctors and lawyers in town. He has an office a couple of blocks from our home.”

More scribbling. “So he is home, doesn’t travel?”

“No. Uh, yes. He doesn’t travel.”

“What does he think about what Jack is doing?” Dr. Ellis didn’t move his head but shifted his eyes to look at my reaction to the question.

“Well, he’s very concerned. Actually doctor, he’s upset. He wants it to stop, and so do I. That’s why I’m here.”

Notes. “He couldn’t come with you?”

I turned away and looked at my hands folded in my lap. “Truthfully. Don doesn’t want to talk about something like this. I think it is just so hard for him, you know, to have a son like Jack. He’s afraid what is going to happen to Jack, well, what Jack is going to be like.”

“You mean your husband is afraid Jack will be homosexual?” He said reading my thoughts.

“He didn’t say that but yes he clearly implied it. I’m worried about that too. Is that…” I started to ask but Dr. Ellis put up his hand.

“Miriam, before you leave today I will try to answer your questions. Now, before I focus more on Jack, have you had any issues with your other children, say acting out and issues at school, anything.”

“No, not really. I mean Brenda is typical I guess, you know, the center of the universe with a mother that just doesn’t understand, and Tim, well he is all boy. I can’t keep up with him. He spends too much time working on Don’s old truck and not enough on homework but no, no problems really.”

“Now for Jack. I just want you to tell me about Jack, the child. I want you to describe him without talking about what he is doing that concerns you.”

“Oh, well, Jack has always been a real delight. From when we first brought him home from the hospital he was just so good, I mean as a baby he would smile and coo and giggle. He has such a great even disposition.” I went on for several minutes.

“I can tell you are very close to him and you love him very much.”

“I love all my children but yes, Jack is special.” More notes.

Finally after all this time he asked the question I was waiting for.

“Ok, tell what your son is doing.”

And I did. I told him about how I discovered what Jack was doing and about our talks. I told him about Jack’s space on the third floor and how he goes up there and does things. I confessed about the time just before Thanksgiving when I saw him and actually hugged him wearing a dress. I even described the dress to him.

“Miriam, I have to ask. Did you treat Jack different, maybe because he was the youngest or because of the cousin who died in the War.” He was just looking at me and I tried to answer without guilt.

“It’s a fair question. I’ve thought about it and I didn’t do anything consciously. I mean I didn’t ever dress him like a girl when he was little, if that is what you wanted to know. But I did say a few times, and this is being completely honest, I said that Jack should have been a girl.”

I looked at Dr. Ellis. “Not a lot. I just remember when he was little, a toddler, and had that long hair and well, he’s not big. Doctor, Jack does have a slight build and I remember I would look at him when he was four or five and just see those delicate features and I know I said it. But after he started school and had the short hair, I never once said that, or even thought it. It was just when he was real young.”

Lots of notes. I badly wanted to ask if he thought I planted a seed that has grown into such a terrible tangled vine, but I didn’t. Then he looked directly at me with the penetrating gaze and asked that question, the one about my participation.

“And do you participate when you son goes to the third floor of your home and wears dresses?”

“No doctor, I don’t.” I said calmly and almost without hesitation. “I love Jack, love my son, the boy. I want him to grow up to be happy and successful. He can’t do that thinking he should have been a girl.” I added. I felt I was convincing and Dr. Ellis turned back to his notes.

“I’m sorry.” He said not looking up. “That wasn’t fair but I had to be sure of what is going on.”

“I understand.” I admitted trying not to sound triumphant.

“So you have seen him wearing a dress, and you talked then, and even hugged him. What did you think? How did that make you feel?”

That too caught me off guard. With everything else, staying close to Jack, dealing with my other two children, telling my husband and walking that tightrope, I had not thought about how I actually felt about what Jack was doing.

“Uh, I don’t know.” I began trying to gather my thoughts . “At first it was just so strange, seeing him like that. I mean I wasn’t upset or repulsed or anything. He just looked so innocent and well, so needy. It was like he needed me, needed me to understand. I didn’t really, understand that is, but I just felt so overwhelmed in that moment. All I can tell you is that I loved him so much and when I hugged him it didn’t matter that he was wearing a dress. I loved him. I’ll always love him.” I needed the Kleenex he handed me.

“I can tell, Miriam.” He took a deep breath. “And you would love him if he continued this behavior.”

Still crying I nodded my head before realizing what that question implied. I broke Dr. Ellis’ rule and asked a question.

“You think this is going to continue? Even after he, uh, starts to develop? Oh my god, even as an adult, an adult man?”

“Ok this is a good time for me to talk for a while. You need to know what I think and we just have a few more minutes.” He put his pen and note pad on the table and looked at me, removing his wire rimmed glasses.

“First I’m concerned but not alarmed. What I mean is that you present a very challenging situation with your son but one that, I think, could have a positive outcome. The issue is analyzing possible outcomes and adapting to the one that is best for Jack and for you, for your family.” I lit another cigarette and thought about a scotch and soda.

“Second, I cannot give a definitive diagnosis. I don’t even know if there is one. I’ll certainly need to see Jack so it wouldn’t be fair for me to guess at what we might be dealing with. Certainly, his verbal statements about wanting to be a girl, or should have been one, are very concerning and sound on the surface delusional. I’m not sure it is. It just doesn’t sound psychotic or pathological in the same way I’ve encountered other delusions. To make that determination would require a lot of examination.”

I sat and tried to take mental notes while he talked.

“With what you have told me there is definitely an obsession. I must admit I am rather ignorant about children having a fixation on the opposite gender. That’s what this seems to be to me, a fixation. Jack has somehow developed a fixation about girls and thinks he should have been born as a girl. I have no direct experience with this and don’t recall of it in children. Adults yes, there is some literature and anecdotal evidence of adult males believing they are or should be women. You’ve heard of Christine Jorgenson?”

I was not happy that the Christine person came up but nodded that I had. He continued.

“I wish I could tell you I understood this, or even knew something about it, but I don’t. I’ll need to do some research, but I want you to know there is probably not a bad outcome, unless there is some pathology. Doesn’t sound like there is but we will need to find that out.”

“I’m thinking out loud now, Miriam. There may have been some early trigger that started this and it has turned into this fixation. There is every hope that we can work with Jack to moderate the fixation and if we can do that he will likely grow into a happy successful man. In any case he will likely always have some inclination toward what he now feels; after all he has had those feelings for some time now and they have been reinforced. They won’t likely ever go away completely.”

Dr. Ellis wasn’t looking at me now. He was talking but he was actually looking out through the one window as if the answers were contained in the flash of sunlight that had broken through the clouds.

“You see, Jack is simply trying to be who he is, or who he thinks he should be. Remember I mentioned self-actualization. Jack is acting at the highest level of his needs, his perception of who he is. It may seem ludicrous to you, it is even to me, but to Jack it is real. He doesn’t see what he is doing as wrong. If he genuinely thinks he should have been born a girl, then he is just acting how he thinks he should. The problem is that biology is going to provide a shock he will not be able to overcome.”

I could tell that Dr. Ellis wanted to give me some hope, wanted to put me at ease.

“Perhaps it's not uncommon or at least unusual. Maybe some boys are just fascinated with what girls are like. They become aware and well one thing leads to another and well then there is some transference almost like an addiction. But I don't want to speculate. You need some concrete answers and I can't give you that yet. It will take time. But I promise you Miriam, I won’t abandon you or Jack.”

Dr. Ellis stood up taking a step toward the window and into the light. He turned and now looked at me.

“Puberty may work to Jack’s advantage though; it may provide him a way to escape from the fixation. Of course, there is always a chance such neurotic feelings will not moderate and may actually become more acute.” He paused for emphasis. “I use the term neurosis in the most benign manner. Half my practice is working with neurotic people and helping them to live productive happy lives in coexistence with their neurotic tendencies.”

I was getting that sinking feeling that I wouldn’t have great news for my husband. Where was the fix, where was the hope? Dr. Ellis waited for me to comment.

“So we should be hopeful but in any case Jack will be different?” I asked but added. “Jack will never be normal.”

Dr. Ellis chuckled. “Normal shouldn’t be the goal. Happy and functioning is what I aim for.” He said smiling. “Listen, you need to prepare for what may be ahead. You will have to walk a very thin line. Jack is still a child basically and his brain, especially his emotional maturity is not at all fully developed. You will have to help him mature through a very difficult period, puberty, without destroying his emotional health. The trick, as I see it, is to ease him through becoming a man while not destroying the feelings he is so attached too.” He paused again.

“So I should continue to indulge him and what?” I really didn’t understand how I could be the mother of a boy going through puberty secretly wearing dresses and thinking he was born wrong.

“I didn’t say indulge. Perhaps we are ahead of things. You will certainly have to be there for him, listen to him, talk him through all the tough things that happen during puberty. It’s hard in the best of circumstances. It’s going to be doubly hard for Jack. I will be here to help but you will have to do the work. I don’t have a good feel for how it might play out, day to day, but we must be positive and be willing to listen to Jack.”

I felt a panic deep inside that I feared would not be calmed by either a cigarette or a stiff scotch and soda. “What do I tell my husband? How do I handle what Jack is doing?”

“I don’t have specific answers for either question.” I stood and we were now facing each other. It was clear our time was up. He then added. “I know you came hoping I could tell you what to do, how to fix your son. Remember I’m just the guide helping you appreciate all this museum has to offer. I will do everything I can to help you make choices but answers no. They will come little by little.” He extended his hand and warmly took mine and then gently put his other hand over mine as if to signify his genuine commitment.

“Two things Miriam. Find a way to bring your husband on board so you are walking this path together. As for Jack, don’t think about indulgence. Let him figure out his path, but monitor his behavior to make sure he stays safe. Don’t try to push him toward either a boy or a girl. Be neutral about it and if he is as close to you as I suspect, opportunities will arise that will allow you to redirect him toward the inevitable.”

Redirect? He thought I would be able to redirect Jack? I picked up my gloves and purse.

“Miriam, I’ll be out of town over the holidays and am booked solid until late January. Let’s make an appointment for then. Whatever you decide to do, you and your husband need to be going in the same direction. Let’s make that your goal for the next few weeks. That and listening to Jack. I will do some digging and perhaps when you come back we will have some better information. I hope you bring Jack and your husband?”

I promised Dr. Ellis that the three of us would be back in January and made an appointment for Thursday January 27 but I didn’t see how I would get either Jack or Don to come talk about what was so naturally unnatural.

As I heard Dr. Ellis’ office door close behind me my head was spinning. I had so much to think about and well, just so much ahead of me. It just seemed like the future would be so hard, for me, for Jack, for everybody. I should have been elated, but I wasn’t. I know Dr. Ellis was trying to put everything in a positive light and I was thankful that he never used those words I feared so much; deviate, perversion, sick. Abnormal even seemed fine with him.

I pushed the button for the elevator. How would I explain all this to Don and how could I ease Jack, my boy who seemed to want to be a girl, into manhood. I didn’t want the job of redirector. I had such conflicted feelings. I was elated and deflated, happy and sad at the same time. I had hope and I had despair. I was on information overload almost more about modern psychiatry than finding a fix for Jack. And I was emotional, so very emotional.

I wasn't expecting a miracle but I felt I had nothing to take back to Don. How would I tell him that it would take time? And what do we do in the meantime? It was going to be impossible to convince Don not to forbid Jack’s girl indulgences. Of course he wouldn't be the one doing the forbidding; he would delegate it to me. My immediate conundrum was how to retain the trust and confidence, not to mention love, of both my wonderful but sometime obtuse husband, and my darling but somewhat obsessive, cross dressing pre-pubescent son.

For some reason as the elevator descended my mood improved. I knew that I did not walk this path alone. Besides God the Creator I now had Dr. Ellis and one other advantage. I was a woman, a mother and a wife. I had ways that would help Don become more enlightened. I just didn’t know how I could redirect Jack.

(Miri plans how to tell Don about her visit to see a psychiatrist about their son. It didn't work out the way she planned.)

“I hope Lorraine is feeling better, Mrs. Whittaker.” Jack said trying to sound sincere.

I’m sure he was, sincere that is, but I couldn’t help noticing how enthused he was also, enthused about Lorraine Whittaker having pneumonia right before Christmas, forcing her to drop out of being The Angel in the annual Christmas Story the kids put on at Simpson United Methodist, and enthused about being chosen for the part in her place. It was late afternoon on the very day I had been to see Dr. Ellis and nothing was going as planned. The plan was that I would call Don as soon as I got back and he would come home and I would tell him how I was going to help Jack give up his cross-dressing, with the doctor’s help of course. Don was trying to stay in the background.

But the plan fell apart. First, a water pipe burst in one of our rentals just above the shoe store on Jefferson Avenue and it was so bad the owner of the store, also one of our rentals, moved some of his stock to the sidewalk and was doing business there amid snow flurries. Don was wet, cold and not in a good mood when he called me late in the afternoon. I knew I wouldn’t see him for hours and our talk was not likely to happen.

On top of that Birdie Bozwell called just after I hung up with Don. Besides leading our Bible Study Group, Birdie was director of the Christmas Story that the children gave each year. Lorraine Whittaker, The Angel, she informed me, would not be able to participate and she needed a replacement. The play was scheduled in four days, on Christmas Eve, no less, with dress rehearsal set for Friday. She reasoned that since the only other girls who could possibly play the part were either too young, seven and eight respectively, or too large (yes Birdie actually said ‘large’) obviously referring to Marjorie Blankenship who unfortunately was called ‘Large Marge’ by some of the boys with less than a cultured upbringing, Jack was the only alternative.

“Boys can be Angels too.” Birdie noted when she mentioned Jack for the part in place of Lorraine. “Gabriel in Daniel 8:16 was a boy.” She explained childishly, as if the gender of angels would not be a significant factor in the success of the 1955 production, nor was it in the birth of our Savior. The Christmas Story as portrayed by the Simpson Methodist children was nothing but tradition, and the part of The Angel was traditionally given to the cutest and sweetest ten or eleven year old girl in the church. Of course the part of Mary was also given to a girl usually an older one, but looks had little to do with casting that part; this year it was awarded appropriately to the mature Marjorie Blankenship, and the part of Joseph, to our own Tim, inappropriately. Tim was far from Josephian but handled it well because, I think, he was, at fourteen, developing an attachment to the virgin Marjorie, not sacrilegiously to the Virgin Mary.

“I hate to do that to Jack,” Birdie continued, “but he is the only one who is expendable and who will fit into the costume.” Mrs. Bozwell was referring to the gown my aunt Lottie had made for cute Lorraine, not only the same age as Jack but the same size. It really wasn’t a dress but a drape, loose fitting with no waist and reaching to the floor; pure white of course. By expendable I hoped she meant that Jack was first cast in a minor role as one of the shepherds, complete with staff and fake beard. He hated the part as well as the beard.

“I’m sure he won’t mind. He’s had lots of practice.” I told her not even considering the implication of what I had said. I meant Jack was a nice boy, cooperative and willing to please and had memorized the lines of all the parts. I certainly didn’t mean he had practice wearing gowns, although that fact occurred to me later while putting a casserole together.

“He is such an angel.” Birdie chuckled at her own pun as she told me she would have Lorraine’s mother drop the costume off later that day. I never really told her Jack would do it as I fully intended to ask him first, but Birdie always assumed an affirmative response to anything the minister’s wife asked. As I hung up the phone I considered if I should tell Jack before, or after, I had a scotch and soda. Jack had come in from school while I was on the phone and disappeared. That usually meant he was on the third floor practicing more than his lines for the Christmas Story.

“Jack, I need you to come down.” No answer.

“Jack, did you hear me?”

“Can you come up, mom? Uh, I’m …”

“I know what you are. I know what you are doing but I have to tell you something and Lorraine’s mom will be here in a few minutes.”

“Ok. I’ll be down in a minute.” He yelled from above. Jack came down the stairs and was buttoning his shirt as he emerged from his sanctum.

“Jack, Lorraine has pneumonia and has to drop out of the play.” I told him. He just looked at me with a blank ‘so what’ stare.

“They need someone to be The Angel.” I continued. I could see the gears turning now through the twinkle in his eyes. “Do you think you could do it?” I asked failing to mention I had already committed him to it.

His was definitely interested but he looked so serious. “I know the lines, mom.” He said earnestly. “I went over them with Lorraine like a hundred times.”

“Then you’ll do it?” I asked again.

“But.” He said. “What will I wear? There isn’t time for Aunt Lottie to make me a costume is there?”

“No honey, Mrs. Whittaker will be here soon. You’ll have to wear the one Aunt Lottie made for her. Maybe she can take the lace off the sleeves.” I offered.

That’s when his face really lit up exactly like an eleven year old boy’s should not have.

“Jack.” I said not believing what I was about to say, “This doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean you can, uh…” And before I finished he agreed.

“I know mom.” He said sweetly. “I’m a boy but at least God tries.” He reasoned. I refrained from having a philosophical discussion about omnipotence, not wanting to plant the seed that if God really wanted something he would hardly just “try”, although I did wonder if He was sending some gentle hint.

Yes something, or something was making things happen. I thought I was in control, thought I could go see a doctor, get answers, explain it to Don and all would be back to normal. But my plans didn’t seem to be important and I knew I had to learn to let things happen.

Now I would have to find a way to explain to a hungry, cold and wet husband why I allowed our troubled son take the part in the Christmas Story traditionally reserved for a girl. I fully expected Don to drag out his favorite metaphor, something about pouring gasoline on a fire.

Before my day fell apart I was so hopeful about my visit to Dr. Ellis and learned so much that I rushed home and wrote everything I could remember in my journal.

Tuesday December 20, 1955

I just returned from seeing a doctor in Wheeling about Jack, a psychiatrist no less. I really don’t have time to do this right now but I simply must record as much as I can remember. (I should be baking cookies to send to school with Jack tomorrow. It’s the last day before school’s out for Christmas.)

Where to start?? Dr. E is unlike anything I expected (and is handsome to boot). I think I expected a staid old fart that would recommend drastic action and I think that is what Don wanted. But instead I learned about guilt (Freud) and what? I’m not sure. Dr. Ellis certainly didn’t say anything about Jack being sick or bad or deviate. He talked about some psychologist he knew from OSU who viewed things like what Jack is doing (not exactly but similar, I guess) as trying to reach their full potential but I’m not sure I understand that, or can explain it to Don. (I must try to find something about Carl Rogers). Anyway Dr. E is going to do some digging and I’m supposed to listen to Jack and not push him. He actually said not to push him toward boy stuff or girl. I guess that means let him keep doing what he is doing. Don’s not going to like that.

He also wants Don and I to be on the same page and all of us to come back in January. I thought we were on the same page mostly except Don expects me to take the lead in finding a solution. (Is there one?) Don and I both worry about Jack doing what he is doing and when the urges start. What then? That won’t be long; maybe they already have??? We just have to get him away from this somehow! There just isn’t any other choice. But Dr. E said something about how he may never be free of whatever he’s now feeling and the goal has to be to get him through these years of development and into manhood without permanent scares.

So Dr. E told me that I should work with Jack and to listen to him, try to understand. That’s what I’ve been doing. Otherwise he might just rebel and act out even more. I just want this to stop.

I think seeing Dr. Ellis for me was a turning point. No, I still had so much doubt and apprehension but Dr. Ellis confirmed one very important thing to me. Jack was not bad or sick or deviate. I knew that before, have always known that, but now someone else reaffirmed it for me. Jack was different no doubt and I didn’t really like what he was doing, or how he talked about wanting to be a girl. All of that was too much to easily accept. But the Jack I knew was so loving and caring with such a wonderful heart. Forcing him to go against what seemed to be his natural inclination, as Dr. Ellis noted, could do much more harm than good.

After Hanna Whittaker left and before Don got home I let Jack try on the costume. Tim was home and he gave Jack some brotherly ribbing about wearing a costume meant for a girl but Jack took it well. Tim just shook his head as if he accepted his brother was nothing like he was. I was fixing dinner when Jack came in the kitchen in the angel gown and I tried not to say what I was thinking. He looked every bit as cute as Lorraine and I felt so guilty thinking that. He asked what he would wear under the gauzy girly thing and I almost harshly said he would wear a white tee shirt, his white jockey briefs and his white summer shorts, period. I already felt circumstances had conspired against me and I knew when to draw the line. He looked disappointed but did not protest. I suggested he change before his father got home.

When Don came through the door he looked really beat, wet and dirty. He washed up while I served him (I fed Jack and Tim earlier and they were watching TV). He sat down across from me and started to eat without asking about my visit with Dr. Ellis. He finally led with one word.

“Well?” It was a deep and complicated question. I had thought about how to begin but now wondered if it was a bad time. He was tired and most likely in no mood for give and take discussion.

“I don’t know where to begin, Don.” I said trying to soften the message that his son likely was just trying to be who he is. How could I explain something I didn’t exactly understand myself? He waited for me to continue.

“I really liked Dr. Ellis and I think he can help. But it’s so complicated Don. Dr. Ellis is different. He takes a very neutral approach.” I saw Don’s skepticism in his raised right eyebrow.

“Neutral?” He continued with the one word questions putting me on the defensive.

“Yes, neutral. He doesn’t judge, Don. He didn’t suggest Jack has some insidious flaw, or is deviate or sick.” I watched his reaction and continued. “That’s really good news, isn’t it?”

“Good news?” He progressed to two words between huge forkfuls of the chicken casserole I made.

“Yes, good news in that someone, a doctor, thinks Jack is really ok, at least based on what I told him.” He stopped eating and just looked at me like I was some oblivious stupid mother. “Don’t you think that’s good news? I mean, you don’t want to think of Jack as deviate do you?”

“Miri, listen to what you are saying. Of course I don’t think of Jack as some awful sick boy. He’s good and even tempered and helpful and smart but he’s doing things that are just not right. He’s not “ok”, Miri. And it won’t matter if we’re neutral about it, nobody else will be, neutral that is. Your pious friends at Simpson certainly won’t be neutral, especially when things change.” He correctly reasoned.

“They must never know, Don. No one must ever know.” I quickly responded.

“Exactly.” He agreed. “Because it has to stop, Miri. Can’t you see that every day we allow this to continue that it reinforces the fantasy? That’s what this is really about. Reality versus fantasy.”

This wasn’t going how I had hoped. Don was a reasonable man and I fully understood why he would take a hard position. It seemed like the correct position a parent should take. But my heart knew a hard position would be devastating to the Jack I knew and loved. I resisted the strong urge to break into tears. That would confirm weakness and I needed strength. I decided to let him have his way.

“Dr. Ellis said above all else we have to agree, you and I. We have to be on the same page.” I told him.

“I agree.” He agreed.

“Well, what page are you on, Don?” I challenged.

“I don’t mean to be harsh but I think we need to put an end to this.” I wanted to say ‘not before the Christmas Story’. I had no idea when I would tell him about Jack being The Angel.

“And?” Now I was using the one word question technique.

“What do you mean?” He retorted.

“How?” I moved.

“Uh, well, we talk to him and explain things and tell him not to go up there anymore.” He made it sound so easy.

“We?” I asked.

“I said we. I’ll talk to him with you.” It was the first time Don really indicated any willingness to be part of the issue I had been dealing with for over three months. It was an opening and I took it.

“Good.” I started. “Because that is exactly the page I’m on. I’ve talked to him and well, you don’t just talk to Jack.” I purposely stressed the ‘to’. “It didn’t go as I had planned. So I agree, you and I will talk with him. Dr. Ellis said we have to be ready to listen, and understand. If you can do that we are on the same page.”

“And you’ll support me?” He asked.

“We’ll support each other.” I counted.

“Of course, but if I can convince him he shouldn’t be doing this then you’ll support restrictions?”

All I said was that I would be on board with whatever conclusion the three of us came to. I didn’t have to ask Don if he really thought he could make Jack see the advantages of being a male. I’m sure he had typical male confidence about that and while even I could see the advantages of being a man, that didn’t mean that I would ever consider being one or could be talked into even trying.

“After Christmas.” I proposed. “We don’t need to do this now and risk ruining Christmas.”

“You’re right. Next week or first of the year. But soon.” He promised but I knew he would probably procrastinate, especially after he thought about talking to his son about dresses.

“Yes, too much going on right now. The Christmas Story at church and presents and God, just so much to do.” I hoped I could work the casting change in. It worked.

“Forgot about that. Can’t wait to see Tim as Joseph. That should be a hoot.” He noted.

“And Jack as The Angel. It should be something.”

“Wait. What?” He was clearly stunned.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Don suddenly looked even more tired than before. “Lorraine Whittaker has pneumonia and Jack is taking her part.” I said as nonchalantly as I could.

“You didn’t?” He accused.

“Didn’t what? Birdie called and asked if Jack could fill in. They didn’t have anyone else who could do it and well there is no time to start over.” I explained hoping to deflect blame.

“You agreed to it? Jesus, Miri. That’s a girl’s part. And Lottie made a gown for Lorraine, didn’t she?”

“Yep, Hanna dropped it off this afternoon and it fits Jack perfectly. Don, it wasn’t my idea. It just happened. But I couldn’t tell Birdie no. That would have been harder to explain. Now Jack will have to pretend he’s not happy about it.”

“Pretend?” Don was back to one word questions.

I didn’t really answer and he didn’t pursue it. He was tired and he knew a fait-accompli when he saw one. Jack was magnificent as The Angel and while most of the parishioners lamented about "that poor boy" having to play a part traditionally meant for a girl, they all thought he was perfect. I did hear him complain to Tim and the other boys in the production about how awful and unfair it was that he had to wear the costume meant for Lorraine Whittaker. Throughout the holiday season, as 1955 drew to a close, I considered what I had said about Jack and pretending. As a mother I wondered just when it was that my sensitive eleven year old was pretending; when he went to school as the boy we thought he was, or when he was on the third floor doing his homework dressed as a girl.

(Miri makes a promise to her son and her husband breaks his.)

In my defense I did not buy my eleven year old son a pair of panties on a whim; I had a valid and justifiable reason to go to the ladies clothing store on Seventh Street across from the courthouse and pick out one pair of pink, lacy panties. On its face that act sounds positively and blatantly outlandish, perverse and possibly criminal. No upstanding Christian mother could ever think about doing that. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor would be a mild charge, more likely it would have been forcing deviate degradation on an innocent child. Even the benevolent God the Creator would have a difficult time forgiving this sin.

Before I am convicted I should explain. After Christmas Don did not rush to initiate a discussion with Jack about his behavior. His idea was to explain the negatives (I don’t think Don saw any positives) of an eleven year old boy wearing dresses in the secluded safety of the third floor of our red brick Victorian home in Moundsville. He was certain that thoughtful reason would prevail and that Jack would see the light. ‘Sure, dad, now that makes sense. I’ll stop wearing dresses and go out for football.’ He probably predicted Jack would conclude after Don’s wisdom sank in.

So I really didn’t understand when instead of arranging for the three of us to talk, he jumped in the Cessna 180 with Dr. Benson and another guy and headed to northeastern Pennsylvania for a couple days of hunting and male primal bonding. Three of the local doctors had a cabin up there which in the winter was a hunting lodge (male enclave) and a summer refuge (family vacation cabin) in warmer months. If he was really so sure of himself and his ability to convince Jack to stop cross-dressing than why wait, and why go hunting for two or three days.

But that’s what he did and it left me with the socialite (seventeen year old Brenda), the mechanic (Mr. Fixit Tim) and the third floor cross-dressing recluse (Jack). Lucky me.

I spent Monday, the day after Christmas and the day Don abandoned his family, doing laundry, picking up all of the mess left by, well, just about everyone, and running the vacuum. Tim worked on the truck, Brenda worked on her closet and Jack, well, I could only imagine what Jack was working on up in the den of inequity.

By Tuesday I needed a break so I decided to check out the after Christmas sales in Wheeling and made all three minors get dressed for shopping. The boys both needed suits and school clothes, Brenda needed nothing and I desperately needed to get even for the hunting trip. I had by this time in my marriage perfected the art of shopping as a method to reduce anger.

I let Brenda loose in the young ladies department of Stone and Thomas but without the charge card and carefully guided Tim and Jack to the boys department being careful to avoid the area where Jack had admired the dress on the mannequin in November when he and I were there.

As we got off the elevator for the boys department we were confronted with a different mannequin, one of a boy about Jack’s age fitted with a very handsome suit, tie, complete with handkerchief peeking out from the left breast pocket. Jack didn’t want to get off the elevator and I practically had to drag him off. Fortunately Tim was there and well, Tim could be very convincing to his younger brother.

I picked out some things for both Jack and Tim, mostly for school but also to play in and gave them to a very helpful salesman. Tim was excited, at least for a fourteen year old, but Jack was just so morose. I was aware that he was at least ambivalent about clothes, boy clothes, and I didn’t get him many clothes for Christmas, just a new winter coat. But I had not taken him shopping since right before school started and it was obvious things had changed. Resistant was an understatement.

What I didn’t expect was that he would throw a fit when I picked out a new suit for him and asked him to try in on. They always had to make some adjustments and the cuffs had to be hemmed to the right length. The salesman was ready with the tape measure around his neck and a piece of chalk in his hand. Jack refused to go into the changing room to the point he was making a scene. People were staring and the salesman just walked away. Timmy tried his suit on and stood there with a smirk as the salesman got down on his knees and marked for the hem. Jack? Well, Jack was out of sight waiting by the elevator with his head down.

I had no choice. Brenda was waiting and I couldn’t force him to try the suit on. I had to buy both suits, leave the one for Tim to be hemmed and take the one for Jack with us. I would get him to try it on at home and ask Aunt Lottie to do the hemming. At the elevator I told him how embarrassed I was by the way he acted. Tim used the opportunity to chide his brother for being stubborn and ‘chicken’.

When we got home Timmy changed clothes and headed for the garage to work on the truck and Brenda took the car to visit a friend. She was allowed to drive during the day but not yet at night. It was just Jack and me in the house and he knew I was mad. I told him to take the suit to my bedroom while I retrieved my pin cushion.

I found Jack at the turret window of my bedroom with his back toward me.

“Jack, get over here and try the suit pants on.” I ordered but he didn’t move.

“Jack, I don’t have time for this. What is with you?” I asked rhetorically. “Why did you act like that in the store?”

He didn’t answer but turned and walked over to the bed where I had laid out the suit.

I again asked Jack if he would try the suit on for me; I complained that since he didn’t try it on in the store I now had to hem the pants. He resisted. I pushed.

“Jack, I thought we had an understanding. I’m on your side. What’s wrong?” I tried again. He didn’t answer. “Just try it on, for me.”

He turned away from me and unbuttoned his shirt. He undid his pants and let them fall. I could see his face in the mirror; his back was to me. He was blushing; blushing and in tears. I didn’t notice at first but as my eyes fell lower still looking at him through the mirror I saw he was wearing a pair of Brenda’s pink panties.

That’s why he didn’t want to try the suit on in the store. I tried not to panic. My son had taken another much more problematic step on the path we could not get him off of. For so many reasons this seemed to change so much. How would I explain this to Don; Jack’s sister would be livid if she knew and his brother would likely be hostile.

Jack could see my face, and of course my reaction in the mirror also. He seemed to be searching for something. He was either hoping for acceptance or fearing anger. I tried to show neither.

“Well, go ahead. Try the pants on.” I urged him without commenting on the panties he was wearing. I badly wanted to say something, admonish him, scold him. I should have by any parenting standard but I just couldn’t.

He seemed a little relieved and turned toward me. It was so strange; my eleven year old son, standing in front of me in pink panties. I had seen him one time completely dressed as the girl he pretended to be, and even hugged him like that but this was different. He was almost naked and there was no doubt he was a boy, even though he was still so neutral like most children before they start to develop. For some reason though he didn’t seem like a boy at that moment, with his skinny frame and longer hair that desperately needed more than a trim.

The panties fit him very loosely but the little bulge clearly revealed his boyness. Jack showed no signs of developing yet, unlike his older brother who was really filling out like a young man. Jack pulled the pants on and I got down on my knees to pin the pant legs. Jack reached for me and touched my hair. It was a tender sweet gesture and my heart melted.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I love you”.

I stood up and gave him a hug. “I love you too. You know I do.” I first reassured him. “But if we are going to get through whatever this is together you’re going to have to stop saying you’re sorry. I don’t think you are.” I told him. “And somehow you’re going to have to stop surprising me. Jack, I need to know what you are doing, or thinking of doing.” I commanded.

“I’m sorry I caused a scene in the store. I’m not sorry I like girls’ things.” He announced with some conviction. That made me think of Sigmund, Freud that is, and guilt, and then about Carl Rogers and that mysterious thing Dr. Ellis called self-actualization. What did Dr. Ellis tell me? Don’t push him one way or the other. Taking him shopping was, if anything, pushing him toward what he really was, a boy who needed a new suit for Sundays.

“I thought I asked you to stay out of Brenda’s things! And I thought things were fine with the arrangement we had.” I reminded him.

“Honest, this is the only thing I’ve taken. I know it’s wrong but I can’t help it.”

“Of course you can help it.” I shot back almost harshly. “You can just stay out of other peoples things. I can’t have Brenda find out, at least not now. And if she misses those and starts asking questions we both would be in for it.” I explained trying the tactic of reason Don loved so much. “So go take them off, put on something of yours and I will wash these and put them back.”

Jack seemed to agree but was showing signs of disappointment. He stepped out of the suit pants after I pinned them and again presented his nearly naked self to me. He looked rather angelic standing there again just in those pink panties and I started to feel weak.

“I am certain that I’m going to regret this but tomorrow I will get you one pair of panties at the store.” The bad mother promised. I knew immediately that I had done two things with those few words. I made one eleven year old very happy. He jumped up and down and twirled around like it was Christmas again. And I set myself up for so much grief from my husband. We certainly weren’t on the same page, nor even in the same chapter.

As I watched Jack prance nearly naked out of my bedroom with his little cute butt clad in silky pink I called to him. “You have to promise me to hide them and you have to find a way to wash them.”

“I will mommy.” He called from the hall on his way to his room.

I sat down on my bed and cried.

* * *

I do my best thinking while crying and after I laid there for such a long time sniffling, sobbing and tasting salty tears, at least five or six minutes, I had a plan, just a partial one but it was brilliant. Unfortunately my crying, and thinking, were rudely interrupted by my oldest daughter bursting unannounced into my room.

Brenda Lee Roberts was born with a major defect. She had no empathy, and still is severely lacking in that area, but even this narcissistic seventeen year old girl detected something was going on with me. It must have been the box of Kleenex beside me on the bed and the several used tissues strewn all around, not to mention the lines of mascara running from my eyes to the corners of my mouth.

“Mom, is something wrong?” She asked with a surprising amount of concern in her voice. I elected not to answer in hopes she would go away.

“Is it daddy?” She guessed. “He’s so selfish sometimes.” She brazenly accused. “He didn’t need to fly off hunting with Dr. Benson.” She concluded.

“It’s not your father.” I finally had to answer missing the opportunity to air that grievance.

“Did Tim do something?” She speculated. I wanted to tell her that she was the reason I was curled up in a ball in the middle of the afternoon instead of fixing dinner, but that never worked with Brenda.

“No, just leave me alone. I’ll be down in a minute.” I tried.

“It’s Jack, isn’t it?” She exclaimed with cocksure certainty. I tried not to react but only a sociopath could have completely ignored this. I sat up and looked into the beautiful blue eyes of this beautiful young (almost) woman, and reacted.

“Why would you say it’s Jack?” I stupidly asked.

“Mom, Jack’s such a, I don’t know, such uh, uh.” Brenda was searching for a word that I was afraid she would use. It would be a mistake for me to make suggestions so I waited. Nothing emerged.

“He’s just weird mom. He doesn’t have friends and he reads all the time.” She finally announced.

“He has friends. He plays basketball with a couple of the boys almost every week. And reading is good. You should try it.” I chided after giving a weak defense of my youngest son.

“Mom.” She said drawing out the word the way children always do. Then she asked the big one.

“And what does he do up on the third floor? Tim says he goes up there all the time. Don’t you worry about him? Is that why you’re crying?”

It was unusual for Brenda to consider anyone but herself and the fact that what Jack was doing had penetrated her thick consciousness was troubling. And Tim, well, not much went by him unnoticed and if Tim brought it up to Brenda it meant he probably knew something. Secrets are so hard to keep but there was no way that I was going to discuss Jack and his proclivity toward being sissy with his sister, the ever so prissy Brenda. I had to defend and deflect.

“Jack asked for some space since he has the smallest bedroom.” I concocted on the fly. “So I let him use that big room on the third floor to do his homework, and read. He’s a real bookworm you know.” I don’t think she was purchasing the goods.

“Well, he’s acting weird. And why are you letting his hair get so long.” I didn’t really have a defense for that one. I hadn’t ‘let’ his hair get long. Jack had just been resistant.

“It’s not that long and I’m going to make him go get it cut this week. I’ve had a lot going on.” On that note I ended the conversation by getting up and pushing her out of my room.

“Now, go make yourself useful. Set the table or something while I change and fix my face.”

“Jack’s already set the table.” She revealed just as she closed the door behind her.

* * *

Before he left Don assured me that he would be back early afternoon on Wednesday. He showed me the weather report, the one that promised clear but cold for the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Knowing Don however, I suspect he planned for the weather to be unpredictable and sure enough John Benson’s wife, Hilda, called Wednesday morning to report that Northeast Pennsylvania was getting heavy snow generated from the cold wind blowing across Lake Erie. John had managed to get to the General Store a mile down from the hunting lodge and make a phone call. The main message; they didn’t know when they could get out. Maybe in a day or two, or by next week, January 1956, or perhaps 1957. She didn’t say that but it was my facetious thought. Hilda did say John was in an unusually good mood for being snowed in with three other men, no shower, no indoor plumbing, wood burning fireplace for heat. I will never understand the attraction that men have for the rugged outdoors, nor for the likely strong stinky smell of men holed up together eating beans and fresh kill, telling jokes (think misogyny), trading war stories and drinking. Actually I can relate to the drinking part.

The plan I came up with while crying just before I was interrupted by Brenda was to meet Don at the little Glendale airport, really just a grass field next to the Ohio River, and reveal that his son wore his daughter’s panties on the shopping trip to Wheeling, while he was somewhere in the wild armed with a 30-30 and a flask. I would pretend to be distraught and confess that in a weak moment I promised to buy him a pair of his own but that I had, not yet, kept my promise. I envisioned that my revelation would incite him to use several four letter words and that he would be in a more receptive mood to take a more prominent role in dealing with Jack, e.g., have that little talk he agreed to. I was confident I could convince him to let me keep my promise to buy a pair of panties for Jack but allowed I might have to resort to flashing a glimpse of my own to the returning hunter.

But when he didn’t show up on Wednesday or Thursday I resigned myself to the fact that I, as the mother, would have to make a decision. On Friday I kept my I promise and walked the three blocks to the store on Seventh Street.

I rarely shopped at Valley Fashions, a locally owned establishment bringing the latest plain and tacky apparel for women and girls to Moundsville. But it was close and I was on a mission. If Don was going to hide from his obligation to our troubled son then I was going to do what I had to do. I saw my mission as keeping the peace and containing the damage. A pair of panties for my son was a small price to keep this from getting out to Brenda or God forbid, Jack’s friends.

Valley Fashions carried a full line of women’s and girl’s clothes and lingerie and they did a brisk business. The women of Moundsville, other than the wives of the doctors and lawyers, all shopped there. I nervously entered and just browsed for a while, picking out some socks for Brenda. I casually made my way to the back of the store where there was a healthy display of lingerie, not lingerie as would first come to mind but more basic, cotton pointy white bras and cotton panties. Fortunately they did have a small rack of more frilly things and I sorted through the rack of lacy silky panties. I panicked about size. Brenda’s panties that Jack wore were way too big. I guessed at a size four, then six, then back to four. I picked out pink, of course and opted for the one with a lace front. Brenda would be jealous. If she ever knew.

I casually made my way to the checkout counter, one pair of socks and one pair of panties. I not only felt conspicuous but also so silly. Who goes to the store for socks and panties? If I didn’t feel so nervous I would have laughed at myself.

“Oh, Mrs. Roberts. Haven’t seen you in so long.” Tilly, the owner, said with dripping sarcasm. “Miriam isn’t it?” I knew Matilda Hodges well. We went to high school together but weren’t friends. Still on the few times I did shop at Valley we always chided each other. In high school she had a crush on Don and since then resented me for landing him in college. I could have told her that the way to find a good husband was to get an education.

“Yes, hi Tilly. You have such a lovely store.” I noted with complimentary sarcasm. “I just picked up a couple of sacks from the feed store. Thought I would make a dress but now that I see what you have I might not need them.” I added with a smirk. She changed the subject.

“How are the girls?” She asked watching for my reaction. “Two girls and a boy, right?” She pushed. Now I wondered if she just really couldn’t remember that it was the other way around, or if in our small provincial town people were talking about Jack.

“Uh, two boys, Tilly. They’re all fine. Brenda will be in college next year.” Tilly didn’t say anything else and I felt best to drop it. I needed to finish my mission and get home.

“Did you see the matching bra?” She then asked catching me by surprise. “The panties are half price if you buy them together.” She looked at me suspiciously. I had to admit my visit to Valley Fashions was unusual and what I was buying even more so. I hesitated much too long but then tried to recover.

“I didn’t notice. I’ll take a look.” I went back to the display and found the matching bras next to the panties. I couldn’t, wouldn’t give Jack a bra too. That would be beyond just keeping my promise; that would add abetting to the charges against me. But I did need to reduce the suspicion the nosey Tilly obviously had. I picked out the matching bra, size 32A, and took it the counter. Tilly clearly noticed the size of the panties and the bra and looked at me, waiting. She knew they could not be for my seventeen year old daughter. I needed an explanation.

“Oh, my friend in Pittsburgh has a daughter turning twelve. I always get her something girly for her birthday. Hard to believe she is growing up so fast.” I invented.

“That they do, especially girls.” She answered as I paid and she put all three items in a small paper bag. I really didn’t think Tilly suspected for an instant that I was buying panties and a bra for my son but as I quickly left the store I worried. It just seemed to me that everyone knew or at least suspected. I hated that feeling but feared it would be with me for a very long time.

On the walk back home my imagination went crazy. As I passed Jake, one of the local Moundsville police officers, he spoke to me and I had thoughts of being forced to open the bag I was carrying, and questioned about the contents.

“You don’t have a daughter these would fit.” The cop would state. My imagination had me sitting in a small stark room with a bright light shining in my face. “You bought the panties and bra for your son, didn’t you, Mrs. Roberts?”

“No.” I protested trying to be indignant.

“Tell the truth or you’ll never see your children again.” The imaginary detective threatened. “Does your husband know?” He added.

“Leave him out of it. Yes, I did it. I bought Jack the panties but you have to believe me; I wasn’t going to give him the bra.” I confessed. “Don doesn’t know. Jack likes to wear dresses and he didn’t have any panties of his own and I didn’t think one pair would hurt him.” I imagined I would say illogically.

As I rounded the corner of Fifth and Tomlinson and started up the steps to our home I laughed at myself and my wild imagination. I questioned my own sanity, and remembered that Dr. Ellis counseled me to work on my guilt. Yes, my imagination, or perhaps my conscience, weighed heavily on me. I guessed that I was having similar feelings, guilt and self-doubt, that Jack had every time he went to the third floor, alone and in secret and innocently put on a dress. I couldn’t explain why Jack did what he did, or felt what he felt. I only knew that he did and that it was for all intents and purposes not malicious, or perverted or deviate.

As I opened my front door and saw Jack waiting for me with an excited look I vowed to do my best never to make him feel bad about himself, and to do whatever I could to protect his innocence from a world that would treat him so harshly for just trying to be who he thought he was.

* * *

Before I gave Jack the panties, carefully concealing the matching bra from him, I gave him a lecture. I had crossed a line, not just about buying him panties, but by vowing to be his protector. I went from worried and frantic mom desperately looking for a fix, to a loving co-conspirator, accepting and understanding. I still thought Dr. Ellis could help ease the upcoming transition from boy to man without doing severe damage, but somewhere in the back of my mind I could see trouble, lots of trouble, and I had to be the one person in my son’s life to accept him no matter what.

In taking on that role, however, I had to become his reality check. I had known for some time, even if I did not admit it, that Jack’s life would be different, complicated. Being his protector also meant keeping him in check and convincing him to face the facts no one could change. Yes, he could think he was not a boy, or lament that he should have been born a girl, but if I was to accept his feelings I had to help him accept what nature was about to do.

I told him that, holding the panties in front of him in the privacy of his bedroom where I guided him when I got home from Valley Fashions. I also told him about Dr. Ellis and that his father and I had talked and were on the same page, but added that Don would probably challenge him. I explained that the three of us would need to talk and eventually go see Dr. Ellis.

Jack didn’t say much. He seemed to understand and when I told him that under no circumstances could he wear the panties I was holding out of the house, he readily agreed. He was so sweet and agreeable, sitting on his bed with his legs tucked under him like a girl, that I was so tempted to give him the matching bra. I didn’t, knowing I had enough to explain to my man when he got home from his adventure.

Curiously Jack didn’t immediately head for the third floor after I left his room. He came down stairs a few minutes later, wearing the panties under his jeans I suspect, and asked me if he could help me clean up the breakfast dishes.

Don returns from his hunting trip and Miri confesses shopping for Jack. After they have words they make a startling discovery.

I never knew what to expect from my sweet, wonderful and loving husband but when he dragged himself through the door Friday night at 10 pm, after a hunting trip turned blizzard, sporting odors I wish to banish from my memory (but cannot), a six day growth of facial hair (which, unlike some other women, never elicited any primordial sexual reaction in me), dirty stained and torn clothes and that silly ridiculous orange hat he wore when hunting (and unfortunately sometimes when he wasn’t), I was shocked. Had I expected what I saw, and smelled, I might have taken the children and moved in with my parents before he got home.

It was so cold that December night as he stood there with the door open looking like something from hell. I am certain he expected me to run to him, fling myself into his grimy arms and plant a sloppy kiss on his hairy self. There was no temptation to do that on my part.

“For God’s sake, close the door.” I said coldly turning back toward the kitchen. I fully intended to make it as cold inside for him emotionally, as it was outside, meteorologically. He deserved it; leaving me for five days with the kids out of school and showing up unannounced looking the way he did. The only silver lining was that he had to leave the Cessna in a hangar surrounded by two feet of snow somewhere in northwestern Pennsylvania. One could only hope for a mysterious hangar fire.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” He chided with a raspy voice following me into the kitchen without taking off his coat, or that tattered orange hat with the floppy ear coverings in the down position making him look more goofy than usual. I strategically resisted responding.

“Can a guy get something to eat?” He pleaded. I almost expected him to add ‘woman’ at the end of that question.

“I’ll heat up some of the chili I made Wednesday for you.” Not so subtly reminding him he was two days late.

“Oh, thanks. Look Miri, I’m sorry about being gone all week.” He offered rather weakly. I turned away from the stove and stared at him waiting for his pathetic apology to continue but knew there would be excuses. “The snow caught everyone by surprise.” I turned back to stirring the chili continuing to be my chilly self, saying nothing.

“Come on, Miri, so I was gone a couple extra days.” He said dismissively. That was the last straw but it gave me what I wanted; the opportunity to set him straight. I turned off the stove, put some ice in a glass, poured the glass half full of scotch and sat down at the table across from him.

“You want some chili. Fix your own.” I told him looking into his sad eyes as he started to squirm. He glanced at the stove but showed no inclination to feed himself.

“You’re angry with the whole hunting trip, aren’t you?” He speculated correctly.

“You’re damn right, I am.” I shot back taking a gulp of the scotch. “Look Don, I don’t begrudge you your testosterone binges with the boys, I’m glad you have that, but you took off and left me with this crises we’re dealing with.” He tried to look sorry. I certainly wasn’t done. “And you come in here looking like you’ve been with Attila the Hun, hungry, expecting to be fed and forgiven, failing to even ask how the children are or if something happened.”

“How are the children; did something happen?” Asking two questions as one retroactively. I smiled at him. How can men be so dense?

“Of course something happened. Something always happens and they happen with me and never with you because you are doing everything you can to avoid this, uh, this.” I was stuck. Suddenly I really didn’t have words for what we were dealing with, at least not words I wanted to use anymore. I had him on the defensive and wanted to keep him there. I wanted to put the father of my children in a position where he had no choice but to be involved. I took a breath and calmed my voice. “The children are fine. Tim and Jack are at the farm until Sunday, dad picked them up late this afternoon. Brenda has a sleepover with Janie, and you’re not sleeping in my bed.”

“Miri!” He protested sounding as if I had unfairly deprived him of a basic manly entitlement.

“Not until you’ve showered and shaved.” I got up and turned the burner back on under the chili and got out a bowl. He looked relieved but I wasn’t done with him.

“I thought you were going to talk with Jack.” I prodded not looking at him.

“I’m going to. I had to think. I talked to John some. God Miri, this isn’t easy for me.” In a fraction a second I considered whether to attack or sympathize. I decided to take a middle approach handing him a hot bowl of chili as a peace offering.

“Don, it’s not easy for me either but I will allow that maybe it is harder for you, what with all that guy macho crap.” I paused to see if he was listening while he inhaled the chili. “That doesn’t mean this is a picnic for me. I don’t mind taking an active role here, I am the mother, but damn it Don, you just have to get involved.”

He looked hurt as he stopped slurping chili and just looked at me. He started to defend himself.

“Wait, don’t say anything. You promised we would sit down with Jack and deal with what he’s been doing. Remember? We were going to do that together. You wanted that opportunity because you’re so sure you can you can make him understand. But no. You decide to go kill something.” I rapidly fired directly at my target.

“Miri, I didn’t even fire a shot.” As if that mitigated being gone for five days and avoiding the subject. I went for the kill.

“That’s not the point. The point is that I’ve had to deal with this by myself. And things do happen, Don. I’m the one who discovered it and then had to hear our son, your son, tell me he thinks he’s a girl or something. Do you think that was easy? I’m the one who found him all perfectly dressed up like a ten year old girl up there.” I pointed toward the ceiling. “I had to decide on the spot what to do.” I purposely let a tear form. “And I chose to try to understand, to listen. I chose not to push him away. I hugged him like that and we cried together.”

I let the tear run down my cheek and continued. “Believe me Don, I wanted to rip that dress off of him and before you second guess me and say I should have, would you really have done that if the roles were reversed.” I challenged.

He looked at me passively without any expression almost like a doe about to be executed. It was typical of him and actually a quality about him I rather liked. Donald Roberts was a good, smart and extremely handsome man, an only child who was still so often childish himself. He was a good provider, an engaged father who loved his children. When things got rough Don Roberts tended to hide; passive hardly ever aggressive. He loved me and could be very sweet and affectionate. He never once threatened me or the children; he didn’t have a mean fiber in his body. He definitely wasn’t reactionary; more of a wait and see type of guy. Had he not been a man he would have been almost perfect. I needed to tell him what I thought, give some positive feedback.

“Don Roberts, I don’t believe for a moment that you would have handled that any different than I did. I know you Don. You may be oblivious at times and you do avoid, but you care and you’re not mean.” I was trying to appeal to his basic humanitarian soul. I took another sip while he processed what I was saying. His silence meant I should continue.

“I’m the one who confessed what Jack was doing to John Benson which led to Dr. Ellis. Remember, I’m the one who went to Wheeling and spent two hours with a psychiatrist hearing all about Freud and Carl Rogers and how Jack just might always have some inclination toward this cross-dressing thing.”

“Your right, Miri.” He finally allowed rather passively. “But I wouldn’t…” I interrupted him before he said something I didn’t want to hear.

“I’m not finished. I’m the one who’s been there for Jack, who bought him panties, who told him I would always love him.”

“Wait Miri, what? What did you say?”

“About what?”

“You said you bought panties. For Jack? When?” I didn’t have to say anything. He could read my guilt.

“Jesus H Christ, Miri. You bought panties, for Jack?”

“Just one pair, Don, and I didn’t give him the matching bra.” I quipped trying to deflect his disbelief and impending anger. “If you would have been here you could have helped; deal with the crises, not buy the panties.”

I smiled. He didn’t.

“What on earth were you thinking? Don’t you see how wrong that is?” He charged now not being passive. “God Miri, your one of those mothers who helps her son become a queer, aren’t you?” He added rather viciously.

I was somewhat surprised that he used that word but strangely it didn’t bother me. Obviously he subscribed to a Freudian view of behavior sprinkled with oedipal complexities. But I wasn’t going to react to his blaming me. Jack was different and while applying the noun queer to Jack was both unfair, and premature, I had promised myself to accept Jack no matter what he was or became. I did need to correct my ignorant husband however.

“That’s not fair, Don, nor correct.” I told him calmly. “First, we don’t know that is what he will be. He’s just too young to even guess. And second, I would rather you not use that word.” I looked at him as sternly as I could. “Third, maybe I have influenced him, I don’t know. I don’t think I did but it really doesn’t matter now. Would we love him any less if he grows up and isn’t that involved with girls?” I postulated trying to soften the thought of him being homosexual.

I thought for a moment that this conversation was going to change my marriage and my life. What he said next just about confirmed it.

“You’re in denial, Miri. Influenced? You think that just maybe you influenced him?” Now he was calm, and so assured of himself.

“Let’s go over this. First, when you discovered this little, uh, anomaly in our son, you do nothing except send him a clear message that it’s ok to do what he’s doing. Remember that, Miri? You talk to him and he gets to continue going up there and putting on dresses.” I almost felt he was angry but he was so calm laying out my indictment.

“Then you go up there with him and reinforce his behavior by being with him like that, hugging, crying and what? Singing, that’s what.” He continued so self-assured. I was crying before he even said the word.

“What message did you send to him there? Miri you’re just too emotional about this, too emotional to do what needs to be done.” He clearly felt that as a woman and a mother I was totally unqualified to deal with what Jack was doing. I resisted my strong inclination to remind him of his complete absence from the issue, figuratively and literally.

“Then you throw yourself at me begging me not to put a lock on the door. I caved there but I thought you were going to go to that doctor and get this under control. I trusted you.” I was no longer crying. I stood up and poured more scotch on top of the ice in my glass. If he wanted to blame me I wasn’t going to take it sitting down, or without fortification. I decided to let him finish, to let him take his best shot.

“Next you let Jack be The Angel in the church thing, wearing that prissy gown with the lace sleeves in front of God and everyone.” He added to the charges. I wanted to tell him that what Jack does on the third floor was also in front of God but decided it wouldn’t advance the dialogue.

“How do you think it made me feel when Fred Grizwald asked me why I let my son be The Angel?” Now I was giving him the blank look, not answering his selfish question.

Then it almost scared me what my husband did next. He stood up and came over to where I was standing and stared at my expressionless face with the dried tear. Who was this smelly hairy hulk hovering over me with an almost wild but clearly menacing look? I had never felt intimidated by the man who shared my bed for so many years but I could not be sure what he was going to do. He took the glass from my hand, drained the scotch in one gulp and continued staring at me just a few inches from my face. I prepared myself for the worst and almost flinched without any move on his part.

“Now you’ve gone just too far. You’ve lost it Miri. You bought an eleven year old boy, our son, a pair of panties. Let me be clear. Miri, that’s just wrong. That’s my son and I gave you unlimited latitude to find a solution. But you didn’t do that. You decided, for whatever reason, to just give in and let him become some, uh, I hate to say it Miri, some perverted sissy.” He turned away showing more emotion than I had ever seen in him.

I really can’t say I fully considered those words in that instant but I knew there was something fundamental about the difference between men and women in what he said. To me he seemed not so much angry but scared, for himself as much as for Jack. Perhaps it was what Jack was doing represented the ultimate weakness for a man. What he didn’t seem to understand was that being female-like, or prissy as he said, was hardly a weakness. I felt sorry for him, sorry that he could not see, or feel, what I did. In just such a short time Jack had given me an understanding about gender that transcended the thick wall between the sexes. But I knew that I couldn’t explain it to Don; I knew that task fell to our child who was to me now neither son nor daughter.

“Are you finished?” I asked to his back. He didn’t answer but started to walk out of the kitchen. I couldn’t resist having the last word.

“This isn’t going to work, Don. You and I at odds like this.” I told him. He paused but did not turn. At least he was listening.

“It wasn’t exactly like that.” I said defending myself but quickly added. “I admit I went too far, Don. You weren’t here.” He turned and faced me in the doorway.

“You have to believe me. I don’t want this any more than you do.” He tried to hide his skepticism. “I need you, Don. I need you to be involved with this, with Jack.” I wanted to go to him, wanted him to hold me but resisted. “You’re right, I’m weak about this. I need your strength.”

He nodded in agreement of course.

“Please Don.” I begged. “We have to do this together.”

“Trust me, Miri. I’m going to be involved.” He promised as he turned and headed upstairs and a shower, having the last word.

* * *

Don did shower but was just too tired to shave. I let him sleep in my bed but there was no intercourse, verbal or otherwise. There wasn’t even contact. When I awoke there was a fresh cup of coffee on my nightstand and Don was in the bathroom shaving. It was almost noon on New Year’s Eve.

I lit my first Chesterfield and propped myself up happy that the savage who I last saw, and had words with, late the night before had transformed himself into something almost human. He came out of the bathroom and sat down on the bed next to me. He was right; I was weak, especially with him sitting there bare chested, clean shaven and still so muscular.

He apologized for being so hostile but told me that because I was a woman, and the mother, I was just not able to see the situation clearly. I was irrevocably biased, he said, implying that my sex was a handicap. I wanted to ask about his “handicap” but didn’t want to challenge him at a time he was getting involved. He said he didn’t blame me and noted he didn’t think I could help the way I was. ‘And perhaps Jack could not help the way he was’ I silently whispered.

He let me explain about letting Jack be The Angel, and listened with some compassion as I told him about Jack wearing Brenda’s panties to Wheeling when I took the kids shopping and how he revealed it to me.

He claimed he understood that I was on the spot when I was faced unexpectedly with our eleven year old boy in his sister’s panties but gently, with a modest amount of condescension, used both anecdotes to bolster his claim that I was unqualified to deal with Jack’s proclivities. I reached out and took his hand and then stroked the hair on his chest. We seemed to be on the same page.

I thanked him for his understanding and proposed that he lead the way, as appropriate for the man of the family. I promised to be good and to consult him should I ever become so weak again. I suggested we have that discussion with Jack and that I would take a back seat; that I would observe and only speak to clarify facts. He readily agreed; he would explain reality to Jack and I would support him. I whispered in his ear that his plan was fine with me.

I made him promise not to discuss sex and not to be demanding or dictating. He needed to work with Jack, listen, try to understand. He could encourage, point out the advantages of being the superior gender as well as the disadvantages of being ‘different’ (as in sissy) in a hostile world as long as he listened to Jack and considered his feelings.

We had a deal and I rewarded him appropriately, deftly using my “handicap”.

* * *

After sex we got dressed, had bacon and eggs and talked about our next move. I forgave him for abandoning me and he forgave me for being weak and buying panties for his son. It was amazing how a good night’s sleep, not to mention a rather vigorous physical encounter, which I needed as much as Don, erased almost all of the discord of the night before.

We decided we would set aside a time and place where we could talk to Jack without interruption and without drawing the attention of our other curious children. Brenda, who fortunately came bounding through our bedroom door just back from her sleepover as I lit a post coital cigarette and not earlier, would be returning to boarding school on Monday. Tim, who was in ninth grade, did not get home from school for more than an hour after Jack did. Tuesday when Jack got home from school would be perfect for the three us to talk together. I made Don swear like the Boy Scout he wasn’t that he would not back out this time.

“I want to see it.” Don said out of the blue.

“What? The dress I’m wearing tonight?” We had been talking post breakfast about going to the annual New Year’s Eve gala at the McClure Hotel in Wheeling and I presumed he meant he wanted to see what I was going to wear. I liked that about Don. He always took an interest in how I looked and what I wore, and sometimes what I didn’t. This time he wasn’t smiling, or flirting.

“No Miri. I want to see the third floor.” He told me resolutely as if it was something he really didn’t want to face but just had too.

My first thought was that the father should not go up there, that it would be better if he did not have any direct association with the behavior that troubled him so much. Of course, I had been up there both with and without Jack as recently as Thanksgiving and there really wasn’t too much to see really. Then in a flash I thought it would be more than appropriate for the man who was so sure of himself while at the same time so afraid of what Jack was doing, or actually who Jack might be, to have some direct association with it, just like I had to.

“Oh.” I answered sounding surprised. “Sure. Why not? Don’t think there is much to see but let’s do it.”

Brenda was in her room getting ready for the party she begged us to let her go to. By getting ready I knew she was sleeping. I was somewhat apprehensive as I followed Don up the steep, narrow and winding staircase to the third floor. Naturally situated at the top of our large Victorian home, the third floor was a smaller space than the lower floors and partitioned into two large rooms. One served as a spare bedroom for company; it was where Caroline stayed at Thanksgiving, and was directly above the master bedroom. The other room was rather small but had a bank of built in cedar storage drawers, an area for hanging clothes and a door that led to a balcony that looked toward the Ohio River. Like our bedroom and the living room below the large room on the third floor had the central feature of the house, a turret about eight feet in diameter with curved glass windows. Within the circular turret part of the room sat the big mahogany bed. The massive matching dresser sat on the opposite side of the room.

Don opened the door to the large room, took one step in and stopped. He was blocking my view.

“God Miri, you didn’t tell me this.” I pushed my way past him and looked at what I can only describe as a girl’s room. What I saw was nothing like what it was just six weeks before when I made the bed and cleaned after Caroline spent two nights with us in that room. Both Don and I stood there with our mouths open for the longest time.

First the full length mirror that sat adjacent to the bed had a pink ribbon neatly attached to each spindle with a bow and two trailing pieces of ribbon. Two dresses hung neatly on the hall tree standing near the bed, neither was the sun dress Jack wore when I first saw him in November, six weeks prior. Both were winter dresses with high necks and long sleeves; one was very dressy with a full skirt in a soft poke-a-dot. Both had been Brenda’s when she was ten or eleven. On the opposite hook of the hall tree neatly hung a skirt, pleated in navy, and a white blouse both of which Brenda wore often to school when she was in the sixth grade. Behind the skirt and blouse was a girl’s slip, white with a full skirt and lacy straps and trim. It was exactly what a girl Jack’s age would wear with the skirt and blouse and was definitely for a pre-teen girl who had not started to develop (there were no darts in the breast area).

On the bed was Jack’s bear, the one he had had since he was about three. I thought it was packed away somewhere and was surprised to see that the ragged old bear was still part of my child's life. Also on the bed was a throw pillow that Lottie had made for Brenda many years before. It was so soft and lined on one side with in a pink silk material and on the other a pattern of flowers.

There was a table with a lamp and a chair Jack had brought in from the other room that he obviously used to do his homework. It was neat with pencils and paper organized on top. Then there was the dressing table. I did not remember that when we moved we had some of the old furniture from my childhood taken to the third floor. One piece was a rather battered and plain dressing table that had to have been made in the last century. It had a matching wobbly bench seat but no mirror. Jack had placed the dressing table against the wall across from the full length mirror. He must have polished it because it looked great. On the table there was a brush, comb and hand mirror matching set. Brenda had received two such sets for Christmas when she turned twelve and I had just put one in a drawer in the other room. On one side of the dressing table were three hair ribbons, two were with clips just like most girls often wore in their hair. The other was a longer ribbon that would be used when a girl pulled her hair back and tied the ribbon up from the back. One of my old nearly empty tubes of lipstick conspicuously near the ribbons.

I tried to find words but just turned and threw my arms around my husband.

“Don, it wasn’t like this. Just a few weeks ago it wasn’t like this.” I repeated. “He’s uh he’s..”

“He’s not my son.” Don said almost matter-of-factly as he broke away and walked over to the bed looking around.

“Oh Don, don’t say that.” I implored to his back. “It’s my fault, Don. I gave him too much leeway. He must have thought I was condoning whatever.” I added hoping to take some of what I was sure would soon be rage from Don.

“I guess.” Don said taking one of the dresses from the hall tree and looking at it. “This was Brenda’s.” He guessed.

“Uh huh.” He hung the dress back up. He went over to the dresser and started to open, then close drawers. He stopped with the fourth drawer and motioned for me to come look. There in the drawer were the panties I had bought him neatly folded with an old training bra of Brenda’s, three pair of girl’s socks and two pair of cotton panties. I have no idea how, or when, or even where he acquired the bra, socks or other panties. Don gently closed the drawer. There was no rage, or overt anger. Don just looked drained without expression or color in his face.

Don walked past me and out of the room. I called to him before he reached the stairs.

“Where are you going, Don? What are we going to do?”

All Don said as I heard him going down the stairs was “I don’t know.”

I didn’t know what we were going to do either. I was so afraid that I would not be able to maintain my marriage, and at the same time keep my promise to Jack, the precious child who thought he should have been born a girl, and who was starting to convince me he was right.

Finally Jack's father faces his son. But the mother has to intervene.

Choices
Chapter 16

I wasn’t certain which one was more anxious about talking with the other, Don or Jack. They both looked so serious, Jack almost scowling and Don, well, Don looked more intense (and worried) than when our first child was born.

We were waiting for Jack when he got home from school the Tuesday after New Year’s 1956. I took my place in the big chair opposite the couch with a coffee table between as Don met Jack when he came through the door. I had asked Tim to pick up bread and milk at the store after school certain that he would spend the change, as well as considerable time, with the pinball machine conveniently located at the back of the little mom and pop store he would stop at.

I thought it only fair to give Jack a heads up about what was coming. I simply told him that his father and I had talked at length, that we agreed what was going on wasn’t good, and that his dad had decided that he would now take an active role. That scared my little boy; he literally cried and was so afraid his father would try to make him stop what he was doing. Jack clearly verbalized to me that any attempt would fail which I wisely failed to relay to Don.

Don rather solemnly led Jack to the couch and they sat next to each other. Actually they were both turned toward the other, Don with his legs apart in the traditional male open position and Jack with his legs folded under him. The body language said a lot about how the conversation was going to go just from the view I had.

I tried to be an unbiased observer even though I did want Don to make Jack understand what perils lay ahead and convince him that he would have to live in a world as a boy and then a man. But I had almost shed all my own need to make Jack be manlier as he matured. My only goal, my bias, was to protect Jack from what I was certain was a hostile world if he did in fact become homosexual, or whatever. I now understood what Elaine Rogers said to me that evening at Bible study; that her only choice was to love her child, and to have faith.

So I sat almost passive and listened. Don and I had finally agreed that he needed to face this, one way of the other, and that he had to be involved. We also swore to always be in agreement which meant I wouldn’t indulge our son without first getting Don’s approval. He did forgive me for preempting him and buying Jack that pair of panties. After all, he wasn’t here and while he felt I made a huge mistake he said he understood the pressure I was under. Don was not himself after our visit to Jack’s world on the third floor. Usually the life of the party at the New Year’s gala he only had one drink and although he did kiss me at midnight, the next thing I knew we were on our way home without saying goodnight to anyone. He tried to regain his confidence though telling me one pair of panties, and what he saw on the third floor, would not deter him from convincing Jack the benefits of being the man he would become.

I insisted that we set ground rules for our talk with our cross dressing eleven year old son. First we were going to stay calm, try not to become emotional. I figured that was a necessary rule for Don but he most likely thought it would apply to me. Second, we would try to be neutral about what Jack was doing and what he likely would say. Don said he had thought about it and was ready for any claims his boy might make about feeling he should have been a girl. While I had gained Jack’s trust, albeit at a price of condoning what he did, we agreed we shouldn’t give Jack any hope of continuing the girl fantasy more than it already had. I did realize that further indulgence was fraught with peril.

“Jack, I want to talk to you and I need you to listen.” Don began.

“I will, daddy.” Jack answered meekly.

“You’re a good boy, Jack.” Being both positive and accurate. Jack looked down at his hands folded in his lap.

“And you and I are buddies, right.” Don noted as factual. Jack nodded in agreement, but only slightly.

“We do things together. You help me cut the grass and work on things.” Jack was silent. “I taught you how to shoot the 22. We’re guys right?” I saw Don laying the impeccably logical groundwork that could only lead to the irrefutable conclusion that boys don’t wear dresses. The only problem was that Jack didn’t seem to be accepting the premise.

“You’re a guy.” Jack corrected his father through clenched teeth.

“Jack.” Don took a breath clearly not happy to be contradicted. “You are a boy too, my boy and you will grow up to be a wonderful man, and marry a wonderful girl like mommy.” I expected Jack to answer but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything or show any expression. He just looked down at his hands.

Don looked at me not so much for help but as a break to gather his thoughts. He decided to approach the discussion more direct.

“Jack, my point is that you are a boy and boys don’t do what you are doing.” Don finally declared as if factual. Obviously at least one boy in the world did wear a dress, on occasion, so Don was already on thin ice.

“So?” Jack asked finally rejoining the conversation.

“So I know you are wearing your sister’s dresses up there. Boys don’t wear dresses Jack.” I knew Don just hated to acknowledge what Jack was doing but he finally said the word, the one that began with a “d”.

“I know.” Jack actually admitted. Don didn’t seem to realize the trap he was setting for himself but he almost grinned at what he thought was the progress he was making with his son, his boy. Don must have felt that Jack finally realized what he was doing was wrong.

“That’s what I don’t understand, Jack. Why would you do that?” He asked and without waiting for a reply asked another but more biased question. “What in God’s name is the attraction?” He demanded slightly raising his voice.

Good question. I could have asked my fashion ignorant husband what the attraction the floppy eared orange hat had for him, or I could have piped up and told him how much fun it was to get all dressed up and feel wonderfully girly, but doing so would not have been well received.

Unfortunately Don continued to press the point even though he had revealed earlier to me that his strategy was not to let Jack know he had been to the third floor, that he had witnessed Jack’s imaginary girl’s room.

“Jack, I went up there.” He confessed. Jack didn’t look surprised as if he expected at some point that his other life would be uncovered. He even gave a slight smile showing some pride.

“Do you think that is normal? I mean for a boy?”

“No.” Jack dutifully answered.

“Then why would you do all that. Jack you can’t be a girl on the third floor.” Don told Jack rather forcefully.

Jack finally looked up at his father and spoke haltingly. “It’s hard to explain, daddy. But God understands.” He paused while his father waited for him to continue.

“Maybe He does but I sure as hell don’t.” Don admitted. I elected not to chastise Don for the mild profanity. Then Jack spoke up suddenly asking the questions.

“Daddy, you were a boy, right?”

“Of course.” Don confirmed.

“Daddy, did you ever wear a dress? I mean, when you were a boy.”

“Of course not.” Don was so happy to answer Jack’s probing question thinking his boy was finally connecting the dots.

“That means you and I are different, right.”

“Now wait a minute.” Don didn’t seem to enjoy having logic used against him especially from an eleven year old. Jack took it further.

“Daddy, you grew up to be a man because you were a boy, a real boy.” He said almost with delight as if he had been thinking about it. Jack could justify doing what he was doing, and accept that he had the body of a boy, by differentiating between real boys and himself. Then he added with conviction. “I’m not a real boy.”

“Jack, you’re a real boy.” Don countered trying to head Jack off. “Listen Jack. I’m sure you think its fun to do whatever you are doing, pretending and playing. But well, it isn’t all that fun, being a girl, I mean.” If Don was on thin ice before it just cracked underneath the weight of that perfect logic he often boasted about. Jack again didn’t try to refute his father.

“It’s hard work, Jack. That’s what it is. And besides the work it is just hard, having babies and everything.” I kicked Don under the coffee table. We had agreed to stay away from sex and reproduction in talking to Jack. Don got the message and changed course.

“Ok Jack, I’m not going to argue with you about this. You’re a kid who for whatever reason thinks he should have been a girl. Jack, you are not a girl and will never be one. That’s what you have to understand.”

This was almost the same argument I had with Jack when he adamantly told me he thought he should have been a girl and I tried to explain reality to him. Grant the premise but smack him down with the reality. Before the ‘talk’ between Jack and his father deteriorated further I debated if I should intervene but decided to just see where the push and pull went. I expected Jack to protest but he said nothing.

“But.” Don added giving some ground. “I believe you.” He surprisingly said. “You really think this. It’s silly but if that is how you feel, ok.” Don was trying to turn the tables. “You feel this way. You like to go up there and pretend or play. Fine.” Don paused letting Jack feel he was winning but then smacked him hard, figuratively.

“But what are you going to do the rest of your life?” He asked as the first of a series of rapid fire questions with Jack not having answers.

“I don’t know.” Jack answered quickly to the first question drawing out each word.

“What do you think would happen if you wore a dress to school, or church?” He asked but Jack just shrugged.

“What would your brother say, Jack?” Don was firing questions but not necessarily thinking. “Does he know, Jack? Does Tim know about this? Has he been on the third floor?” Don’s questions suddenly made both of us wonder if Jack’s siblings were aware of what their brother was doing. Brenda had asked the question and revealed Tim mentioned the third floor. We both waited for Jack to respond.

“Tim doesn’t know anything. He leaves me alone and never comes up there. Sometimes he’s mean and he started calling me names.” Jack complained.

“Like what?” I interjected.

“He called me a sissy ‘cause I wouldn’t crawl under the truck and hold the light for him. He told me I was useless, just like a girl.” I wanted to laugh; boys learning to become men with misogynous attitudes to match. It made me wonder why Jack wasn't learning the same lesson. I gave Don the look not to pursue further discussion about Tim.

“Well Jack, you can’t live your life on the third floor, not without consequences.” Don pushed.

“I know.” Jack barked upset that his father was pushing so hard.

“That’s right. You can’t. You are going to have to face the fact that you have to live your life as what you are.” Don lectured just as I had done but more bluntly. “Things will change and you’ll be better for it.” He predicted. Jack sat fidgeting with the cigarette lighter that we kept on the coffee table intentionally not looking at his father.

“Are you listening?” Don asked sternly. Jack nodded his head. “Maybe you can pretend now, dress up and look like a girl, like Joanie, with your hair so damn long, but believe me Jack, things are going to change and well, I don’t want to be mean but you’re not going to be able to look like Joanie in a couple of years or so.”

Mean? I thought Don was being almost cruel. No doubt Don was correct as Jack got older, and started developing as all boys do, he would no longer be able to look like a girl but did he have to be so blunt with Jack, innocent Jack. I still sat quietly.

“You will see Jack. I know it’s hard but there are wonderful things ahead for you. You just have to try. You’ve gotten used to doing this and it’s become a habit and now you have to just stop.” The father declared. “And as you get used to not going up there, it won’t be so important and in a few months you’ll think why did I ever do that?” Don was smiling now reaching over and ruffling Jack’s hair.

Jack pushed Don’s hand away. “It’s not a habit.” He said letting the cigarette lighter tumble to the floor. “I don’t have to stop.” He declared looking at me. “Mom said I can, didn’t you?” I was on the spot but he didn’t wait for my answer.

“And if you try to stop me daddy, I’ll go live somewhere else.” I expected Jack to defend what he was doing but his threat to run away caught me off guard. I wanted to cry but knew I was the one who needed to stay calm. I looked at my husband and could tell he was angry.

“Jack.” I said in disbelief. Jack was suddenly standing between Don and me and looking at us alternately back and forth.

“Fine.” Don said at the same time. “You don’t like it here. Go. Do you think there’s anyone who would put up with a boy wearing a dress? You think you could survive trying to be a real girl. Ha.” Don gave a mock laugh then continued. “You’re lucky your mom and I have been this lenient Jack. Most parents would know how to handle this.” Don added as he glared at me.

“Don don’t.” I implored.

“Don’t what?” He shot back at me. “He wouldn’t be this way if I had my way. A good spanking would go a long way. But we’re into this now and Miri, if Jack can find someplace to live where he can prance around in dresses, then let him go.”

I hoped Don was bluffing about both the spanking and letting his son go but wasn’t sure. He now tried to finish, bluff or not.

“Where the hell do you think you would go Jack? Certainly not your grandparents. They’d kick you out. Oh, how about the Benson’s. Nope don’t think so. Nobody would want someone like you.” Don predicted cruelly. “Well, Jack, I’m waiting.”

“I’d go live with Aunt Ceil and Aunt Caroline in Baltimore.” He announced as if he had thought about it long before our discussion.

Now it was Don’s turn to be stunned. “Aunt Ceil’s? Uh, they couldn’t take care of an eleven year old boy.”

“No.” Jack agreed. “But they would let me be an eleven year old girl!”

That did it. Don was defeated. He knew that Ceil and Caroline would readily agree to take Jack (Don saw how attached Jack was to Caroline at Thanksgiving and vice versa) and he knew they might be much more open to his son’s cross dressing than he was. Defeat boiled into anger and anger into demands.

“You are not going anywhere young man. And you will stop wearing girls’ dresses and stuff immediately. And you’re to stay off the third floor. And if you don’t there will be severe consequences. Do you understand?”

Without waiting for a reply he turned to leave through the living room toward the stairs. That was it. Typical Don, make unilateral demands and then run. All that we had agreed to was out the window. All that I had hoped for, some understanding, some unity, was gone. Jack was hurt and now crying. He stomped his foot and started to go through the door into the dining room. I just knew if I let him go there would be a slammed door in my future. He reminded me of his sister.

Don too was angry but that didn’t justify him setting unilateral rules. It went against everything Dr. Ellis had recommended and I knew it would forever hurt Jack and tear the family apart.

I was at the proverbial fork in the road. I guess the easy path would be to let them both go and just see how it played out; let Don take the responsibility for how things ended. I couldn’t do that. Something, perhaps that force I could never quite define, told me I had to take charge. I had a son exhibiting very unusual, and yes troubling, behavior. He was so stubbornly sure of himself, so determined that he was not really a boy. I worried that what he was doing on the third floor would soon spill out to other parts of his life, at home and at school. I considered that it already had and that I just didn’t know. After all, he was bold enough to wear panties on our shopping trip. I just could not, and would not, abandon him. I couldn’t let him think I agreed with Don that the best course was repression. To help him I had to keep his trust and as I watched him disappear through the dining room I felt that trust slip away.

As for my reactionary husband, I knew from years of experience he would calm down and relent, at least some. For a man, I’m sure, he could not give in, could not give any ground that might threaten his precious manhood. Of course he would desperately need to save his boy from the perils of the feminine at all costs. I knew, without a doubt however, that I could convince him that his manhood was not in jeopardy.

“Get back here!” I yelled. “Both of you.” I must have been out of character because both my husband and my son reacted immediately with surprised expressions.

“Don, you sit in the chair; Jack the couch.” Now I stood between the two and wisely decided to set the child straight first.

“First. Jack you are our child and you are not going anywhere else to live. We love you, both of us.” I looked at Don who had a serious but agreeable expression. I think he was happy a cooler head was taking charge.

“But if you think you can just demand to do whatever you want just because you have these feelings or whatever, than you need to think again. You’re not the only one that’s troubled Jack. Daddy and I are going nuts over this.” I hardly ever called the father of my children daddy but it seemed appropriate; it helped to personalize Don to the situation.

“And Jack this can’t continue without somebody else figuring it out; Brenda, Tim, your grandparents, even friends.” I was almost certain Jack had considered the inevitable moment when someone besides Don and I knew, but that thought terrified me. I knew what he didn’t. In his mind, his fantasy, others would accept and understand. He almost said that when I put The Angel costume over his head and buttoned up the back for the Christmas play at church. I knew there would be no acceptance of a boy who wanted to be a girl.

“We don’t know how to deal with this Jack.” I continued now trying to be positive. So you have to give us a chance. That means you have trust us.” I tried to sound calm and convincing but was a total basket case inside. “We’re in this together, whatever the hell it is.” Now I was using profanity. “Do you think we aren’t trying? Or that we don’t care? Jack, I’m the one who bought you the panties. Do you think I wanted to do that? Believe me this is no picnic for us.” Don gave me an approving look.

“Jack, we just don’t know how we can help you. We believe you that you feel this way. Don’t we Don?” I looked at my husband who nodded somewhat reluctantly even though he said as much earlier.

“And we want you to be happy. You believe that don’t you?” I asked.

“Yes.” He answered.

“You see Jack, what your father was trying to make you understand is that as you get older it will be harder and harder for you to feel this way and be happy.” Jack didn’t respond.

“Jack, the bottom line is this. Your dad and I need help, we need help so you can be happy and safe. I told you that before. Jack, as much as you think you should be a girl, it’s not just going to happen. Something has to give and we need help finding what that something is.” I probably worded that wrong because Jack immediately thought it could happen if only we could find that elusive and magical something. His face lit up a little and I knew I was the one now on the thin ice.

“Sure.” He said hopefully. “How do we find it?” He asked naively.

I had to bring him back to reality. I could accept that my son might forever be a little on the feminine side and might even continue to cross dress. Living as a girl, or woman, however was unacceptable and impossible, that Christine person (banished from my thinking) notwithstanding.

“I don’t want you to think that you can ever do what you are doing outside of the third floor. I’ve given, we’ve given, you a lot of space and you have to be satisfied with that. Maybe a doctor will say different but until then, well. Jack, what I’m trying to say is that help means finding someone who will make it easier for you to grow up. It doesn’t mean helping you be, uh, well helping you be a girl.” Jack’s look returned to that dire solemn face that was not cute.

“So we have to find that something.” Then I rolled the dice. Don was listening looking supportive so I made my own unilateral decision. “What you do on the third floor will stay on the third floor. You must keep it to a minimum and you must be careful.” Don rolled his eyes but did not object. “And together we will get through this.”

“Now Don.” I said wishing I had a glass of fortification. “We agreed we would deal with this together. Telling Jack he has to stop doing this won’t work. You know that.” I said as forcefully as I could mostly for Jack’s benefit.

“But Miri, I wouldn’t care if I didn’t love him so much. Sure let him wear dresses but you know where that’s going to lead.” I actually was glad Don now spoke up. Now Jack could see how his parents struggled with what he was doing and how much we cared.

“Don, it’s not about letting him or not letting him. It’s about getting him, getting us some help. This has been going on for a long time. It’s not just going to stop, not without more arguments and scenes like we just had.” I knew I had the upper hand.

“So you and I will go see Dr. Ellis. Jack, you will need to go and talk to him too. I mean it. I know you don’t want to but it’s the only way.” I took a breath but neither the father nor the son said anything.

“And if he can’t help us then we’ll find someone who will.” Still neither said anything.

“Jack, will you go?” I asked directly.

“I guess.” He tried to evade.

“No guessing. You either go and tell the doctor the what and the why, or your father and I will lock the third floor.” Now I was dictating but at least it was conditional not absolute.

“Don, you’ll go? And participate?” I asked. “And you understand Jack will continue to have some freedom up there?” I added.

“I guess.” He first said, then remembering my admonition of no guessing to Jack added. “Yes, of course.”

I knew he still was reluctant and suspected he was happy to let me bear the decision making burden. At least I was able to divert disaster and somehow get agreement and a truce. The appointment with Dr. Ellis, still two weeks away, could not come fast enough but I did not see how one visit to a psychiatrist was going to change anything much. What God had given to us was unlike any burden I could imagine. I feared my love and my faith would not be enough to get through what was coming. I had I knew that Jack, the boy who thought he should be a girl, would still begin the slow and irrevocable process of becoming a man, physically. His expeditions into the other, unlikely to stop, would become not sweet, innocent and joyful as they had been, but freakish and perhaps even perverted as time and change marched on. I still had so much doubt and so much fear. In Moundsville, West Virginia storm clouds, vicious clouds without silver linings, perpetually loomed over innocent boys like Jack.

(Miriam learns that others are noticing her sons, both of them.)

I was starkly reminded that I had more than one son with issues when, on the Thursday following our discussion with Jack, I answered the phone to hear the voice of the principal of Tim’s school. Tim was in his first year of high school, a freshman. I was bluntly told that Tim was on the verge of being expelled for fighting, that while Tim had a black eye, and was bleeding from his lip, the other boy had to be taken to Glendale Hospital with a broken nose.

Great I thought. I was the fortunate mother of extremes; a rowdy and pugnacious fourteen year old and a sissy eleven year old. Why me?

I did not know the principal, he was new to our town, but I promised him this was not like our son and that I would come and pick him up. I told him as forcefully as I could it would not happen again, a prophecy I knew unlikely to come true. I changed my dress, threw on some makeup and headed for Moundsville High School just three blocks away. I drove because I didn’t want to be seen walking home in the middle of the day with a bloody son.

When I walked in the school office Tim was sitting on a bench looking rather beat up but triumphant. His shirt was torn and bloody, knuckles raw and scraped, lip like a sausage and a left eye almost swollen shut. No one would have concluded that he won the fight but he just looked pleased and victorious. I couldn’t help but feel the huge contrast between my two sons, Tim and Jack.

“Tim! Why?” I said as the principal came out of his office. They had cleaned him up some but I still resisted a hug not wanting to add a dash of red to my beige dress.

“I’ll explain later.” Tim said calmly so that the principal could not hear.

“Mrs. Roberts. Your son’s behavior is unacceptable.” He barked turning toward Tim. “Young man, I’m giving you a warning. The next time you will be expelled.”

Knowing Tim that meant he would have one more chance to take another shot at whoever it was that invoked his ire.

“Timothy.” The principal continued. “It doesn’t matter that the other boy is a junior, or that the teacher who finally pulled you off of him told me he was taunting you.” The principal looked at me as if he knew the other boy had it coming. “Fighting will not be tolerated under any circumstance. Your mother is going to take you home and I expect you to be an angel from now on.” He naively commented, oblivious to our family dynamics that had Jack as The Angel and Tim not likely to ever be one.

On the way home I made Tim slouch down so he would not be seen and herded him in the back door as fast as I could hoping my nosey neighbor was focusing her attention elsewhere. Before I grilled my fighting son, I put him in the bath, laid out fresh clothes and retrieved an ice pack. He came into the kitchen looking better but beat up nonetheless.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I asked expecting to have to drag it out of him.

“Sure.” He responded immediately. “He had it coming, mom. He’s been saying things all year.”

I was afraid to ask. “Like what?”

“All the boys are just mean to Reuben, you know Reuben Rogers.”

“Of course, I’m in Bible study with his mother.”

“Yeah, well anyway mom, I know he’s a queer but so what.” He said almost casually. That was just like Tim. If something or someone was different or non-conforming he was so accepting. Tim was bold and well, opinionated. But he at least was polite, most of the time, and Reuben was friendly toward Tim. They had known each other from so many years of acting in the annual Christmas play at Simpson.

“Tim!” I admonished. “That’s not a nice word.” I reminded him.

“But it’s true, mom. Anyway this boy, Jerry, has been telling me I’m a queer too because I talk to Reuben sometimes.”

“Please don’t use that word.” I told him. “I don’t like it.”

“But that’s the word he said.” He protested. I could hardly object if Tim was quoting the offending party.

“This Jerry, what’s his last name?” I asked suspecting I knew.

“I donno.” Typical Tim. “He’s a junior and plays football.”

“Would it be Adams?” I asked as I dabbed mercurochrome on the knuckles of his right hand.

“That’s it, I think. You know him?”

“No. I know who his parents are and I think I’m not going to be able to avoid getting to know them better.” I quipped. “So this Jerry Adams called you that word and you let it get to you?” I guessed.

“He’s been saying stuff all year, mom. I didn’t care. I still talked to Reuben. Then he started calling Reuben ‘big queer’ and me ‘little queer’.” I really was getting tired of the queer talk.

Two things about awful words and my oldest son. First, I wasn’t surprised that I had not heard about this before from Tim. Tim wasn’t a talkative boy. What surprised me was that it went on so long before he exploded. Second, under other circumstances I might have wondered about Tim, and the reference to homosexuality being used against him, but Tim was all boy, and from his infatuation with Marjorie Blankenship since they were close during the Christmas play, sometimes a little too close, I was not worried.

“And when he called you that you hit him?”

“Nah. I knew it pissed him off when I ignored him.”

“Tim!” I admonished.

“Sorry mom.”

“Then what happened?” I pushed.

“Today after second period he was standing there with all his football buddies, and when Reuben and I walked by he said ‘big queer, little queer – making little brother sissy queer’. So I decked him.”

I’m sure Tim noticed that I nearly spilled my cup of coffee.

“What? What did he say?” I asked him to repeat the awful rhyme.

“‘Big queer, little queer – making little brother sissy queer’.” He repeated. I was aghast that this big football toting bully would be so mean as to use my little Jack to taunt Tim. “He was just so smug, mom. He deserved it.”

No doubt. As a mother I had not faced direct threats to my children, not serious ones. Yes, I often had to sooth their tender feelings, and assure them they were the best and most beautiful. Of course, I had to go to bat for them, to their teachers and sometimes to other parents. This seemed so different; my older son being called hateful names and attacking when his little brother was included. My presumption that my little Jack was just a normal eleven year old boy, and viewed that way outside our home, was shattered.

“So you hit him because he called Jack a ‘sissy queer’?” I forced myself to quote the Adams boy.

“He just had it coming mom. That was the last straw, just the way he said it, mocking, you know.”

I wondered if Jerry Adams might have hit a nerve with Tim. Tim, always so confident, always so boy, didn’t have to worry about how he was viewed but maybe he knew, or suspected, that the older boy might be right about his younger brother. I had to ask.

“And is he?” I asked before thinking a better way to say it.

“What?” Just like Tim, playing dumb. He was going to make me say it.

“Tim, do you think your brother is, uh well, either?” I asked trying to avoid using the words again.

“Mom, you know how Jack is. It’s not like he’s ever going to be on the football team.” Yes, I certainly knew how Jack was. I just didn’t think anyone else knew. Now I had to find out how much Tim knew.

“Go on.” I prodded.

“Mom, he’ll be ok. He just has to grow some. He’s scrawny.” He noted accurately. “He just doesn’t like to get dirty, or fight, or help me with the truck.”

Until then I suppose the only difference I really noticed between my two sons was the two and a half years between them. Tim wasn’t a big kid, certainly not football material, not that he would ever consider joining a team. Tim wasn’t a joiner. Oh, he had a circle of friends, mostly misfits and hangers, boys that liked to help him work on the truck, or talk about things much more exotic than football. Tim was average build, tall enough for a fourteen year old at five feet five inches. He didn’t play sports, or workout, or run but somehow he was so muscular.

Jack, on the other hand I now had to consider, was of slight build. There were girls in his class taller, much taller, than he was, and many with a larger, bigger boned, and more muscular frame. I hadn’t worried about it until Tim used the word ‘scrawny’. I just thought he would catch up as soon as he started to develop. But thinking about it, Jack was oh so skinny, chest, waist, and hips the same. While he played a lot of basketball there were no signs of muscles, yet.

There was one other very significant difference between my two sons. Tim was confident, brash, aggressive, sometimes intimidating and fearless, qualities that would serve him well as an adult man. Jack was the opposite, sweet, gentle, calm, understanding, thoughtful and caring, qualities that would make the road into manhood all the more difficult.

“I heard.” I revealed referring to what Jack had told his father and me.

“Heard what?”

“I heard that you called him a sissy and said he was useless, like a girl.” Tim’s expression went from confident and open to one of guilt. I waited for him to explain.

“He made me mad, mom. I was trying to bolt the oil pan back on under the truck and it was dark and I just needed him to get down there and hold the light. He wouldn’t do one thing for me.”

“In the dirt and oil, I presume.” I reminded him.

“So what. It wouldn’t kill him.”

“No but the word you used might hurt. You’ve got a black eye and a fat lip because Jerry Adams used the same word.” I reminded him.

“I never called Jack a queer.” He clarified forcing me to again cringe at that word in association with Jack. “I didn’t mean it, mom, when I said he was a sissy. Not the way Jerry did.” He said sheepishly. “I’m sorry.” He added.

“Well, Tim. You did use the word. Just how did you mean it?” I pried. Tim glanced at me and I sensed he didn’t want to tell me something.

“Timothy Roberts. Do you think your brother is a sissy?” I asked as direct as I could.

“It’s not like that mom. Jack’s not like Reuben. He’s uh, well he’s just not like the other boys.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well..” He began slowly. “Just watch him play basketball mom. He can hit any shot from the outside, and he can dribble like a pro, but…” He hesitated. “He gets crushed every time he goes for the basket. He just can’t play the inside, mom.” Much later I wondered if Tim’s description of his brother’s basketball abilities was an apt metaphor, unintended and accidental of course. My Jack couldn’t play the boy’s game inside.

“His friends call him The Pencil.” He continued. “They’re not mean but they do tease him a lot, especially now that his hair is long.” He reminded me. “Maybe that’s why he spends all his time reading or whatever on the third floor.” He noted. “And he’s kinda like Brenda sometimes, in the bathroom all the time brushing that hair.” Now I was almost sure Tim was tuned into Jack’s forays up above but I had to find out if the brother knew exactly what Jack was doing.

“He studies up there. Remember you have the large bedroom with a desk. He doesn’t. And, really Tim, his hair isn’t that long. I am trying to get him to the barber.” I explained sounding so defensive.

“It’s over his ears, mom. Sam calls him ‘Jackie’, you know when they’re playing one on one. He says, ‘go ahead Jackie, take the shot’.” I resolved to at least trim Jack’s hair myself. “Mom, Jack told me the third floor was his room and that I should not go up there.”

“And have you?”

“No.”

“Do you think he’s hiding something?” Asking that, I knew I had gone too far. If Tim didn’t know anything my probing would soon make him curious. I wasn’t ready to reveal anything to Tim, or anyone. I didn’t want any surprises. If he did know what Jack was doing, Tim wasn’t going to be the one to reveal it, especially to me.

“Don’t know mom. Maybe you should check it out.” He challenged, wincing as I shifted the ice pack from his eye to his swollen right hand bright red from the mercurochrome.

I left it there and changed the subject. I had pushed far enough and I wanted to end on a positive note. Tim was showing signs of feeling the pain from the fight and wanted to lie down. I figured I would be getting a phone call from Mrs. Adams, and I wanted to put some things away on the third floor, just in case Tim decided to check it out.

I did ask him about Marge Blankenship and he revealed a first kiss, in the balcony of the Strand Theater where they met on a date. He confessed it was strategic on his part to meet in the balcony for the date so he could avoid paying her way to the movie. He mentioned that he needed some tool for the truck that his father would not finance, something to do with timing, and he was reluctant to spend money foolishly on a girl. My oldest son was acquiring all the necessary traits and skills to be a typical husband, so I suggested that he might want to lend such a tool to his father who could use all the help with timing he could get.

Overall though I was proud of Tim. My boy, my real one, was growing up, kissing girls and fighting. I wasn’t exactly happy about the fighting but it was the kind of behavior more in line with what a mom would expect, from a son. My hunch was that he knew his brother was cross dressing. After all Jack was open to me about how long he had been doing it to some degree or another, and brothers don’t grow up two and a half years apart not knowing each other’s secrets. What made me feel good was that Tim, if he knew, was loyal to his brother in spite of Jack’s unusual behavior, and even stepped up with his fists to protect Jack’s honor. To me it almost affirmed Jack’s gender protestations.

* * *
I expected the phone to ring all the rest of the day, not the doorbell. I knew even before I opened the heavy oak door there would be an angry, indignant Bertha Adams standing on my porch. I was right of course, but tried not to chuckle at the sight of the varsity football letter jacket she was holding, tattered, torn and dirty with accents of dried blood.

“Miriam.” She started waiting to be asked inside. As far as I was concerned before I let this angry woman into my home hell would need to freeze over, which from the feel of the near zero temperature, was a distinct possibility. I had no intention of allowing her in, where the victor was asleep on the couch, to figuratively rub my nose in what I was sure was her outrage of my son’s behavior. I was prepared to be contrite but I could be contrite on the frozen tundra of our front porch.

“Bertha, I was expecting you to call.” I greeted the dour woman whose face was barely visible amidst the gaudy knit hat pulled down over her ears and the plain gray scarf wrapped tightly, not tightly enough, around her neck. I stepped out onto the stone porch pulling the door closed behind me.

“And well you should after what Tim did.” She tried to bark but was muffled by the scarf.

“It takes two Bertha.” I remarked accurately.

“But only one had to go to the hospital. Who’s going to pay for the doctor bills? And hospital?” She asked as she pulled the scarf down so to better attack me. Obviously the Adams subscribed to the tenet that those who can most afford to pay, should. I knew her husband had been laid off from the midnight shift at Fostoria and was scraping by doing odd jobs for the Benson’s and Hugh Hawkins, but I was aghast that she so boldly shifted responsibility. I was speechless so she continued.

“And the jacket. Just look at it. It’s completely ruined. Jerry’s co-captain next year and we just can’t afford a new jacket. Why this cost $22.50. Where do you think we’re going to get the money for a new one?” She asked pretentiously.

I did feel a touch of sympathy for her. Times were tough in Moundsville, always tough for the workers: miners, shift workers, plant workers, steel and chemical, glass and enamelware. So many in the Valley never got ahead and I knew the Adams were in that boat. I was tempted to make a contribution but knew that would just compound the situation and validate the awful things this woman’s son said about my sons, as well as invalidate Tim’s heroic response.

“I have no idea.” I answered as kindly as I could. I wanted to be snide and make a suggestion like ‘Have you tried the bank’ but knew that would not be helpful.

“Miriam.” She then offered even more boldly. “I think it only fair that you pay half, at least for the jacket.” It was telling that she seemed to be more concerned with the jacket than the medical bills, or her son’s injuries which she had not yet mentioned. I decided to change the subject.

“How is Jerry?” I asked now shivering from the cold. Bertha had me at a disadvantage. I was wearing only my house dress with a sweater and she was fully concealed with coat, boots, hat, gloves and scarf.

“Not good, Miriam. He has a broken nose, a chipped tooth and cracked ribs. He’s home but he is in pain, lots of pain.” Before I could express my sincere sympathy she continued, trying desperately to add to the guilt she presumed I had. “If this had happened during football season you would be dealing with coach Trueblood too.”

I suddenly no longer felt the bone chilling cold. This mother was obviously more interested in her son’s letter jacket, and his status on the football team, than his actual health. No wonder this high school junior was such a callous bully.

“Is he able to talk?” I asked sounding sincere.

“Why yes.” She answered.

“Then did your son tell you what he said?”

“What do you mean?” Bertha looked confused.

“Did he tell you the words he used, the names he called the Rogers boy and my sons.” I asked presuming the son did not provide the mother with the details of the incident.

“I don’t see what that has to do with it.” She noted trying to head me off.

“So Jerry didn’t tell you that he called Reuben Rogers and my boys, uh, well, queers.” Now I actually enjoyed using the word.

I had her, at least I thought I had. What mother would not be shocked and ashamed that her son was bullying other boys, boys that might be different? What mother would condone it or put up with it? I expected an apology.

“Miriam I shouldn’t tell you this.” She answered fully intending to tell me. “People are talking, Miriam.” I don’t know why my mouth fell open. I should have known. She continued.

“People wonder why you sent Brenda to private school. I guess Moundsville High School isn’t good enough for her. And you let Tim associate with Reuben. You know what he is don’t you. And now there is talk about Jack, that all this is rubbing off on him and well, Miriam, you need to be more strict with both your boys.” I was too stunned to react, or to correct her grammar, so she just kept saying things. If I wasn’t going to pay for the stupid jacket then she was going to make me pay otherwise.

“Why do you let that poor innocent boy look like that? Why haven’t you cut his hair? Miriam he looks more like a sissy every day. You have to do something. Miriam it’s not too late.”

Now I understood why Tim decked Jerry Adams. As Tim said ‘he had it coming’ and were I not a woman, and a lady, there would have been two broken noses in the Adams’ family.

“Enough!” I tried to scream through frozen clenched teeth but it sounded weak and muffled. “This conversation is over and you need not lecture me, you uh you.” I grasped for the right words. “You narrow-minded…” I wanted to use words that had never passed my lips but just couldn’t give her the satisfaction. “Just leave. We have nothing further to discuss. Get off my porch and I never want to see or hear from you again.” I ordered.

She did but as she turned to go I saw the look, the holier than thou look, the one that said you might be rich (we really weren’t, everything in Moundsville was predicated on inaccurate perception) but at least we don’t raise spoiled girls, or sissy queers.

By the time the door slammed shut behind me I had dissolved into tears. It wasn’t so much what she said. She probably did me a favor; she opened my eyes to what I was facing with raising a boy who truly believed he was not one. Had I not had that frigid conversation with Bertha Adams, the mother of the normal son by her standards, and most likely those of the vast majority of those who lived in Moundsville, I might have felt there was a glimmer of hope. Even with the difficult conversation Don and I had with Jack, and the things Tim revealed, I had been optimistic we could navigate a path to ease Jack into the inevitable life as man. Now I knew that path would be lonely and hostile without any good probability of a happy outcome. Like Reuben’s parents, Don and I were alone.

As I turned to retreat upstairs to compose myself, and fix my face, I saw Jack standing in the living room, watching. How long had he been there, or how much of my conversation with Mrs. Adams he heard, I do not know. He looked at me with tears rolling down my face, and then at his sleeping brother with the battered face and raw knuckles. He looked so sad, almost remorseful. For an instant I did not want to see this child of mine, this reminder of the turmoil boiling through my family. As I searched his sad face I saw what he was, what apparently others were seeing; an eleven year old sissy boy who was starting to look more like a girl than the boy he was. I am not proud of what I thought then; so ashamed that in that moment I did not like this boy, who we called Jack after the hero who died in battle the day he was born. I soon found myself again on my bed sobbing, this time selfishly asking God why He didn’t just make James Edgar Roberts, my child, a girl, and spare us so much anguish.

(Miriam renews her faith. Don and Miriam finally take Jack to see Dr. Ellis)

Choices
Chapter 18

How do you explain the adult world to a child, an eleven year old who just two Christmases before still hopefully clung to a belief in a white haired bearded jolly old man in a red suit bringing presents? How do you tell your child that the world he lives in is, at times, cruel and hateful, sinister and ignorant as well as unyielding in myths and dogma? How do you explain reality?

“You could just tell them.” Jack said, not just innocently but with such conviction that to him it was just a matter of being candid. To him, if I just explained that there was some mistake made when he was born, then people would just accept it; his teachers, our friends, the director of the children’s choir at church, even Bertha Adams. Actually the choir director probably would believe it, the only person in Moundsville who might.

It was Saturday morning and I had ordered Jack to my bathroom, washed his hair and had him sitting on the side of the tub, feet in, in my old pink terrycloth robe. Don had taken Brenda to Wheeling for her piano lesson and dragged Tim reluctantly along. With comb and scissors in hand I began trimming his wet hair. He was more than resistant to letting me work on his shaggy hair that was drawing so much attention and falling into his eyes. I had to negotiate but we reached a compromise. I did threaten to walk him to the barber and sit there in front of boys and men, watching, while the barber made him appear like his peers with a buzz cut or flattop. After I said that he was slightly more willing to negotiate. The pink robe also helped.

What turned the tide however, was that I told him that I believed. Up until that first week in January, with the conversation Don and I had with Jack, with his brother fighting a much bigger boy making ‘sissy’ remarks about his little brother, and with the assault on my front porch by Bertha Adams, I had not actually said to Jack that I believed. I had told him I was on his side, and that I would help him and even protect him. I had been with him when he looked almost darling in Brenda’s dress when I hugged him and told him I would find answers. I also kept my promise and bought him a pair of panties, withholding the matching bra, which I strategically had laying out on my bed when I asked if he would let me work on his hair. Even though I staunchly felt eleven was too young for a first bra, even for a girl, I needed to show Jack my faith.

But I had not previously used those words; I never said to him that I too believed he should have been born a girl. That Saturday morning I did. I didn’t just say those words to force a compromise. I still did not understand how a baby could be born so clearly one sex, and later so convincingly insist they were the other. I believed that somehow Jack was different, blessed, or perhaps cursed, with a temperament and personality significantly incongruous with his physiology. I didn’t use those words with him.

“Yes Jack, I believe you were meant to be a girl.” I told him truthfully.

I came to my belief while laying on my bed feeling sorry for myself the previous Thursday afternoon asking myself what was wrong with me. Why had I felt almost repulsed by the sight of Jack, my own son whom I gave birth to, just after I had been verbally assaulted by Bertha Adams? I can’t say for certain that God spoke to me but something did, and it didn’t come from me. Truthfully, it wasn’t as if I was actually thinking, but as if words were being said to me. ‘You are trying to see a boy, Miriam’, the words noted and went on, “there is not a boy to see.”

I sat up and looked across my bedroom and into the mirror. ‘That’s it.’ I spoke to the image staring back at me. Jack bothered me because I was trying to see a boy, my son. That is what I saw just after my frigid front porch confrontation; a boy, a sissy one who would bring Don and I, Tim and Brenda, heartache, pain, trouble and shame. The words told me I should not be looking for a boy at all because there just wasn’t one there. I decided I had to tell Jack that I believed.

Of course I had to add an explanation as best I could.

“But I’m your mother. I know you. Jack, no one else will believe.”

That’s when the naïve child suggested if I told the world, they too would believe, and then, he could start wearing dresses to school. He didn’t add the part about the dresses but I knew it was what he meant. He was so child-like sitting there in that large pink robe. It was silly but I looked at him and thought of Peter Pan and Wendy, with the clapping of hands, fairy dust and Tinker Bell. You could fly with a little fairy dust, if you truly believed.

“No. Jack, people wouldn’t believe me.” I told him playing the part of the adult to the Wendy who did not want to grow up. “Your father didn’t believe me at first. People in Moundsville would quickly conclude that I went insane and that I caused you to be this way. Jack, there are people who would take you away from us, take Tim and Brenda too. They would say we are awful parents. They would say we abused you. No one would help us Jack, not even your grandparents. Right now Jack, I’m all you’ve got.”

I am sure he did not understand but he took my word for it, again looking dejected.

“I thought you wanted to help me?” He cried.

“I am helping you Jack. My first job is to love you and protect you. No one else can see what you and I do. That’s what I’m doing by trimming your hair. Then we have to see that doctor in Wheeling. If anyone might believe us Jack it’s Dr. Ellis. You’ll have to tell him everything, what you are doing and how you feel.”

“If you believe mom, I’ll just be a girl for you.” Of course I knew that wouldn’t work either, for long, but my goal that morning was to make Jack more boy-like; give him an appearance that would keep the wolves, and non-believers, at bay.

“Your hair is getting so long and shaggy people are saying things. Just let me trim some and even it out so we can fix it for school.” I told him while he sat next to me, and the bra, on my bed before he agreed to a trim.

“No. It has to grow.” He said resolutely.

“Did you know hair has to be regularly trimmed to grow?” I offered.

“It does?” He asked suspiciously.

“Yep. And if you let me I can fix it so it will grow and you can dry it and tease it so it looks very, uh, girly.” I ran my fingers through his hair to see what it might do. “And for school we can put some Brylcreem on it and comb it with a heavy part and back and you’ll look like that Elvis person, except for the sideburns.”

He relented, fingering the little first bra meant for a girl about his age, the one that matched the panties I gave him.

“Make sure you hide that.” I told him giving him permission to take it with him after I finished his hair.

So I put him in the tub, washed his hair and trimmed as best I could. I evened the sides removing about a half of an inch including the shaggy parts that were encroaching over the collar of his shirts. I then dried it for him teasing it and brushing it forward. To tell the truth we were having fun. I couldn’t keep the front of his hair from flopping into his eyes, it would need to grow a lot before he could tuck the front strands behind his ears but he was delighted. He wanted me to leave it that way but I asked him to trust me. I slapped on some Brylcreem, parted his hair lower on the right and combed it back on both sides. We both laughed at the image in the mirror, the one that clearly made Jack look like a young boy trying to emulate a certain rock star adored by girls everywhere. I believe he appreciated the irony as much as I did.

I sent him back to his room with a new hair brush and comb, a large tube of Brylcreem, a hair band, the little A cup bra, and a promise to keep his hair neat and boy-like when going out of the house. I relieved him of my pink tattered robe and replaced it with a towel, as well as a hug.

* * *

After my conversion late that cold January Thursday afternoon and before my makeshift salon session with Jack Saturday morning, I reflected constantly on what it meant to be a believer and to have faith. I prayed, wondered about miracles, and recited verses borrowed from more traditional doctrines. Believing that my son was somehow meant to be the opposite sex, or gender, than the one he was given, was both redeeming and vexing. Believing gave me an exhilarating feeling of joy, for him and for me. Whatever it was that made him feel this way, when embraced, seemed to me to be almost as glorious, without being sacrilegious, as any religious experience.

The vexing part was that I was alone in my belief, except for Jack of course, and the prospect for new believers was rather dim. I felt Don had made considerable progress but when it came to religion, especially blind faith in the face of observed reality, Don was stubbornly skeptical. I had no other prospective converts and I was not at all tempted to go on a crusade.

No, it was time to be cautious and pragmatic. Believing in the face of the hard reality of Jack’s impending development, and the wrath of that would surely come if my faith was revealed, inspired me to take a measured approach. First, I had to contact the one person who I felt would not condemn me, Dr. Ellis. Second, I needed to convince Jack I believed him and would help him. What worried me most was that Jack’s faith went beyond mine. He somehow believed he would become a girl. I didn’t believe in that miracle.

My reasonable husband was first enraged when he saw his eldest son with the black eye and swollen lip but became a proud and congratulatory cheerleader when the details were explained. It was as if the raw male aggression of Don’s first son balanced and muted the cross dressing behavior of his second. Thursday evening Don was engaged with both his sons, sarcastically cautioning Tim about fighting and being warm and loving to Jack. There was hope to go with the faith.

By Friday morning I had fully recovered, and felt determined. I still could not fathom that others were talking about Jack, about all of us as a family. I wondered about my friends, Moundsville’s finest, and concluded that they would not see what the ilk of Bertha Adams saw. My friends were educated, sophisticated. Our sons would naturally be a little softer I suppose, and somewhat likelier to be teased, taunted and bullied. Our daughters would naturally be more refined and fair and, therefore, envied. My friends would not see Jack as a sissy girl-like boy, would they?

Precisely at nine a.m. I called and left a message for Dr. Ellis to call me. I told the nice woman who answered that it was important. Actually I may have used the word ‘urgent’. He returned my call immediately and listened carefully as I rattled off all that had happened since I saw him in December. I even recited in detail how I discovered Jack in a pair of his sister’s panties and that he had worn them on our shopping trip to Wheeling, except I forgot to mention, perhaps intentionally, that I bought him his own pair of panties. I was so relieved when he told me he was unexpectedly free on Tuesday, his class at Ohio State was cancelled for some reason, and could therefore give us two hours. We were to be in his office by ten a.m.

* * *

The drive to Wheeling to see Dr. Ellis was unusually quiet. It had been just one week since Don faced his son for the first time about cross dressing and came away from the discussion somewhat enlightened but still with significant doubt and skepticism. Then Tim gallantly fought a bully, standing up for his brother, and won, while I stood up to, more or less, the bully’s mother.

Now we were driving in silence, Don at the wheel glancing occasionally in the rear view mirror at his son obviously not happy with what he saw, or with me. I had laid out a pair of dress slacks for him and ironed a shirt. I presumed he would fix his hair the way I showed him, with the Brylcreem and heavy combed back part. Instead he came down stairs in a pair of pants from a couple of years ago which now fit him shockingly tight and a loose fitting shirt. The pants failed to reveal any hint that Jack was a boy but I resisted asking him how he accomplished that. The shirt was actually his father’s but he wore it just like some of the teen girls did, untucked with the top button undone. I imagined he might be wearing the bra I let him have after I trimmed his hair Saturday. The biggest surprise though was his hair, teased and brushed how I taught him so he could look girly. I snapped at him when I saw him and tried to brush his hair back but he pushed my hand away. I remembered how I told him he would have to convince Dr. Ellis when I told him I believed. The way he looked would be more than convincing. My boy looked like an eleven year old girl with short hair in every aspect, except the too tight pants, as well as the shirt, were clearly boys’ clothes.

When we arrived in front of the Wheeling Steel Building on Market Street, the building where Dr. Ellis’ office was, I realized how deeply what we were dealing with affected my husband. He had agreed to be involved; he said he was resigned to being the father of a child who was different, he referred to it as a ‘fixation’; and he appeared to love Jack and did not openly reject him. That changed as he stopped the car at the curb instead of looking for a parking space.

“You and Jack go ahead. I’ll park and meet you up there.” He said glancing at his strange looking son in the back seat. I got the message; Don didn’t want to be seen on the streets of Wheeling with his son. That hurt me and I’m sure Jack too. But what choice did I have. At least he was participating.

* * *

“Why do you think you were meant to be a girl?” Dr. Ellis asked Jack early in the session. It seemed to take forever before Don arrived and I was beginning to think he decided not to come and I would find him in the bar of the McClure Hotel.

I knew Dr. Ellis was going to challenge. He said as much when I called him, panicked, the Friday following the disastrous Thursday of Tim’s fight and my front porch episode with Bertha Adams. I wanted to answer for Jack, but resisted, probably because I had converted and became a believer. I wanted to say to Dr. Ellis, even to anyone who would listen, ‘Just look at him. Look at the face, the hair, the way he sits, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap. Of course he was meant to be a girl.’

The session began nicely, introductions and pleasantries. Don was cordial but notably cool and uncomfortable. I couldn’t tell if Jack was wearing the bra under the heavy loose fitting shirt but felt he probably was. He was a little shy or perhaps skeptical. Still, he was so polite and cooperative, answering questions without hesitation, until Dr. Ellis asked about the girl thing. Oh, before that there were lots of questions about school, who his friends were and what Jack liked to do. That led to Dr. Ellis’ first question about cross dressing.

“Jack, I understand you sometimes dress up in girls’ things?” I remember him asking.

“Yes sir.” He answered in a soft voice. I am sure Dr. Ellis noted that Jack did not shy away from the answer, nor appear ashamed or feel he needed to explain. Jack also did not elaborate. He just looked at the man nearly as old as his grandfather, in a dark pin striped suit, gray hair and moustache. Don and I were sitting on the couch and Jack sat in a big chair almost facing the one Dr. Ellis sat in.
There was a long silent and uncomfortable pause as Dr. Ellis hoped for a further response. Don squeezed my hand which I took to mean he was enjoying seeing another adult, a man no less, verbally spar with Jack.

“Ok Jack. I need to ask some questions about that. I want you to think hard and tell me whatever you can.”

“Sure.”

“Jack, can you remember the first time you put on something a girl would wear, a dress or something.” Thank god he didn’t mention panties.

“No, not really.” Jack said slowly then added after thinking about it. “When I was little I remember a little dress I would wear sometimes when we played.”

“Who do you mean?” Dr. Ellis asked. “Your brother and sister?”

“Yes, mostly Brenda.” Jack explained. “Tim was there sometimes but he never wore a dress.” Tim would be the last little boy to do that.

“Did Brenda make you wear the dress?” Dr. Ellis pried with the question that was on my mind, and Don’s too, I was sure.

“I don’t think so, doctor. I just remember it was fun. It wasn’t all the time, just in the summer I think, when I was four or five.” Jack told him. “It wasn’t very often and she never made me. I think I wanted to.”

“Oh.” The psychiatrist remarked a little surprised. “”What do you mean you wanted to?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. I think I was too little to know.” Jack said mysteriously.

“To know what?” Dr. Ellis responded falling into the pure innocence that Jack always projected when he described his feelings.

“About the boy thing.” Jack said matter-of-factly. Don and I looked at each other. I suspected what was coming.

“What’s the boy thing Jack?” He asked predictably.

“You know. I didn’t know I was a boy.” Dr. Ellis looked at me almost with a resigned desperation. It was revealing, as well as surprising, that Jack described his situation, feeling like a girl but actually being a boy, as ‘the boy thing’.

“Didn’t people call you ‘Jack’, and didn’t your mother dress you like a boy?” The doctor pressed.

“Uh huh. But I was little.” He reasoned. “I didn’t know anything then. And I had long hair that Brenda would put in pigtails sometimes.” What Jack was saying somehow made sense to me. As a toddler maybe he didn’t understand how little boys were different from little girls. I suddenly remember seeing Brenda braiding little Jack’s long hair once. Maybe that is when this started; he was three or four and somehow got confused about whether he was a little boy or a little girl, and Brenda braided his hair, offered him a dress, and he had fun and well, over time it just became black and white for him. I was starting to suspect that Brenda put Jack on this course. Why wouldn’t I have noticed and figured it out. I should have put a stop to it but I really didn’t know.

“Are you saying you thought you were a girl, that when you played dress up with your sister you got mixed up?”

Jack seemed slightly annoyed, as if he was frustrated that he couldn’t make himself understood.

“I wasn’t mixed up!” He answered forcefully not being absolutely polite for the first time. I would have chastised him but he didn’t let me. “I just didn’t know I wasn’t like Brenda.”

It took me much too long to understand that my eleven year old was referring to body parts. Jack was telling the doctor that, as a toddler, he didn’t realize the anatomical difference between a boy and a girl. He should have. From the time he was at least two until, well, for several years really, I bathed Tim and Jack together in the only bathtub in a house of four adults and three children. But I had to allow that didn’t mean he ever saw how his sister was different, or made a conscious connection of that difference.

I don’t think Dr. Ellis knew where to go from there. “Umm, I understand.” He muttered without conviction. “Then Jack, at some point you must have realized that you weren’t a girl, like your sister. When did you realize you actually were a boy?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Never.” He answered. I don’t think he was being rude. I felt he was just being honest. He’s said roughly the same thing to me. He told me during that first, perhaps the second, conversation I had with him that he has never considered himself a boy and that he had to pretend until his prayers were answered.

“I’m not a boy.” He said calmly. Jack’s demeanor with Dr. Ellis was so different than the conversation between him and his father just one week before. With Dr. Ellis Jack was open, and resolute, instead of defensive and on edge. Just the same, however, Dr. Ellis, the educated professional seemed somewhat frustrated. He continued.

“Ok Jack. You’re not a boy. Don’t you really mean you’re not a boy on the inside? That must be really hard Jack. To feel you should have been born a girl but wasn’t, must make you angry.” Dr. Ellis told him.

Jack didn’t say anything. He was, I think, skeptical that someone believed him so quickly. I couldn’t tell if Dr. Ellis had hit a nerve but I liked how he tried to draw Jack out. Don listened intently. Dr. Ellis continued.

“It must hurt to be a girl if everyone thinks you’re a boy.” Dr. Ellis sympathized. “I bet it makes you mad to be the only girl who doesn’t wear a dress to school.” He continued.

That did it. Jack eyes became red, his face contorted and tears formed, then ran down his face. I handed him a Kleenex from my purse. I could tell that Don wanted to say something, that he was so uneasy with Dr. Ellis referring to Jack as a girl. I put my hand on Don’s arm asking him to be patient.

“I’m sorry Jack.” Dr. Ellis told him. “Do you want a drink of water?” He asked reaching for a glass and pitcher on the table next to his chair. Jack nodded and Dr. Ellis poured and handed the glass to Jack.

“Are you ok?” Jack nodded again. “I need to ask a couple more things and then we’ll be done for today, Jack. Ok?”

“I just need to understand something Jack. When you were little you thought you were a girl like your sister, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“Then when you got older people didn’t treat you like a girl, did they?”

“No.”

“Would you like to tell me about that?”

Jack took some time, obviously trying to remember. “I remember I was so excited to start school, you know mommy.” Jack said looking at me, still sobbing. “Remember my hair was down to my shoulders. Brenda used to brush my hair.” Jack looked back at Dr. Ellis. “Then they made me go in town and they cut my hair and all the men told daddy what a nice boy I was.”

“Tim had long hair too, before he started school. All the little boys did.” I interjected defensively. I wondered why I had not noticed how Jack had reacted so differently to the ritualistic hair cutting for five year old boys about to start school. Tim seemed to relish the event; he was no longer a little boy. Jack became quiet almost introverted during that period and it took almost a year before he was back to being the happy child again.

“I know, Mrs. Roberts.” Dr. Ellis acknowledged clearly annoyed that I had interrupted.

“Go on, Jack.”

“Well, I still thought mommy would have a dress for the first day of school.” Jack looked at me. “That’s all right mommy. You didn’t know.” I bit my lip trying not to cry myself. Trying to comprehend such a ridiculous notion as a boy actually believing he was a girl, and thinking his mother would present him a dress to wear to his first day of school, was beyond me. I suppose I should not have wondered why my little boy did not say something to me, but I did. Perhaps he did and it seemed so silly to me that I just dismissed it, and banned it from my memory.

“That’s when I knew.” Jack then revealed.

“Knew what?” Dr. Ellis asked.

“That I had to pretend. I knew I had to pretend to be a boy until God fixed me.”

My wonderful little boy was a believer too, just like me. Except his belief was pure and innocent. He really believed that God, the Creator and Controller, would somehow turn him into a girl. My belief was more basic and earthly. I believed in what should have been, but didn’t have near the amount of faith Jack did about the future.

“Oh.” Dr. Ellis managed.

“He’s really busy so I just kept praying. I knew he’d get around to it.” He noted confidently as if God was working through Dr. Ellis.

I silently prayed Dr. Ellis would not pursue any discussion of God and miracles. My prayers were answered.

“One last thing Jack. I need to ask you something and you will have to think real hard. I need you to try to remember if someone ever hurt you?”
Jack said nothing and I saw no revealing expression on his face.

“Did anyone ever hit you Jack?” Then after a second or two. “Did anyone ever touch you in your private place?” It was a necessary question that I had not considered. Of course, if someone did something terrible to Jack I supposed it could perhaps cause him to rebel against being a boy. I was certain however that Jack had not been abused in any way, and I was just as certain, as a believer, that he was not rebelling.

“Nobody hurt me. I knew you didn’t really believe me.”

“I’m so sorry Jack. I do believe you but I needed to make sure you haven’t been hurt. Sometimes little boys and girls are hurt and it makes them, uh, well, it makes them do things other boys or girls wouldn’t do.”

I’m not sure Jack was completely convinced that Dr. Ellis believed him, believed he should have been a girl and not a boy, but he accepted the doctor at his word. After all, Jack’s goal was to have someone other than me on his side.

“Now Jack, I want to tell you, and your mom and dad, what I believe and what I know. First, Jack I do believe you. I believe you feel inside you that you are, or should have been born a girl. But you weren’t and I don’t have a way to show being born a boy was a mistake. So we are going to have to work on helping you be happy and healthy.”

Then Dr. Ellis just talked, actually treating Jack like a friend, perhaps an uncle or grandfather, using a friendly tone and giving information. He told the boy he had looked forward to meeting him because he wanted to find out what it was like. He asked Jack to describe it; did Jack feel alone; did he envy girls; was he mad about his unusual situation? He explained, in simple terms, about cross dressing but stayed away from and specific terminology, never saying ‘transvestite’. He said he didn’t know any other boys just like him but thought there probably were some.

Jack relaxed and told Dr. Ellis things he had not told me, or Don, for that matter. He talked about playing dress up with Joanie Benson many times. He revealed that before he started school and was home during the day alone with his grandmother (I would often go shopping or sometimes help Don in town) he would dress in one of Brenda’s old dresses and play with her dolls. I was stunned that my mother, the strict God fearing Christian woman would allow her grandson to do that, and more than shocked that she never mentioned it to me. I felt like an incompetent and out of touch mother with a daughter who braided my son’s hair and a mother who allowed him to wear dresses and play with dolls.

Jack also showed some mature insight about himself. He said he knew what he did, and how he felt, was a problem for us; he didn’t say it was bad or wrong. He expressed how deeply he wished he could just be normal, even saying that if he could he would be a normal boy, instead of a girl everyone thought was a boy. That seemed to connect with the father.

"But I can't. I'm never going to be normal." He said with a resigned sigh. I knew he was right about that.

Dr Ellis smiled and gave Don and I a knowing look. "As you get older Jack, normal will become less important. It’s ok to be different from other boys and girls." He smiled at Jack warmly. The room was silent for the longest time. Finally Dr. Ellis asked Jack about his hair almost as if neither Don nor I were in the room.

"I like your hair. Did your mom help fix it?"

Jack smiled a little and blushed. I felt Don tense up. I waited for Jack to answer afraid my husband would explode.

"Do you like it?" Jack asked proudly then continued. "Mom trimmed it and showed me how but I did it myself today." He flipped his head tossing his hair exactly like his sister does sometimes.
"What do you want me to call you? I can't call you Jack, now can I?"

That did it. Don stood up and headed for the door. "Miriam, Jack, this is not helping. " He stopped, turned and looked directly at me. "Are you coming Miriam?"

He really didn't give me time to answer. He turned back toward the outer office and through the door. But before he was completely out of the waiting area and into the hall Dr. Ellis caught up to him, pulling the door to his office almost closed. Jack and I could not see the two men but listened to the muted exchange, not able to make out the words just the inflections. Don did not shout or sound angry but I felt he was challenging Dr. Ellis’ professionalism and his strategy. I have no idea what Dr. Ellis said but shortly, just a minute or two, he returned to his chair, without Don.

“Your husband will join us in a minute, Mrs. Roberts, just as soon as I finish with, uh, with, well…” He looked at the eleven year old. “You never told me what name I should call you.”

I was not ready for that level of belief and commitment from the person who was supposed to help us. I had accepted that my son was different, embraced the idea that he wanted to be a girl, or should have been one, but I never considered that in any real terms. I thought that, like Jack, I was believing in a fantasy. I wasn’t ready to actually live it. Asking James Edgar Roberts, the eleven year old with a boy’s body, whom we called Jack, to choose a girls’ name caused me to almost react just like my husband did. I wanted to run. To me, the believer, I could accept that Jack thought he should have been a girl, and be at peace with him cross dressing, but he was Jack, my little boy, the one I named after the other man in my life, the one who died in the war on the day Jack was born. I couldn’t easily accept a different name.

Being a believer and worshiping is one thing. Practicing your faith by sacrifice and hardship was altogether different. Looking at Jack that day in his tight pants, loose shirt with the bra underneath and with the complete girl-like hair, and thinking of him with a girl’s name, required a level of faith I wasn’t sure I had.

(Miriam and Don discover as much about themselves as they do about Jack with Dr. Ellis)

Choices

Chapter 19

“Becky.” Jack said proudly. “My name is Becky. It’s really Rebecca Katherine. But nobody has ever asked me.” He added, beaming with a wide grin.

Dr. Ellis did not respond immediately and glanced my way. Jack looked at me, searching for approval, no doubt. I stammered trying to gather my thoughts, and my emotions. ‘Becky’, I wondered. Where did that came from. I wasn’t sure I liked it. Could I think of my son as ‘Becky’? Could I ever actually call him that name? I had to say something and managed what I am sure sounded totally ridiculous.

“Uh, umm, ‘Becky’. It’s a lovely name, Jack.” In one statement I managed to use two different names, one a girl’s and one a boy’s, for my son. Jack looked a little disappointed at my lack of enthusiasm as well as my verbal clumsiness. I tried to recover.

“Rebecca Katherine! Well it is certainly a beautiful combination. I just don’t know, uh, Jack I have to be honest. I like the name, I really do but well, it’s just hard. You’ve always been my ‘Jack’. The name means a lot to me.”

I could tell I didn’t just hurt his feelings but that he felt guilty for using a different name, different than the nickname I gave him the day I learned Jack Staub was killed in Germany on the day my Jack was born. Jack reached over and put his hand on my arm to console me.

“I’m sorry mommy. Do you want me to call myself ‘Jackie’?” He offered sincerely.

“No, no. It’s all right. It’s all right Becky.” There I said it. I had no idea how that would work in the future. I was too conflicted to think about it. I wanted to believe; thought I was ready to completely embrace my cross dressing child, but couldn’t fathom dealing with two names. It just seemed too schizophrenic. ‘Time to get up for school, Jack.’ ‘How was your time on the third floor, Becky?’

“That’s a beautiful name.” Dr. Ellis chimed in. “From now on I will call you Becky.”

I never heard Dr. Ellis use the name Jack ever again.

“Listen Becky, I want you to come back soon and we will talk, just the two of us. I want to hear all about your school and friends, and I especially want to know what it is like to be Becky. But now I’m going to talk to your mom and dad for a few minutes alone. Is that all right? Can you wait in the other room?” The doctor spoke to the child as if he was really a girl.

“Sure.” He answered almost jumping out of the chair. “I understand, doctor. Daddy’s not happy. Just tell him not to worry.” Jack added innocently.

Jack gave Dr. Ellis a hug, then threw himself into my arms seeking reassurance. I hugged him tight feeling the back band of the bra he was wearing. I whispered in his ear that I loved him. I wanted to say ‘I love you Becky’ but could not muster the courage. Dr. Ellis opened the door to his outer office and ushered Jack out and my stoic husband back in.

After we were seated and the door was closed, I waited for Dr. Ellis to start a discussion but he didn’t. He just looked at the two of us. He expected one of us to say something.

Donald Roberts was a man, my man. After eighteen years of marriage I knew him so well, knew his quirks, his humor, his weaknesses. Most of all I knew his expressions. Before he said one word I saw the determination, the skepticism, and the seriousness. For Don something wasn’t right and he was going to set it straight. I knew what was coming.

“I just don’t understand doctor.” He started. “You are supposed to know how to handle things like this. We’ve got a boy who admittedly is different, I guess I can deal with that, but I thought you were going to explain that things are going to change and well, it’s not going to be good. I expected you to prepare him for, uh, well, you know.” Don could be so fumbling and inelegant sometimes.

Dr. Ellis said nothing but he was fully engaged in what Don was saying. I wanted to tell my somewhat dense life partner that neither he nor I had been successful with Jack. We couldn’t convince Jack that it would be a whole lot easier, and much safer if he just gave up this girl charade. Jack had convinced me it was real and I thought Don was starting to understand. Why did he think a stranger could motivate Jack to give up the things he had been doing for so long?

“But you didn’t do that.” He continued laying out an indictment. “You didn’t tell Jack that all this fantasy is going to come crashing down around him. Didn’t explain why he can’t pretend to be a little girl anymore. With all due respect, you practically told him what he is doing is ok. You encouraged him with compliments. ‘I like your hair.’” Don mocked Dr. Ellis. “Well, I’m not paying you to compliment my son.” There was anger in his voice.

Dr. Ellis said nothing.

“Then, I can’t believe this, then you asked if he had a girl’s name. How in the hell is that going to help?” Don waited for Dr. Ellis to answer and when he didn’t he continued, but now seemed to be talking to himself.

“Look. Ok, my son has some kind of condition. Kids are different and kids get things. I’m not naïve. So my son is sort of girly. I don’t like it but I can live with it. I’ve got a normal girl and a son. I can accept Jack and love him.” He admitted. There it was. My man showed his true self, his own self-actualization, so to speak. Without Dr. Ellis saying much of anything Don came to the conclusion he was the fortunate father of a girl, a real one, a son, a complete boy and a child somewhere in the middle, I suppose. The unfortunate point at that moment was that he didn’t realize what he had said, so he continued to rant at Dr. Ellis.

The doctor listened quietly allowing Don to talk himself out.

“But there is a limit. The hair has reached the limit, no make that exceeded. He wants to go up to the third floor and do whatever, fine. But he has to stay up there. He wants to pretend he has a different name, then he needs to just keep that to himself. I don’t want to know it.”

Finally Dr. Ellis said something. “You don’t need me Mr. Roberts. You seem to have already decided what you can and cannot accept. Why are you here?”

“Because.” Don said trying to find an answer. “Because he won’t listen to us. He’s dead set on pushing this thing. Every time we set a limit he goes further. Like today. My wife showed him how to fix his hair so he can keep it long and also go places like the boy he is. That wasn’t enough!”

“People are starting to notice how different Jack is becoming, and the way he looked today, well, in Moundsville it won’t take long before someone is knocking on our door asking questions, or worse. Tell him about Bertha, Miri.”

“I did Don. I told him about Tim and the fight and Bertha Adams when I called for the appointment last week.” I explained.

“Well it’s going to get worse if we don’t do something. We need help, your help, explaining the limits. Doctor, Jack can’t be a girl, not in Moundsville, or anywhere. It’s impossible, dangerous and delusional.” He concluded.

This time Dr. Ellis didn’t let Don’s depiction of our son go unanswered. “I can tell you with some degree of certainty that your son is not delusional.” He answered calmly.

“Well he’s something. And it’s not good, not good for us.” Don said with determination and waited again for Dr. Ellis to comment. Again he didn’t and Don continued.

“Doctor Ellis, I’m sure you are good with a lot of issues but you are being too accepting here. Right Miri?” Don looked at me expecting me to at least give an affirmative gesture. I gave no indication one way or the other.

“We want you to call Jack back in here and tell him the truth, explain that he has to grow up and be a boy, uh, man.” Dr. Ellis listened intently but didn’t respond immediately. There was silence for the longest time.

“I can’t do that.” Dr. Ellis said firmly and before Don could ask him why not Dr. Ellis continued.

“Your child is going to grow and mature but what he becomes is not yet certain. He may become a man but he likely won’t be like you imagine. I can tell you love your child and that you are more than concerned about what is going to happen. I would like you to hear me out and then you can decide to seek other treatment, do nothing, handle this yourselves or let me work with you.”
“I’m listening.” Don answered almost coldly.

“I think your child is unusual, probably not unique, but certainly rare. I think humans are advanced and complicated and do not easily fit in simple sex categories, male or female, like other species.” I noticed Dr. Ellis did not refer to Jack by his name but was neutral. I was glad he did not use the name Jack confided to Dr. Ellis; that would have set Don off. He continued.

"And I think you are unusual parents. You have handled this differently than others parents would, dare I say any other. Most, if not all would stop the behavior, or try to. They would forbid, punish, shame and disparage. If they sought help it would be to treat, fix and change the behavior."

"What's wrong with that? That's why we're here. Right Miri! You're not actually buying into this 'should have been a girl' thing are you?"

“Not the way you think. First, if a child is verbalizing something like this so strongly, and acting on it too, well, there is something much deeper than just a passing fantasy. I just don’t know yet what it is and I would never find out if I rejected what your child tells me.”

He stopped to let that sink in.

“From what I've read it is likely there are other boys like your child. It's very uncommon I think, maybe one or two in a million. No one knows for certain. There are no cases that I could find, not of children, except one from Germany years ago. Perhaps there are more but parents are too ashamed to seek help; they just deal with it privately, rather harshly I would guess. Or if help is sought the practitioner would treat cross dressing as an aberration, a deviate one. That’s what the books say. Even if, like your child, there was verbalization of being the opposite sex, or gender actually, it would normally be dismissed." He continued to explain.

"But you don't? Why?" Don asked somewhat engaged in a conversation instead of an attack.

"Carl Rogers and Maslow. I explained self-actualization to your wife but to reiterate I believe that the human basic life motive is to strive to be themselves. You’ve heard great men, and women, described as born to whatever, a great violinist, or baseball player, whatever. It sounds simplistic but I believe, in the absence of other pathology, that your child just might be right, might be trying to be what he, or dare I say she, was born to be.”

My husband’s mouth was wide open but he was listening. Don was processing the premise, going over it in his head. Don might be reactionary at times but he was reasonable. I’m sure that the reasoned explanation Dr. Ellis gave, as simplistic as it was, made him more thoughtful and less reactive.

“There is no indication of any medical issue or cause. Dr. Benson’s medical report describes a normal eleven year old male.” He added looking at me. “Further tests might reveal some genetic anomaly but I doubt it. I don’t see any psychological pathology so professionally, I don’t have an explanation. I know, Mrs. Roberts, you feel at least partly responsible and I can’t say that social or family factors are not a factor. At least that is what most of the psychiatric literature suggests. I am not totally convinced of that, given how normal and intact your family is.”

“What about our daughter? Did she have something to do with it?” I had to ask.

“I think if that were the case there would be a lot more little boys wanting to be girls. No, I doubt if what the sister did, a few times at the most, is a factor. If anything it served as confirmation to a willing child.”
“Oh.” What else could I say?

“I told you that my son is homosexual so I have been through something similar, handled it rather badly. I tried to fix him but of course, couldn’t. It fractured our relationship. I don’t want to see you go through that. I want to spare you as much of the pain and heartache as I can.” He took a deep breath.

“You were upset with me because I treated your child somewhat as a girl. I did that because that is how the child acted and appeared. You were angry because I did not explain limits or what is going to happen when puberty begins. I’m a doctor, a counselor, I don’t set limits. You are the parent. As far as puberty, if allowed, I will help your child through the impending changes as best I can.”
Dr. Ellis paused and looked through the notes in his lap.

"What I observed today, this was my first meeting, is certainly not a typical eleven year old boy. What I saw was a younger child, emotionally, maybe nine, and one who desperately wants to be seen and accepted as a girl. To be honest, had I not known the background I would have wondered why your daughter wasn't wearing a dress."

"There are clearly some social developmental issues and some confusion. The child from all indications, socializes with boys the same age some with moderate success, playing basketball, at school, but also has a friend, a girl, Joanie, where there has been a lot of girl-girl play, clothes and dress-up. And of course, your child has been cross dressing for some time, even before you were aware of it."

"That's not typical for either a boy or a girl. You wondered why I was so accepting. If I'm to have any success with a child like this then I have to interact with him, or her, the way they presented to me. Your child wanted me to see a girl. I have to honor that."

"But won't that send the wrong message. When do you explain reality to Jack?" I asked.

"When I'm asked. Perhaps in a future meeting the child will present to me as a boy. We just have to work through this. Puberty is difficult enough, and will likely be so much more difficult for a child like yours. I'm sure you expected something different from me and you might decide to go in a different direction. I think you know what the textbook says; a child who is a cross dresser, as I have said, is perverse and deviant. It is generally thought that such behavior is a precursor to homosexuality. The recommended treatment would be intensive therapy sessions to try to change the behavior and perhaps medication, drugs. Some, many really, resort to aversion therapy."

Aversion therapy?" Don asked.

"Unfortunately it’s widely accepted. Essentially it punishes the behavior thought to be wrong or immoral through the use of electrical shock or nausea inducing drugs. The practitioner might show the subject pictures of the offending behavior, or actually have the subject wear clothes of the opposite sex, and then administer the shock, or the drug. The theory is that the patient will no longer associate the behavior as pleasurable, or fun, and will learn to avoid it."

"God, that sounds terrible. Does it work?" Don asked almost hopefully.

"I’m sure in the short term the offensive behavior stops, but long term it creates rebellion, acting out, adjustment issues, neurosis and worse. I believe it is the worst modern psychiatry can offer." He noted emphatically.

“I don’t know how to say this but my advice is to embrace it. That doesn’t mean you should start treating you child like a girl or tell anyone. That would be disastrous, of course. But in your attitude and the way you think about it. You have to stop thinking this is a bad thing and you have to stop trying to fix your child. In my opinion there isn’t anything wrong, just unusual behavior we need to try to understand. Our first goal should be to protect.” Dr. Ellis said convincingly.

I searched my husband’s face for his reaction to the advice Dr. Ellis just gave. I thought I might see anger, or at least resistance but all I could read in that face was that Don was thinking, processing. The wheels were turning.

“But before we talk about the future let me tell you more about what I found in the OSU Library. I didn’t want to share this with your child in the room. They are, well, frankly, more than unpleasant.”
He then started going through his notes. He described a book from the 1930’s called the ‘Encyclopeadia of Sexual Knowledge’. He read a quote he had copied.

‘We cannot end this study of homosexuality without making some mention of transvestism, even though that may not be a perversion of object in the exact sense. The patient who is afflicted by it identifies himself with the opposite sex just as much in his manner of dressing as in his ideals in general. He does not, however, necessarily have homosexual tendencies.’

I had read something similar in the textbook at the Moundsville library and worried so much at that time about what Jack was doing and a connection to homosexuality. Dr. Ellis explained.

“This is essentially your child but I doubt the link to homosexuality. This reference was describing adult males. But your child does identify with the opposite sex, dresses at times like the opposite sex and has the idea that he is the opposite sex, but it’s too early to be certain about homosexual tendencies.”

I had to ask. “So Jack won’t be homosexual?” That wasn’t the exact question I wanted to ask. If our cross dressing child wasn’t going to be homosexual, it was a relief but made me wonder what I knew in my heart he could not answer. If Jack continued on this path, continued to cross dress, what would he become?

“I really don’t know for sure but I don’t think so. I have a few patients, boys, his age and older who definitely show those tendencies, homosexual tendencies and I feel very comfortable saying your child is not like them. And I have only seen incidental cross-dressing in these boys. That may be some relief for you now but I just don’t know what it means as he gets older. Let me tell what else I found.”
He went back to his notes and read more.

‘Transvestism is a very frequent phenomenon, almost as frequent as homosexuality. Persons who have such a tendency usually conceal it very cleverly, so that their nearest relatives are often unaware of it. Moreover, they may lead an absolutely normal sexual life.’

He continued looking up over his glasses from time to time to see our reactions. I tried to form an image in my pea brain what that meant. An adult cross dressing man might have a ‘normal’ sexual life. Not in my bedroom.

‘The way in which transvestism is brought about raises the same problem as that of the origin of homosexuality. Some insist on its acquired character in the majority of cases, and believe that a too close attachment to the person of the mother often has something to do with the evolution of this tendency. On the other hand, Magnus Hirschfeld and his followers maintain that transvestism is not an acquired tendency, but that it is innate and simply becomes stronger as the subject advances in age. At all events, an apparently chance occurrence may suddenly cause it to attain complete development.’

“So there are probably a lot of men to do some cross dressing from time to time and sometimes, in the adult male, it becomes pronounced.” He explained. Don was shaking his head. I was desperately trying to keep the image of Don wearing one of my dresses out of my head. I almost didn’t hear the story Dr. Ellis was telling.

“I had one case, a year or so ago of a rather prominent Wheeling official, in his forties, who was pulled over by the police and was dressed completely as a woman. He avoided jail, and publicity but had to be in quote unquote treatment for a year.” Dr. Ellis chuckled thinking about it. “I let him bring clothes, women’s clothes, to his session and I would lock the door and he would dress up and we would talk. He’s doing fine now, I think, just being more careful.”

“Really!” Don exclaimed now so transfixed on what Dr. Ellis was saying that he seemed to forget about Jack and how it related to us personally.

“But I did find one reference to a boy, a young boy in Germany in the early 1900’s.” He continued shifting back to his notes. “In some cultures, Germany specifically, boys and girls are treated roughly the same when they are toddlers. You see boys in Germany usually wear a frock-like dress as children but it is replaced at age six. Let me read what I found.”

‘The child was remarkable only for his calm and reserve; he played alone and never troubled either adults or his playmates. It was only when his parents wished to replace the girl's dress, which is customary with very young children, by a boy's suit that the child became recalcitrant and fought with all his strength against having his clothes changed. He still wanted to wear a dress; nevertheless the parents insisted that the child, who was perfectly masculine in physical form, should wear trousers.’

He stopped reading from the passage he had copied. “This is troubling but I have to tell you. The boy then tried to hurt himself by tying a string tightly around his penis. This was discovered before serious damage was done but the boy said he wanted to get rid of it. Like your child he started wearing girls’ dresses, mostly of his sisters. The boy grew up and did well in school but never gave up his behavior. In this case the book said the boy’s sexual development was normal but that he did have homosexual tendencies. As an adult he started living as a woman.”

He paused. “Before you jump to conclusions please remember this is only one case. I found no others and you would have told me if your child tried to hurt himself.”

“Yes of course! He hasn’t.” I said confidently.

He then took another deep breath and continued.

“Are you ready for this? This man had himself castrated in 1921 and had his penis removed in 1930. There was an attempt to make an artificial vagina.”

I stood up and turned away from Dr. Ellis. Don sat motionless. Without turning around I said. “So you’re telling us that Jack is going to get worse and that he’ll be like that Christine person that’s been in the news and that there’s nothing else we can do? And if, if we ignore it, he could end up hurting himself?”

I had banished thoughts of any drastic measures for my little boy and didn’t dare think of what that Christine person did. I could accept everything else, the cross dressing, the hair, even a different name, but not that. I believed in my little boy and his girl feelings but the image of Jack trying to be an adult woman deeply hurt me; it was visceral.

“No, not exactly. I don’t know that. We can’t know that. And that’s the problem. We don’t know how Jack will end up and we don’t know what to do about this. The case from this book is very rare, I think. The Christine Jorgensen story is also rare. I just wanted you to know the worst case scenario. More likely Jack will adjust and find a balance that is acceptable and manageable. A balance he can live with and one you can live with, maybe like my other patient I told you about.”

Faith is sometimes a difficult thing to maintain and I momentarily lost mine. I turned back to Dr. Ellis, still standing. “Balance? I think what you mean is that he will never be normal, and could become uh, I don’t know, become a freak. Balance just means we deal with his abnormality. Jack will never be a normal boy, I’ve accepted that but he can’t become a normal girl, either, or a woman. I just don’t know how I can deal with something in between!”

I don’t know why I said those things. I thought I was a believer but obviously in my heart I must have hung onto hope that Jack could still be Jack at least partially. I felt Dr. Ellis was telling me he didn’t see this moderating or abating in any way. I started to cry.

“So what then do we do? I mean, what do we do for Jack now? What do we do in a year or two when he starts to develop? How does this work when a boy starts feeling sexual urges? What if he tries to hurt himself? How do you keep the balance then? What if he starts liking boys? What happens when he gets beat up or arrested? That’s what we need help with.” All I could do was ask questions and be emotional.

It was Don’s turn to console me. He took my hand and pulled me back down next to him. I just wanted to be told what to do and when to do it. I didn’t want to have to choose or to dictate Jack’s life to him. I wanted him to be able to go to school, have friends and enjoy becoming an adult, preferably a male one. I wanted to keep my son, not gain another daughter.

“That’s why I’m here, for you as you and your child goes through this. I just can’t tell you what you should do, now or later. I can tell you that you are unusual parents. Most would have walked out, or wouldn’t have come in the first place. I do think you are doing the right thing by not rejecting your child and how he feels. Your child may be rare and different and a challenge but I don’t see any psychiatric pathology. But many if not most of my peers would not agree with me. They would see the cross-dressing and acting out as deviate behavior that would call for that drastic and costly treatment.”

“Umm.” Don wisely said and with a sly look and shaking his head, he continued. “A boy thinking he is a girl sounds like pathology to me, and I’m damn well sure it would to everyone we know and most we don’t. But I am more than willing to skip the drastic treatment, and avoid the costly.”

“Skipping traditional treatment, Mr. Roberts, is one of the decisions you must make. It would signal that you embrace your child, as he or she is. It would be life changing and put you at odds with family, friends, and especially the medical community. Your child’s behavior is unacceptable in our society in public or if known. I think there are laws about men impersonating a woman. That would probably extend to boys. You would have little or no support, other than myself and perhaps someone like Carl Rogers. You would be isolated.” Dr. Ellis warned.

“You know doc.” Don said to the professional with particular intimacy. “I kind of like swimming upstream. Always have.” That was the first clue that the man who had been so certain and adamant before had shifted his thinking.

I had to step in. “Let’s say that we just continue. Where does that lead? Should we let him dress around the house? He’s got a brother and sister. Should we indulge him, buy him a dress? Or should we sit back and let him continue going up to the third floor all by himself dressing up? That couldn’t be good either?”

“I don’t have a road map. I don’t think being isolated would be healthy but I don’t know how it would work allowing him to express himself around you and the brother and sister. As hard as it will be you will have to decide. But I will say two things. I would favor indulgence in this case as opposed to repression, and openness as opposed to isolation. That’s just my psychiatric instinct here. Repression could bring pathology.”

“And the second?” I asked.

“We need to find a doctor who has personally worked with this, preferably with children. I have already written to my friend Carl Rogers. I explained what I knew before today. Now I will follow up and ask him if he knows anyone who has worked with a child like yours. Our only real choice is to do the heavy lifting; seek answers and challenge everything.” Then he gave us his last general advice.

“Give him choices. Encourage the things he likes to do as a boy, don’t repress girl behavior. See where this leads. I hope you will let me stay involved.” He concluded.

It seems that my husband liked to have things clear in his head before he drove off the cliff. “Ok, let me see if I understand. You’re suggesting we actually let this continue, that we indulge to some extent and that we buy into the notion, his notion, that he is what he clearly is not, a girl?”

“Think about it. You already have, to some extent. You listened when he reached out. You allowed him to express his feelings in a restricted area of your home, the third floor, while you tried to figure it out. Look you have already accepted your child as different, Mr. Roberts, not as a girl of course but you said it yourself. You said you loved him and could accept that he is, what word did you use, uh, ‘girlie’. You may not have realized it but you accepted that your son is girly.”

When you experience a moment like what Dr. Ellis just gave us, you can’t possibly comprehend how life changing it is. But that moment defined for us what course we would take, for me and especially for Don. For Don that moment resonated and his resistance seemed to melt.

We soon found ourselves in the doctor’s outer office where a tired little boy-girl had fallen asleep. Before I could reach him Don was there, gently shaking his different child, lovingly brushing his hair out of his eyes.

“Hey, time to wake up.” He whispered. “Come on, sit up and give me a hug.” Don said with a tear in his eye.

In one day the number of believers tripled and I breathed a sigh of relief. Now we just had to think about how we were going to live our lives with a child who insisted he was a girl and who had convinced three educated sane adults that he was right.

(Don does a reverse & with Miri impulsively go shopping.)

Choices

Chapter 20

“What!” I practically yelled much too loudly and, after I realized how many heads turned, whispered. “You’re suggesting we go shopping for a dress for our son! Remember. You’re the one who wanted to lock the third floor door. You practically called Dr. Ellis incompetent because he complimented Jack’s hair. You thought I was bonkers for buying him panties. Now you’re all in. Typical!”

Don’t get me wrong.

Besides being shocked by my husband’s complete turnaround (I think in his pilot’s parlance it was called a ‘180’), I was elated, and not just a little skeptical.

I was the first believer and was happy to have Don as an ally. I just thought we needed to be careful and very cautious. Going dress shopping for our boy on the spur of the moment was, to say the least, throwing it to the wind, caution that is. Assuming we bought into the Carl Rogers self-actualization theory about Jack, and we did, then we were taking on such a very huge burden. If we continued on this path we rather inadvertently started down, our lives would be completely turned upside down. We had no idea what challenges lay ahead, only that they were daunting to say the least. I felt some restraint was in order; some time to think, and pray to The Controller.

But this was typical Don Roberts. He wasn’t ever one who went with popular thinking. He seemed to pride himself on almost always taking an opposing view of whatever subject was being discussed. And when he decided on something he was always a ‘man the torpedoes’, let’s do it, no holds barred type of guy. That’s why I called him ‘all in Don’. He took a flying lesson and the next thing I knew we owned a Cessna 180. I wanted a home of our own after living, no make that sacrificing, the first fifteen years of our marriage with my parents, and he buys the biggest pile of red bricks in Moundsville. It might be excruciatingly difficult to convince Don of a point, but when you did, watch out.

Don was also not much of a father. That sounds terrible but he was, as I have probably already noted, more of a child himself. He really didn’t know how to say ‘no’ to our children. Tim wants to rebuild the engine of Don’s 1950 Chevy pick-up. Sure, go ahead. The boy is only fourteen but do it. Brenda wants to visit a college she’s interested in, actually visit the college where a boy she’s interested in goes. Sure and the next thing I know he’s gassed up the Cessna and they’re off for four days. Jack, well I actually didn’t have an example for Don indulging Jack, not yet.

Don, the father, was also a complete failure at administering discipline. Actually I don’t remember him even trying. Not once.

So for Don Roberts it was easier, and typical, to be all in.

Just three hours before I almost made a scene right there in Walgreen’s, the father didn’t want to be seen in Wheeling with his son, the boy in tight pants and very girl looking hair. Now he was all for buying him a dress of his own. I was a believer but this was beyond the pale. I agreed we had to work with Jack and see where this went. I was ready to lay out a plan, decide how and when to talk to our other children. As an adult I instinctively knew we needed to give Dr. Ellis more time with Jack, before we went ‘all in’.

Of course, I loved shopping, but this was Wheeling, and shopping with a boy for a dress would be, well, social suicide, not to mention inviting the scrutiny of the moral police. It would be just plain pathetic, instantly sensational and front page news. It might even evoke a new psychological term, ‘sociopathetic’. We just couldn’t take him into a store and look at dresses.

Before we landed in Walgreen’s we had been with Dr. Ellis for well over two hours and I desperately had to use the Ladies Room. When we got off the elevator I headed straight for the one in the lobby telling Don and Jack I would meet them in Walgreen’s.

After all that Dr. Ellis told us my mind was spinning. I needed a cigarette and could use a stiff scotch but was not likely to get either right away (I tried not to smoke in public; it wasn’t ladylike.) I was trying to sort through all of what we had learned, how the session ended with my husband seemingly convinced his son would never be a typical boy and accepting it.

I felt we were living some strange Alfred Hitchcock story. What is this wanting to be the opposite sex? I went into the stall and pulled up my skirt and struggled with my girdle thinking about Jack wanting to be a girl, maybe even looking forward to growing up to become a woman. It wasn’t easy, I thought, and if he knew just what a woman went through, just to go to the bathroom, he might be cured. Maybe I should give Jack a lesson or two on what he would face, I considered. Boys had it so easy. Why would anyone want to go through this if they didn’t have to?

I made a mental note to talk to Jack about that. If we were going to let matters progress I should even show him what I go through, just to go out of the house. Hair, makeup, stockings, hooks, clothes; everything had to be perfect and while he may be all dreamy about a girl’s slip or dress, it mostly wasn’t fun. Maybe some reality would cure him. I told myself to ask Don what he thought. Sure I loved getting dolled up and loved being a woman but there was that monthly problem and sex can be, well… What was I thinking? Jack’s a boy. He has boy parts not girl parts. He’s not going to have periods or grow up, get married and have sex like a girl and I shouldn’t have been thinking it.

I pulled myself together, washed my hands and applied some fresh lipstick. I stared at the woman in the mirror. I liked what I saw. I wasn’t Loretta Young beautiful but I was definitely attractive. I still turned a few heads and men often flirted with me. I liked to dress well and could afford it.

I looked closer at the image. What was this girl–boy thing? I had never questioned my own existence before; never questioned who I was, what I was; never thought about self-actualization. It was a given. I was who I was; a woman, married with three children. Simple. End of story. I tried to think about what it would be like; being a boy, or man actually. The thought made me laugh out loud; it was silly, ridiculous. ‘Why did Jack feel this way’, I then wondered. I had never really known anyone who questioned who they were, at least not as a man or woman. Now I was the mother of a child who adamantly was questioning who he, or now I had to consider, who she was.

Boys are boys, girls are girls. That’s clear from birth. We give them a male or female name, toys to match and we dress them appropriately to their sex at birth and it all works out. Except this time it didn’t; this time everything is upside down. Why me? Why Jack? Were we really going to be indulging parents? What was wrong with us?

I heard the door to the Ladies Room open and a young mother brushed in with her daughter, seven or eight, a little younger than Jack. The girl was wearing a cute dress with full skirt, long sleeves and white collar, and black Mary Jane’s with white socks. She had shoulder length hair. I saw a little of Jack in her. I couldn’t control my next thought. Maybe it wasn’t a girl at all; maybe the mom had a boy like Jack and she just let the child go out dressed so perfectly as a girl. At eight or nine and with long hair who could really tell. The thought almost made me ill. Almost in a panic I rushed out of the ladies room and found my husband and my son, like the children they were, sitting together blowing bubbles through their straws into Cokes.

* * *

We ordered club sandwiches, Jack tomato soup and grilled cheese, and after we were served, we started talking about what to do. Don immediately started pushing the proverbial envelope without hesitation.
“What’s next?” He began.

Jack was sitting next to Don. He looked at his Dad, then over at me, waiting for an answer.

“Let’s think about this and talk at home later.” I suggested but sensed something more than the coffee was brewing.

I watched my son. He hardly looked like a boy but wasn’t dressed like a girl. I imagined how he would look if he were wearing a dress right that moment and concluded that no one would really be the wiser. No, he didn’t have the long hair the girl in the ladies room had, but the face, and the way he sat with his hands perfectly folded in his lap, was so unlike any boy I knew. But that is what scared me and that is why I had to be on guard for any full speed ahead approach. For me it wasn’t a matter of belief but a matter of protection. Some faith is rewarded, some persecuted. Being open and blatant invited persecution. We had to find a way to survive in Moundsville, at least until we had more answers.

Jack looked back at his Dad. “Miri, we are in this now.” He pitched. “Dr. Ellis was clear about our choices. Either we put the kibosh on Jack with something like that aversion crap or we give him, uh,” Don paused and looked at Jack, “uh her some latitude.” Jack actually blushed and I almost choked on my sandwich. Don ‘My Son Will Never Be a Sissy’ Roberts was actually using the feminine pronoun with Jack in public. I was literally in disbelief and moved ‘circle the wagons’ to the top of my metaphor list.

“Look Miri, we don’t have an alternative now.” Don continued leaning across the table whispering, trying not to let Jack or anyone else hear him. “I’ve not always been a good father to this kid, Miri. I took Tim fishing, twice, and I dote on Brenda all the time. But this one, for whatever reason, I’ve just almost ignored. You know that. I don’t know, maybe I somehow knew he was different and I was afraid. But dammit if he’s going to be girly then I’m going to be in her corner.” He concluded mixing pronouns. I had a feeling that the future would bring a lot of pronoun confusion.

“She needs a sign from us. She needs to know we are with her.” Don said confidently, this time being consistent with pronouns, putting his hand gently on Jack’s shoulder. I got the distinct feeling that I had been set up. Don obviously preempted me when I was indisposed in the ladies room, bonding with Jack, the girl. Now he was the good father and I was the problem. How quickly had our roles reversed. I called a time out and sent Jack to look at magazines and then started in on my ‘all in’ husband.

“What! You’re suggesting we go shopping for a dress for our son?”

That’s exactly what he was suggesting. After I reminded him of his previous hard position and contrasted that with his complete turnaround, he challenged me.

“Why not? Look at him, her. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it before but dammit he’s never going to make it as a boy or a man. Let’s go get her a dress, one that she can call her own.”

“Don, we can’t waltz into Stone and Thomas and let Jack try on dresses. You’ve completely lost it. Don, I’ve shopped there with Brenda, many times. People know me and they know I only have one daughter.”

“We’ll tell them she’s our niece.” He proposed.

“No!” I said emphatically. “Don, I haven’t thought this through and obviously neither have you. I thought that today we were going to hear how we get Jack from thinking girl all the time to actually somehow accepting being a boy, at least partially so he can survive. Now all of a sudden we are advised to just let him, or her, explore this. I’m not against that but I just don’t know how that will work. I really love Dr. Ellis and I trust him but, well, we have to go slow, Don.”

“And besides,” I added trying to counter his suggestion. “I doubt you’re prepared to see Jack in a dress. It’s a shock. It was for me and I know it will be for you.”

“Perspective, Miri. It’s just a matter of how you view it. If I don’t think about Jack as a boy, don’t focus on the obvious, I could easily handle that kid in a dress.” He pointed to Jack looking rather androgynous holding the recent copy of Teen Magazine. I did that. I ignored the obvious the previous Saturday in the privacy of my own bathroom with Jack nearly naked when I trimmed his hair, even when I caught a glimpse. Trying not to focus on the obvious hiding underneath a dress in the girl’s department of Stone and Thomas would, no doubt, be more difficult.

I actually thought Don was bluffing and that he would never be that bold. He was a gambler, gambled with stock, invested in a down real estate market. But he made money at both and was able to pay cash for our pile of bricks, our home, and I don’t think he borrowed any money to buy the Cessna. I had played poker with Don both literally and figuratively, losing everything but my panties during the literal experience. I was so tempted to call his bluff but I knew that I would lose big and just couldn’t risk it. But he continued, pushing.

“Miri, I know you want to.” He continued. “Admit it. You loved doing Jack’s hair Saturday and while you claim you were forced into buying the panties she’s probably wearing right now, you loved doing that, loved doing something almost sinful. It was powerful, wasn’t it, buying panties for your little boy?” He chided me enjoying making me sound like, and feel like, a sinful debauching mother. “You even bought the bra too and now she’s wearing it. Wouldn’t you like to see her try on a fancy dress? Who would ask any questions?”

I stewed for much too long. I didn’t know if Don was serious, or just pushing my buttons. I could never win with Don when he completely put me on the spot but he was at least partially right. I did enjoy fixing Jack’s hair and I did like buying him the panties and bra. Was that so wrong? Was it my fault that this child was like this? I was just being a mother, wasn’t I?

“I don’t like you when you see through me.” I finally answered. “Who would ask questions? Anyone who knew us, who knew Jack. Don, I’m on a first name basis with half the people at Stone and Thomas. Somebody would know the girl with us is Jack. And I’m starting to think you are getting some kind of kick here too. Either something about a sissy son is perversely exciting you, or you’re trying to rankle me.” I charged. “Of course I enjoyed fixing her hair and buying the panties and bra, and I would enjoy shopping with, uh. You know she has a name don’t you?” Don’s confident intimidating expression changed indicating Jack didn’t tell his father her name. “She goes by Becky, Don. Get used to it.” Now I felt I was gaining the upper hand.

“Anyway we are not taking our whatever, boy, girl into a store and try on dresses. Not today and not for a long time if ever. We have so much to figure out and we need to take this one step at a time. Here’s what we are going to do. I’m going to buy a tube of Brylcreem and fix his hair like a boy. We are going and look at dresses in Stone and Thomas, just look. You and Jack are going to pretend to be miserable doing it. And on the way home we are going to set some rules about what he can do and what she can’t.” I dictated, intentionally mixing pronouns.

He grinned, figuratively folding his hand. “You win. But we have to do more than just look. I practically promised her a dress.” I do not understand how or why both Don and I so easily could use the female pronoun with our son but it began that very day.

“Oh, so that’s it. Did you lead her to believe she would get to try it on?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well she isn’t.” I told him standing to end the discussion. Don paid for lunch and soon we were out on the street heading for the big department store.

* * *
“Hold still!” I commanded. I had not calculated how difficult it would be to re-style Jack’s hair in public. I almost pulled him into the ladies room (the same one where I saw the little girl with her mother and thought how easy at this age it would be for a boy to look like a girl) but thought better of it, and then found a relatively quiet corner of the lobby. Still I felt the prying eyes of people coming and going. After applying a heavy amount of the Brylcreem goop to his hair, I combed it like I had done before. I still had trouble seeing the boy. Don was right, it was perspective and I was quickly losing any perspective that my child was anything but a girl. How was I going to stay neutral?

I lectured Jack while we walked to Stone and Thomas hoping Don would also get some benefit. I told them that for the time being, actually for the rest of Jack’s life, he would have to hide this truly unique thing he felt. (I fortunately didn’t have to think about pronouns using the neutral ‘you’.) At school he would have to hide how he felt inside.

“I’ve been doing that.” He noted.

“And whatever space we are able to give you, you’ll just somehow have to ignore that you are not exactly like other girls.” I said trying not to let people on the street hear me.

“I’ve been doing that, too.” He answered.

I instructed Jack to pretend to be miserable in the store while I looked at dresses and suggested he rub his right eye if I held up something he really likes. He thought the game would be fun and almost pulled me onto the elevator leading up to the second floor and the girls’ department.

Of course, as soon as I started looking an older sales lady, one I had dealt with many times before, approached.

“May I assist you?” She said rather formally. “Uh, Mrs. Roberts, isn’t it?”

“Yes, thank you for remembering. How are you?”

“Just fine. Are you shopping for your daughter?”

Without thinking I almost turned to introduce Jack who, fortunately, was trying to look sad standing behind his father. But I caught myself.

“Oh no. My niece is coming to stay with us for a while. I shouldn’t tell you this but my brother can’t seem to hold a job, and they are losing their home. Well, what could we do? Becky is going to live with us through the school year and poor thing, she just has nothing to wear.”

I didn’t have a brother much less a niece. I had no idea I could fabricate such blatant lies so quickly. It was rather fun though.

“And is that your husband and…” She asked looking over to Don and Jack who were now sitting in chairs trying to look uninterested.

“Yes.” I answered quickly before she mistakenly called my child a daughter. I doubted she would but in that split second I had to interrupt. “My husband, Don and my son, Jack.”

“And your niece, Becky, isn’t with you?” The sales lady pried glancing toward Don and Jack.

“She’s coming Friday. I wanted to have something to surprise her.” I continued lying.

“Of course. Yes, take something home and if it doesn’t fit, bring her in Saturday and we will make her look wonderful. I’ll be here. It is so nice of you to do that for your family.” She said validating my sin.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Don, up from his chair, looking at a rack of dresses and sensed disaster. He was being far too aggressive for a man, a father and was boldly looking at dresses more appropriate for his real daughter, the one already through puberty. He would take a dress off a rack, hold it up, obviously so Jack, resisting getting off the chair, could see it, and then he would put it back. He paid no attention to size. I worried he was drawing attention so I took over this process.

I motioned for him to join me and whispered to him to control himself. I went through several dresses and after rejecting a few found a very sweet but basic dress. It was stylish but not too dressy. It would be a nice dress for school but if it became Jack’s it likely didn’t have anything remotely academic in its future, except perhaps being worn while our Becky did her homework on the third floor, or maybe in her room. It was dark blue with mid-length puff sleeves and a full skirt. It had a tight neck line with a cute white color. It buttoned in the back to the waist.

Jack beamed and I frowned. He understood and called over to me.

“Mom, I’m tired, when are we going home?” He rubbed his right eye and tried to look bored. What an actor, or should I say actress.

I showed the dress to Don and we looked at each other. Don tried not to look at Jack and nodded his head. I checked the size. I went through the rack and found a size six and hoped that would be close enough. I told Jack and Don to stay there while I took the dress to the sales counter. The dowdy sales lady came over and I asked her to hold it while I looked further but then instinctively asked.

“Do you think a size 6 is right for an eleven year old?”

“For an eleven year old? I doubt it.” She responded. “Is your niece a small girl or, uh large? She would be at that age where girls start to grow faster than boys and start to change.” She said quietly.

“I haven’t seen her since Thanksgiving but she is smallish, not tall. I don’t think she’s started yet. She’s about the same size as Jack.” I said too quickly looking over at my son.

“Stand up Jack.” I commanded so the sales lady could evaluate his build and height. “Yes, I would say they are almost exactly the same. That will change soon.” I added and then chuckled.

“Well, I think a size six is too small. She would be an 8 or perhaps a 10.” With that the overly helpful sales lady returned the size 6 I had picked out to the rack and brought back both a girl’s size 8 and size 10.

“Hold these up to your son. I’m sure he won’t mind.” She said looking at Jack standing with his arms folded in front of him. She smiled almost mischievously probably getting some pleasure out of tormenting a boy like that.

“Come over here Jack.” I said trying not to make eye contact with him. He did and I held each dress against him. I watched him try to hide his excitement and was proud he did.
“Maybe he sould try one on.” I teased looking at the sale lady and laughing.

“Oh I don’t think that would be appropriate, or allowed.” She said clearly thinking I was not at all serious. “I would go with the ten.”

My unpredictable husband was enjoying himself. I gave him a wink and found my way to the girls’ undergarment area. Something came over me and I couldn’t just buy a dress, especially after the story I fed the sales lady. I picked out a cotton full slip, also size ten. It had lots of lace trim around the bottom of the slip’s skirt and on the straps. It also had darts, small ones that would accommodate the beginning of breast development. Becky could wear her bra with it perfectly. I then picked up two pair of white socks and three pair of cotton panties. Becky was going to be able to dress as if she were going to school even though I doubted that would ever happen. Finally, I picked out a sweet nightgown. It was long with no waist and high neck. It was nylon but not frilly.

I took my armload to the counter where the sales lady patiently waited.

“Will that be all?” She said warmly. “We have some winter dresses on sale already and your niece can’t wear this dress much until spring.” She suggested trying to increase sales. It worked. She showed me what was on sale and I ended up with two long sleeve dresses and a pair of leggings. I was out of control.

With my pile of things on the sales counter I pulled my Stone and Thomas charge plate out of my purse and handed it to the sales lady. She took it and fit it in the imprint press and placed a sales receipt form on top. She made the impression and started to write up the items handing the charge plate back to me.

“Thank you, Mrs. Roberts.” She said as she wrote. I felt Don standing behind me. “Jesus, Miri.” He whispered. “I really only promised one dress. What about stockings and shoes? Another bra?” Don’s sarcasm was his strong suit. I put my hand on his lips and turning away from the sales lady told him.

“Don’t temp me. It was your suggestion but she’s too young for stockings, or even a bra. You should know better than suggest I go shopping.”

I was both acting and thinking just like the mother of an eleven year old daughter. In that store at that moment I had unconsciously switched Jack, the son, to Becky, the daughter. She was too young for a bra, at least for the one I let her have and that she was wearing. I turned and quickly headed over where the bras were and picked up a 30 AA Teen Form training bra (appropriately called Lucky Start) and added it to the pile, giving Don a tempting smile.

Of course Jack was excited but behaved himself. He pretended not to be interested but I knew better. The sales lady put the accessories in one bag and the dresses each in a paper dress bag. When she finished she handed the bags to me and looked at Jack, then at me. I fell into a moment of guilt and defensiveness.

“He can’t wait to see his cousin. They’re the same age.” I blurted out.

“That’s so nice.” She cooed. “I’m sure they will have fun playing together. Have a nice day.” She added as we made our escape.

* * *
A cloud of guilt hung over me on the way home. Jack sat in the back seat clutching the bags of girl things we bought for his alter self, Becky, as if someone might take them from her. For the longest time no one said anything and then it seemed we all wanted to talk at the same time.

“Are you happy?” Don spoke first, looking into the rear view mirror at his child, who had fished my hair brush out of my purse and was trying to remake her hair without success due to the vast amount of crude oily glop clinging to each strand.

“You know this doesn’t mean you can just dress as Becky all the time, don’t you?” I told her, him.

“Right.” Don added, returning to his natural pragmatic state. “I know we got carried away, Jack, and we want you to enjoy the clothes and have fun, but, uh, well, there are two problems, as I see it.”

“Yes, daddy. Today was almost how I thought it would be.” Jack said responding to his father’s first question. “And I know mommy that it will take a while for people to get to know Becky.” She said responding to my restriction. “Maybe next year I can go to school as Becky.”

“What!” Don and I yelled in unison, both turning toward the back seat to look at the eleven year old.

“Don, watch the road!” I almost screamed seeing a bus coming toward us out of the corner of my eye. He corrected in time while I tried to regain my composure. This was the problem I had feared. This self-actualization thing Dr. Ellis talked about seemed actually, association noted, to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, or perhaps better stated, a faith-fulfilling prophecy. Your child claims to ‘actually’ be the sex opposite from the one at birth, and then somehow convinces you it’s true. You become a believer, and the next thing you know you are buying dresses and using the feminine pronoun. And the child starts thinking the dream is being ‘fulfilled’ and plans on a complete switch, at home, school and church. Miracle or blind faith, I didn’t know but there was not going to be a complete switch. That miracle could not happen.

It was all too much for me and reality came roaring back in a stream of verbal consciousness. “No, no, no, and no. Becky will not be going to school, or church or out of the house.” I started, invoking the third person to the boy in the back seat. “Becky has to stay in the shadows. Jack goes to school and Jack has friends, boy friends, friends who are boys who have no idea about Becky. Jack plays basketball and marbles or whatever else he does with his friends. Becky can have time to herself. Becky doesn’t get to have friends. What am I saying? This is crazy.” I realized that I was rambling.

“Don, are you listening? Are we really doing this? Did you just talk me into buying a dress for Jack?” I charged.

“Three dresses, a slip, a nightgown, panties and leggings. I only suggested one dress.” The driver responded factually.

“Becky.” The child in the back seat spoke up also correcting me.

“Right. Rebecca Katherine. Why didn’t you tell me you had a name before, a girl’s name? And where did it come from?” I asked turning completely turnaround facing the child in the back seat who now had her hair brushed forward covering half of her face. “And how am I supposed to keep the names straight?” I asked rhetorically of neither Jack or Becky.

“Becky comes from Becky Thatcher from Tom Sawyer. Her name was Rebecca but Tom and Huck called her Becky. She’s pretty and really liked Tom. She’s such a girl but goes out and does stuff with Tom and Huck.”

“Oh!” I said trying to process another revelation. I felt like I failed as a mother. So many things about this child I didn’t know and should have.

“And Katherine is from Katherine Hepburn. I just love her movies. She’s sassy and beautiful. I’m going to be sassy and beautiful when I grow up.” She announced.

“Just don’t be sassy yet.” I mumbled then continued the stream of verbal nonsense allowing doubt to creep back into my conscious thinking. Don drove so much more cautiously than he acted in the store.

“Jack, this Becky thing, well, it doesn’t happen. Moms and dads don’t let their boys do what we are letting you do. It’s, uh it’s bizarre. And if it wasn’t for Dr. Ellis we probably wouldn’t either. Dad and I just don’t know why we are doing this, allowing you to explore this Becky thing. Maybe we shouldn’t but we are, and you have to believe in us as much as we believe in you. And we do believe, both of us. But I’ve told you no one else is going to. You have to trust us and listen to us and help us. I don’t know what your brother and sister will say but we have to tell them, have to convince them. Dr. Ellis told us things that are terrible, about what could happen and if anyone found out about Becky and that we are letting her run around the house in a dress, well, that would be the end. And we don’t know what’s going to happen. We don’t know how you can be Becky in the future. Maybe things will change, I don’t know. Maybe, when you get older, this won’t be so important, once you start, uh, once you start changing.”

“Mom, I’m not going to change.” Came a meek reply from the back seat.

“I meant once your body starts to change, like Tim’s.” I reminded him, her. It wasn’t as if my third child was oblivious to the changes boys, and girls, go through beginning at about his age, but it was obvious he didn’t like the topic.

“Maybe I won’t become like Tim.” She answered me, this time more forcefully. It sounded as if she considered it a choice, and I suppose we had given her every reason to believe there was a power that could make certain miracles come true, as well as insulate her from becoming what she dreaded. I decided not to argue with her but saw so clearly how thin the ice was that we had skated onto with the girl in the back seat of our car.

As we approached our home that afternoon after a day of enlightenment and indulgence, dark clouds rolled in over the Ohio Valley and seemed to hover over Moundsville. To me they were an ominous sign from God the Controller, direct to me, that before we could bask in sunshine and warmth there would be darkness, storms, hardship and sacrifice as well as a deep freezing cold.

It was so easy to be frivolous and indulging for a couple of hours in Wheeling but I knew there would be an unrelenting price to be paid in Moundsville. The child in the back seat of our Oldsmobile was oblivious to the clouds and the storm threat. She seemed not to notice the cold wind swirling outside. But Don and I did and our moods concurrently went from confident optimism to resigned gloom as we pulled into our driveway.

(Miri returns to telling her story of discovering her child is different and dealing with it. In this chapter Miri and Don try to make some plans for the future and then break the news about their sibling to their other two children.)

Choices

Chapter 21

As it turned out the ominous foreboding dark clouds that rolled in over us as we drove home from Wheeling with the happy boy/girl in the backseat were not just symbolic. They dumped several inches of snow on Moundsville Tuesday night covering the permanent layer of dirt, soot and grime constantly falling on us from the mills and factories of the Ohio Valley. The snow was accompanied by strong winds and near zero temperatures. It was time to have faith, to remind myself that I was a believer.

My husband and I talked at length in bed that night, cuddling close to keep warm in that Victorian house that was never warm enough and listening to the wind and blowing snow, first about our weakness and lack of restraint earlier that day, and then about how we would proceed. We did not, however, second guess ourselves. That would come later. If anything, after going over what Dr. Ellis told us, we accepted we had a very unique child and needed to dedicate ourselves to making a safe environment for him/her to grow and mature, blindly hoping there would be a place in the world for person with a body opposite personality, or gender as we were now aware of. As Don said to me almost religiously in the dark, “We weren’t placed on earth to force any of our children to be what was expected; just to be what they were, nothing more nothing less”. It was rare that Donald Roberts gave any credit to God if that is what he was doing. I felt so warm and secure in his arms that night.

We did rationalize our position, however. We justified indulging Jack, or Becky as Don and I now agreed to call our third child when we were talking alone, on pure logic. If Jack’s firm protestations that he really was a girl, somehow wired female in his psyche, were correct, we would do irreversible harm if we were restrictive, if we tried to change him, her . On the other hand, if this were a phase, or a fantasy, or some other temporary condition, indulgence now would help uncover that, and any harm would, we told ourselves, be minimal and more conducive to correction later. In short, if it were a phase it would work its way out.

We decided our first priority had to be enlightening our two other children. With Becky likely wearing a nightgown to bed and sharing a bathroom with Tim it was just a matter of time before I would be awakened in the middle of the night by screams, and probably laughter. The plan we concocted to tell them was to have a family night out, so to speak, as soon as possible. The plan as we hatched it was to gather the boys after school in Moundsville on Friday, drive to Wheeling and pick up Brenda at the Mount, where she spent the week in boarding school, thankfully, and go out to dinner. In a public place we felt we could quietly explain to Tim and Brenda that their brother felt more like a sister. The atmosphere, we hoped, would dampen the drama Brenda would predictably show, and lessen the hilarious reaction by Tim, the complete and confident boy’s boy.

Next we considered if we should even try to expand the circle of believers beyond the five of us, as well as John Benson and of course Dr. Ellis. We unanimously agreed that we needed as much time as possible before we said anything to anyone about Jack and that if possible, keep what we were doing a total secret.

We agreed that eventually we would have to tell my parents something. I noted rather forcefully my distrust of my mother, The Supreme Methodist, being able to be understanding and accepting, or keeping her mouth shut. Grace would turn on me in a heartbeat and tell anyone listening on the phone, connected in 1956 to at least 6 of her neighbors through a ‘party line’, what an awful sinful mother I turned out to be. And it would kill my father, the wonderful grandfather who doted on his grandsons, whose very existence alleviated his disappointment of fathering only one child, a girl, and who took every opportunity to malign any boy who showed the slightest sissy tendencies. I had no idea how we could keep our secret from either of them but knew we had to try.

We discussed other likely problems, like my Aunt Lottie who lived near us, within walking distance and regularly stopped by, and Don’s mother, who also lived close but never did. And school; what would I tell Jack’s teacher when she inevitably asked about Jack missing every other Tuesday to see Dr. Ellis and why he was looking so different? Of course there was always the problem of church and the nosey Birdie Bozwell, the wife of our minister, John Bozwell. Birdie was like a Christian pit-bull, sinking her teeth into someone’s personal problem revealed by the slightest hint of un-Christian (in her eyes) behavior until every sordid detail is naked before God and everyone else. After Jack’s magnificent performance in the Christmas Play as The Angel, wearing that lacy gown, Birdie would be watching us, I was sure.

Church was the ultimate social microscope. We couldn’t stop attending; that would bring more scrutiny. We had to continue the weekly ritual; Sunday best, same pew, same prayer and those insidious judgmental sermons from John Bozwell. It would be putting Jack on display, and on the spot, every week, forcing him to wear the suit, and tie, and fix his hair with the Brylcreem. We had no other choice.

So with a sigh and clinging to each other, we were resigned to one very real and probable fact. It wouldn’t be long before Moundsville discovered that the Roberts family was hiding something and we needed to prepare for the inevitable. We guessed that maybe we would have a few weeks, perhaps until the end of the school year before someone figured out that we had a “deviate” child and that Don and I were enabling. No amount of explaining would keep us from scandal and ruin. We held each other in the dark daring not to say what that would be like, or what the result would be. We understood, without uttering a word, why parents would take a completely different, acceptably repressive, course with a child like Jack.

That’s when Don said loudly that our only chance was to leave.

“Miri, we have to somehow get out of Moundsville.”

I’m sure he could feel me nod my head resting on his chest. That thought had crossed my mind too but it seemed out of the question. Everything that we were centered on Moundsville, not the least was the business, the thing that paid the bills and allowed us to keep up with the doctors and lawyers. We couldn’t pick that up and move and Don had never held a job, never worked for anyone but himself. Don’s grandfathers, both of them, came to Moundsville and made good. My ancestors literally were some of the first settlers in Marshall County. We lived our whole lives in Moundsville, married and raised our family there, up until now.

Where would we go, the business was there, and even if we did go somewhere, we would still have the same issue, a boy who wanted to be a girl. We just couldn’t go to some other town and try to pass Jack off as a girl, a daughter, especially with puberty just around the corner. Staying seemed hopeless; leaving seemed out of the question. We just couldn’t decide anything until we had more information from Dr. Ellis. When we finally drifted off to sleep shielded from the drifting snow outside our bedroom window, we had made no plans other than to talk to our other children about their brother/sister. We knew would awaken in the morning to significantly different lives.

* * *

But nothing was different Wednesday morning, except the several inches of snow and the bone-chilling wind. I still had to get the boys off to school. Boys? How could I not consider they were both boys when I would be sending them out the door in shirt, pants, boots, gloves, coat and scarves, all clearly made and tailored for boys? Both were reluctant to go but for different reasons. I’m sure Jack wanted Tim to go to school while he stayed home as Becky. Tim looked tired and nibbled at his breakfast and whined, which I took as a ruse to stay home.

Schools closed early Wednesday and Jack came bounding through the back door excited about having ‘Third Floor Time’, as we now called it like it was code from the plot of a foreign film. Tim didn’t come bounding through the door. Tim came home with a fever of 102 and a cough that sounded like a Mack truck. He went to bed; Jack went to the third floor but came back down shortly almost blue from the cold. The third floor had no separate heat and was barely above freezing considering how cold it had become outside. It was not a place at that time of the year conducive to trying on dresses. I let her take one dress to her bedroom and close the door on the condition she stayed there and did homework. With Tim in bed asleep I felt it was safe.

* * *

I called Dr. Benson as soon as I took Tim’s temperature and he said he would stop by to examine Tim later that afternoon. I had not seen John for a couple of weeks but he knew I had been to see Dr. Ellis. He did not know that Don and I had been to see him (Dr. Ellis) with Jack.

I was in the basement doing laundry when the doorbell rang. I forgot that Becky was likely in one of her new dresses, in her room for the first time, and called up to ‘Jack’ to get the door. He was closer than I, and I was in the middle of transferring wet clothes to the dryer. I realized my error and rushed to the front door just in time to see Becky, in one of the long sleeve dresses she now owned and sporting the leggings underneath for warmth, pull the big oak door open.

I guess the good news was that the person on the other side of the door was the only other one in Moundsville who knew our son was prone to cross dressing, and not my aunt or, God forbid, one of the many gossips who roamed the streets of our town. Dr. Benson stood there, frozen, not only by the extreme weather but also by the sight of the person who opened the door for him, a person he knew from birth as a boy. Becky looked every bit a girl and had fixed her hair nicely with a ribbon. I obviously reacted, much too defensively and harshly, telling Becky to go to her room, not allowing for an extended examination by the doctor. He watched her scurry up the stairs before he said anything.

“Well, Miri.” He exclaimed after the door closed stopping the wind and snow from invading the house. “It appears you are not as distraught about Jack as when we talked last.” He said almost sarcastically.

“I’ll explain later.” I said trying not to make eye contact. I knew we didn’t have time to talk. He was busy and was on a house call. I told him about Tim and led him up to his bedroom. Tim was asleep but sat up coughing, with pain, when I awakened him. The diagnosis turned out to be pleurisy, not pneumonia as I suspected. He was given a shot of penicillin and excused from school the rest of the week.

On the way out Dr. Benson gave me a reassuring hug. He told me that he understood and would always support us.

* * *

I called Brenda Wednesday evening at 8 o’clock as I always did; there was only one phone in the dorm and calls from home were scheduled. I told her about Tim and said mindlessly that due to his illness and the weather our family meeting (yes, I used the word meeting) would have to be postponed.

“What meeting?” She naturally asked since I had not mentioned it before.

“Oh, well dear. Your father and I just thought it might be good for all of us to just go out for dinner and talk.” I said. “It will have to be next week now with the weather so bad. I’m not sure you will be able to come home this weekend unless Papa is in Wheeling Friday and can take you to the farm.”

“I don’t want to go to the farm.” She announced and then continued. “Talk? “What’s wrong? Is it Jack? Everything is about Jack anymore?” She fired too rapidly for me to answer any one of the questions before the next hit me. What could I do? I couldn’t lie to her.

“It’s about our family, all of us.” I paused hoping she would be satisfied with that. She wasn’t.

“Ok. It’s either Jack or oh my god, it’s you and daddy.” True to Brenda’s penchant for drama she started crying. “You’re getting divorced, aren’t you?” She guessed.

“No, no. That’s not it at all. Honey, we just need to talk, do some planning for the future, college and things.” I tried. Brenda composed herself showing the range of her acting ability.

“Nope. I don’t buy that. It is about Jack, and what he does on the third floor.” She confidently asserted. So I admitted it, sort of.

“Yes, it is about Jack but it is about how we deal with it, as a family.” I said but couldn’t continue because she reacted so quickly.

“I knew it. Mom, I’m glad. I’m glad you finally know.” I wanted to say something but couldn’t and let her continue. “I knew Jack was doing things, weird things but didn’t want to get him in trouble. I thought he was getting into my things so I arranged things in my drawer, where my panties are, just right and sure enough something had been moved.”

Our scheduled time was almost up so I tried to end the conversation.

“That won’t happen again, Brenda. We’re getting help.” I told her.

“Good, I love Jack and just want him to be ok.”

“We do too, honey, and that’s what we have to talk about, this weekend, weather permitting.”

* * *

The weather did not permit. Actually it got colder on Thursday and a new storm added three more inches of snow Friday. Brenda did not make it home for the weekend. With everyone in Moundsville except Don nearly house bound I was on the phone nearly all day Thursday. Both Jack and Tim were home; Tim still sick in bed and Becky in her room doing whatever pre-teen girls do. I did not see her all day.
What’s important is that I made no phone calls and each time the phone rang I raced to answer hoping it was Don telling me he was coming home. With all the weather related issues to the rentals I hardly saw him until Saturday.

The Supreme Methodist called first, early Thursday morning. I had not talked to my mother since church on Sunday when she asked about Tim’s still black eye. So I listened to her sermon barely saying a word until she turned to criticizing my children and by extension, me.

“He’s so hostile, Miriam.” She proclaimed falsely about Tim. Tim was sometimes abrupt especially to my mom and dad, but hostile he wasn’t. “I worry about him.” She continued. My mother worried about all my children since we left the farm. She couldn’t see how I could raise them by myself, without her, and she looked for every reason to prove her point.

“And Jack.” She said moving on to my next failure. “What in the world is going on with that boy?” I really wanted to tell her about Becky but calculated that doing so would at least bring on heart failure and with the weather so bad no one could get to the farm in time to save her.

“Jack’s fine.” I tried instead.

“Well he doesn’t look fine. Miriam he’s so frail. Is he eating?”

“Mom he’s only eleven and he’s always been small. You can’t compare Jack to Tim, mom. Tim’s a big boy.”

“That’s my point, Miriam. Something’s not right. You should take him to see a specialist. There’s a doctor in Wheeling who helped the Thatcher boy. He wasn’t growing and they found some kind of tumor.”

“Mom, Jack is fine. He doesn’t have a tumor. Dr. Benson looked him over just last month.” I said defensively.

“Well, your father hasn’t said anything to you, yet, but he’s upset that you let Jack wear his hair like some delinquent. Miriam, it would make dad so happy if you cut Jack’s hair.”

“Mom, we are trying to raise our children to be independent. Have you read Dr. Spock?” I asked knowing my mother’s reading was limited to The Readers Digest, The Upper Room and the Bible.

“No I have not. Dr. Spock is just a bunch of hooey. Kids need discipline, good Christian discipline and letting a boy have long hair will lead to trouble. Mark my words. That boy is going to cause you a lot of heartache if you don’t set some rules.” She said emphatically.

“Jesus had long hair.” I countered not really trying to antagonize her but knowing it would. I still do not know how all the depictions of Christ Jesus showed him white, bearded and with shoulder length hair since he lived several hundred years before Kodak started selling Brownie cameras. How did Christians know how he looked, I wondered.

“Don’t be disrespectful of the Lord, Miriam. There were different customs then and you are not helping Jack by letting him look like a….”

“A what?” I interrupted.

“Well, Miriam, let’s just say he's not looking like any of the other boys.” She said and I let the conversation end.

The irony of her chastisement was that during all those years we lived with my parents, when the children were little, my mother gave them anything they wanted (brown sugar sandwiches in their school lunch boxes, or cookies for breakfast) and I was the one who had to set some boundaries.

Hilda Benson then called. I loved Hilda and we were close but it was a little unusual for her to call. I wondered how much she knew and had to assume her husband, the doctor whom Becky opened the door to the day before, had explained things to her. If he did it wouldn’t bother me except that I needed her confidence. As a doctor’s wife I was certain she could keep secrets.

If Don Benson told his wife about Becky she never said anything. We talked about bridge club, her son who was in medical school and her daughter, Joanie whom Jack adored. Jack and Joanie were the same age, almost, and had played together since they were babies. Over the years Joanie had spent the night at our house, in separate beds, and Jack had done the same at the Benson’s many times. It was naturally innocent except for Jack’s revelation that he and Joanie had played dress-up on at least one occasion.

We also talked about PTA (we both had been active but now weren’t), the weather and of course our husbands both who seemed to work longer and harder when the weather was bad. She asked if Tim was feeling better and offered to have Jack spend Friday night with them if that would make it easier for me. I declined. I was so afraid that Jack would be unable to maintain a boy persona around Joanie and needed to keep Becky in our house. Not only that but I knew Joanie had started to develop (she was seven months older than Jack) and besides being socially risky for a boy to be spending the night at a girl’s house, I didn’t want Jack to witness what he would be missing.

Hilda never mentioned anything specific about knowing anything of our trials.

Next, Birdie Bozwell called. I almost didn’t pick up the phone but then thought it might be Don needing something.

“Miri? Hi, do you have a minute?” She asked and then started talking before I could say ‘no, I don’t’. “I’ve had to postpone Bible Study until next week and wanted you to know. Also, I know I can always count on you to send some things for the church bizarre. With this cold weather we could use some warm things, coats especially, for girls. If you have any of Brenda’s old wool skirts or sweaters. We just don’t have much right now and there are so many in need.”

“I’ll see if I have anything.” I answered but knew that I might need to keep some things now that I had Becky to think about.

“Oh.” She continued. “I never told you what a wonderful job Jack did in the Christmas Play. He was the perfect Angel. Please tell him I’m sorry he had to do that part, and wear that gown. That must have been so hard for him and I know some of the boys teased him. To be honest Miriam, Jack made a better Angel than Lorraine would have. I hate to talk about people but well, that girl just is so clumsy and awkward. And she really hated the thought of wearing that gown. For the life of me I just don’t know what’s wrong with girls these days, wearing pants and make-up. Thank God for Jack. He looked so sweet, angelic really, in that gown.” What could I say? I agreed with her.

Don did call, mid-afternoon. He said he was wet, cold and hungry. When he asked why we were living in this crappy, dirty, miserable town, I had to remind him that we had worked hard to build the business in Moundsville and that we lived quite well because of it.

Dr. Benson called late in the day to ask how Tim was doing. I reported that his fever was almost back to normal but that he was still hacking and coughing and had no energy. John asked about Jack and said to call him if I needed to talk. I think he really wanted to know what Dr. Ellis said and what we were doing. I told him very little not wanting to say anything over the phone but did say, in code, that Jack was also feeling better.

* * *

“We know, mom.” Brenda announced before either Don or I could say anything. Don and I looked at each other wondering the same thing. What did they know and for how long? Brenda looked at Tim.

The weather had finally moderated a little after another week and we were sitting in DiCarlo’s in Elm Grove on the second Friday since our session with Dr. Ellis. There was palpable tension in the air after we ordered when Brenda broke the ice with her revelation.

“We’re not stupid.” Tim chimed in. I refrained from arguing that point and maintained my silence. Jack smiled innocently.

“Go on.” Don demanded.

“We’ve talked. Tim called me this week when you weren’t home and told me something was going on. We compared notes. We know you took Jack to Wheeling to see a doctor.” How she knew that I did not know but it didn’t matter. I waited for more. She continued.

“And mom, you just about confirmed it on the phone last week.” She paused expecting her father to say something. He didn’t. Then she looked at Tim again.

“Yah, so we know.” He said backing up his older sister. They still didn’t say exactly what it was they thought they knew. I reached over and put my hand on Jack’s shoulder and looked them both in the eye.
“Then you know there was a mistake.” I said mysteriously watching Don roll his eyes.

“Mistake?” They both asked in unison. “What mistake?” Brenda added. She looked at Jack. “I don’t know about a mistake but Tim and I know Jack is, uh, doing strange things; things boys shouldn’t be doing.” Brenda tried to look like the older accepting adult sister she wasn’t.

“Jack,” she said. “I’m not mad. I understand and Tim and I will try to help you. You don’t have to be like that.”

“And if you are,” Tim chimed in, “you know I won’t let anyone bother you. If you are like that, so what. I’m cool.” He promised. “Look brother, I’ve known you like girl stuff since as long as I can remember.”
“And I know you’ve been into my things Jack. I’m trying to understand but that has to stop. Thank God he’s finally going to a doctor.” Brenda said.

I had let this go on long enough. I had to take charge of the conversation.

“Enough!” I exclaimed too loudly. I lowered my voice, looked at Don, took a deep breath and unintentionally used the other pronoun. “She won’t do that again, Brenda.”

There was complete silence, and disbelief. For a moment, or what seemed like an eternity, the restaurant was quiet almost as if everyone was listening and waiting for an explanation. I stammered without making any intelligent sounds.

“She?” Brenda finally asked turning to her father. “What did she mean? Mom said “she” meaning Jack, didn’t she?” She asked.

Finally Don got involved. “Look kids. She just made a mistake.” He offered but was immediately challenged.

“She who? Who made a mistake? You mean mom? I’m confused. What she made a mistake? Can somebody tell me what’s going on?”

“I can.” Jack, rather Becky, piped up causing the rest of us to stop talking and turn to her.

“I’m a girl.” She announced tilting her head to the side just like a girl would. “I know you won’t believe me but I really am. There was a mistake before I was born. I was supposed to be a girl but it got all mixed up when I was in mommy’s tummy.” Becky explained better than I could, I think.

“Mistake?” Tim questioned while almost laughing. “I doubt it.”

Becky looked at her older sister expecting a reaction. There was one. Brenda laughed, loudly and with a broad smile.

“Funny. You all are just too much. Did dad put you up to this?” She asked in disbelief. “I’m not falling for it this time.” Brenda was as gullible as anyone and Don and Tim many times had fun getting her to buy in to the unbelievable.

“Actually, Brenda, what Jack said is pretty much the truth.” I affirmed.

“Impossible!” Brenda began a series of one word responses.

“We took Jack to a doctor, in Wheeling, and he thinks there is something to it.” Don added.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I didn’t know it but Jack told me he felt this way as long as he, uh, she can remember.” I said.

“Insane!”

“Not exactly.” Don explained. “Dr. Ellis thinks Jack is otherwise quite normal.”

“Normal? No.” She declared adding a second word to her responses.

“You see Brenda, Jack has been going up to the third floor ever since we moved into town and dressing up, uh, in some of your old dresses.. And when I caught him, he started telling me about how he has always felt like a girl and how hard it has been to hide it and…” I wasn’t able to finish.

“Holy shit!” Tim let slip. I reflectively wanted to slap him but restrained myself due to the number of adjacent strangers and the need to stay on topic. Instead I gave him a very disappointed look. He apologized.

“Sorry mom, dad. Let me see if I understand this. You caught my brother wearing a dress and he made up some story about wanting to be a girl. You believed him and took him to a doctor in Wheeling who Jack also convinced. Wow! You’re good, Jack.” I’m sure Tim thought Jack had invented a story about being a girl as an excuse when he was caught wearing a dress. Tim was pretty good at inventing excuses and would admire such a fiction.

Jack frowned and pouted but held his, her ground. “I didn’t make it up. It’s true. Dr. Ellis believes me and I’m going to be a girl. Right mom?” She put me on the spot and as the parent I needed to set the record straight and bring the family together.

“All right. Let’s see if I can clear things up.” I began. “First, she isn’t making this up.” I saw Brenda’s look of disgust at my pronoun. “This is going to be hard for both of you. Tim, you need to listen.” I needed to get the boy’s attention. “But I believe Jack. You all know that we, your father and I, have always trusted and believed in each of you. So when Jack opened up to me, and I listened, I had to give him the benefit of the doubt and well, over time I’ve just been able to see it.”

“Mom, you can’t..” Brenda started but I stopped her.

“Please, allow me to finish, then you can say what you want, or ask questions. Second, we are still sorting this out; what it means and where we go from here. Jack will be seeing Dr. Ellis every other week for a long time.”

“I know you’re wondering why we went with a doctor who believes, who isn’t trying to fix him, well, it just happened. Dr. Benson suggested Dr. Ellis simply because they knew each other and Dr. Ellis turned out to have a different perspective about something like this.” I continued.

“It’s complicated but Dr. Ellis believes that if everything else is normal, do no harm. Let the person explore their feelings, find out who they are, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. That’s what we have done with you Brenda, isn’t it?”

Brenda did not answer but just looked away. I could see the familiar pressure building toward the inevitable explosion.

“Cool.” Tim interjected. “Kinda like what Rueben said.” He added distracting my thoughts.

“What did Rueben say?” I had to ask.

“He said that no doctor could change how he felt, about boys, mom, and that he was what he was.”

“Yes, it’s similar. But not the same. We don’t have all the answers yet and it’s going to take time before we know everything.” I was running out of what else to say.

“The bottom line is that we’re letting Jack explore how she feels, at home sometimes, and we’ll see what happens.” I left it there. I didn’t want to give details. I paused.

“Wait.” Brenda said reading between the lines. “You’re going to let Jack dress up around the house?” She exclaimed. “As a girl?”

“Some, yes.” I answered truthfully.

“That’s just bizarre. I can’t believe this.” Her face was beet red. She pushed away from the table and rushed to the Ladies Room. I started to get up but Don stopped me. I sat back down and looked at Tim.

“This is strange, mom. Jack in a dress. I don’t know. I mean I can see it, but what about his friends? What about my friends? God, Jack you’re going to get your ass kicked if this gets out and I won’t be able to stop it.” The brother predicted. “This is going to be weird.”

“Miri, go see if Brenda is ok. Tim and I will talk. Jack, you get lost for a few minutes.” Don ordered. Jack and I got up and headed in different directions. She went to the lobby to look at the fish in the tank the restaurant had there and I to the ladies room to find Brenda. I pushed the door open and she was sitting and sobbing in a lounge chair. A woman was at the mirror, looking concerned.

“Brenda, honey. I know how hard this is.” I told her noticing the other woman listening.

“What about my friends? They all know Jack. And Gramma and Papa?” My children always called my father that.

“We’re not telling them.” I whispered turning away from the mirror so the woman could not read my lips. “Not yet anyway. We’re not telling anyone. Maybe we won’t have to. Brenda, we’re just trying this. We don’t know much about this. Dr. Ellis thinks it’s very rare but he said it would do more harm now if we tried to repress it. He’s consulting with a colleague, some guy named Rogers in Chicago or somewhere who might know something. I have to trust him.” The nosey woman left not being able to hear what I was saying.

“Brenda, I’ve had my doubts too. There is so much I don’t understand but I’m not paid to understand, just to love and believe. I believe Jack, just as I believe in you.” I said giving her a little hug. Brenda gave me a slight smile.

“I need you Brenda. We all do. Jack needs you. We’re in this together.” I added.

“I don’t want him wearing my things.” She said giving a hint she would not buck us.

“I promise.” I told her.

“I mean not even the old dresses I can’t wear anymore. That would be just creepy.” She continued. I dared not tell her that her brother/sister looked as good as she did in that sun dress the first time I first saw Jack wearing a dress.

“I’ve already taken care of that. We got her some things of her own.”

“What?”

“We bought her a couple of dresses, and some accessories. You know. I bought her some underwear. She had been finding what she could and I didn’t want that to continue.”

There was a long awkward pause, neither of us saying anything.

“God mom. This has to be tough for you.” She finally said. That was the first acknowledgement of how this was impacting me and it came from the most improbable source, my self-centered oldest child. “How can you deal with a boy like that?” She asked as if she was not related to Jack. “I just don’t understand. Does he, uh, look, uh. I don’t know.” Brenda was searching for something. For once she couldn’t verbalize what she wanted to ask.

“I think what you want to know is if your brother really looks like a girl, when she puts on a dress. Brenda that is what convinced me. It wasn’t that she just put on a dress, and I caught her. It was that it was the dress, and slip, and hair brushed like a girl. Everything screamed girl. Of course at first I thought it was some perversion, or some sissy homosexual thing. But it isn’t.”

“But doesn’t it freak you out knowing that that ‘girl’ is really a boy, really my brother.”

“No, not really. I mean of course I’m aware of it. But you’ll see. There’s nothing freaky about it. It just seems natural.”

“I’m not sure I want to see.” She concluded.

We returned to our table and found our food served. Tim and Don were eating, and talking. Jack sat looking a little sad and isolated.

“Look Tim. We really haven’t set any rules yet but the way I see it if Jack feels comfortable then he er, uh she will be girly. You know wear a dress or something.” Don explained to Tim as we sat down.

“And if it bothers you, well, she won’t do it in front of you, or you either Brenda.

“No, I think I want to see this.” Tim told us looking at Jack. “So that’s why you haven’t got a haircut, and use that stuff on your hair.” Jack grinned nodding his head.

“And if someone is coming over, well, just say something so Jack doesn’t screw up.” Don continued.

“And when we have visitors or when we out we will always call him ‘Jack’ and say ‘he’ and ‘him’ just like we always have. And when she is being like a girl we will call her ‘Becky’.”

“Becky?” Brenda and Tim questioned in unison.

“That’s me.” Becky answered.

“Yes, that is the name she has chosen. Rebecca Katherine.” I explained.

Brenda took a bite of her spaghetti looking at her brother. “Becky, huh? I like it but I’m supposed to remember to say “Jack” when people are around but “Becky” other times?” She asked.
I nodded but realized how that might be difficult. “How long do you think it will be before one of us screws up?” She followed up. Again I elected not to answer.

“And what do I tell Alex?” She asked. Alex was her latest love and like long list of others who proceeded him they were deeply in love and were going to be married, after college of course. We had learned to tolerate Brenda’s serial love interests. She had a point; should she tell him she had a sister and brother, or two brothers?

“Just tell him Becky is your half-sister.” Tim cracked breaking into a deep laugh at his humor. It was funny. Don especially appreciated the play on words. Even Brenda smiled, after she realized the joke. Only Jack, or Becky, did not seem to think her brother was cute.

For the longest time no one said anything. I think we were all hungry and just needed time to eat and think. I carefully looked at my children, each wonderfully unique. Tim was not fazed by the news which was consistent to his natural acceptance of all things unconventional. Brenda was skeptical and perhaps a little threatened but she showed some empathy. I had new hope.

The subject did not come up again while we finished eating, and then had dessert. It was as if nothing had changed. We walked out of the restaurant into the cold and snow, full and happy. Don and Tim walked ahead to the car talking about when Tim could start driving. Brenda and Becky walked with me, one on each side steadying me on the icy sidewalk.

Before we reached the car, Brenda started reminiscing to Becky almost as if I was not there. “Remember when I used to dress you up like a doll?” She asked.

“Uh huh.” Becky answered.

“You really seemed to like that.” She remembered.

“I did.” Becky said shivering.

“I’ve always wondered about that.” She added. “We did have some fun, didn’t we?”

“Yes.” Becky answered quickly then added. “I didn’t want it to stop.”

“Do you want to show me your dress when we get home?” Brenda asked sweetly.

We stopped walking and I watched through tears as Brenda and Becky hugged.

“You can bring your dress to my room and we’ll close the door.” Brenda told her sister and then paused. “I’ll make a sign for the door, ‘no boys allowed’.”

Choices Chapter 22

Author’s note: For various reasons this story was delayed. Now, God willing, it will continue, hopefully to an acceptable conclusion. Let’s just say Miriam needed a break from dealing with the agonizing issues of having a transgender child in 1956. Readers are encouraged to spend some time with previous chapters to better understand this one. Enjoy.

On the drive home from the restaurant that freezing Friday evening in late January 1956 my thoughts turned to God, the controlling one, and my faith. Specifically I focused on the Christian certainty of right and wrong. What my husband and I were doing, what we just did, filled me with the conflicting feelings of Christian good on the one hand and the work of the devil on the other. Try as I might I could not escape my heritage and upbringing. I knew from countless sermons, required reading, Biblical memorization and the daily preaching of the Supreme Methodist, my mother, that not only allowing our son to drift toward the feminine and dress as a girl, but now consciously involving our other two children as if it was a wise parental choice, was a terrible sin which no mortal would forgive and God would require hell on earth as a just price for salvation in heaven.

Except that it was too late. A gambler can find religion and repent. An alcoholic could see the light and become a sober pillar of the church. A womanizer could suddenly feel the hurt he caused his family and ask for forgiveness. Granted none of these sinners would likely see the light, especially the womanizer, but any mortal can always repent and find forgiveness and the grace of God, in theory. I couldn’t. Listening to the snow chains on the wheels pound the ice, snow and pavement as we drove from Elm Grove through the hills toward Moundsville, I knew we had gone too far to turn back.

For all intents and purposes my husband and I had bought the outrageous premise, devoutly proposed by our eleven year old son, that a mistake was made at birth, or before, and he was not a boy but a girl. We owned that now; it was ours and no amount of regret, or repentance would make a reversal work. How could we now tell our child we changed our minds; that he would have to give up the girl thing and live as a boy; become a man? Metaphorically it was too late to take the dresses back to Stone & Thomas. How could we now admit to our other two children that we rethought our course and decided repression was best for Jack? Sides would be taken, creditability forever shattered. And one eleven year old would be devastated and destroyed, scarred forever.

Fear and dread overtook me again as I tried to think through the box we were in. In spite of what he, or she, sincerely believed, our child was going to become a man, physically at least. We couldn’t stop that so we couldn’t exactly pretend what we had laid out to our family was going to work; not without calamity right around the corner. Neither Brenda nor Tim asked the question at dinner when we revealed what was going on with their brother and I was glad they didn’t. I was not prepared to discuss the affects pubertal changes might have on their cross-dressing brother.

But they were obviously discussing it among themselves in the back seat as we drove home. I couldn’t hear their whispered conversation over the incessant noise from the chains but I caught a word here and there. Words like “beard” and “voice” were used and Tim said something about “dreams” and they both laughed hysterically. Yes, Tim and Brenda were accepting but they also understood the reality as much as I did.
Now that we had corrupted our other two children, expanded the conspiracy, I worried how it would change our lives, theirs. What would life be like at the Roberts’ home?

My concern was premature. Little changed at home at first. There was no show and tell after we got home that evening and there was no sign on Brenda’s door. I think we were all just exhausted not to mention hesitant. Brenda went to her room without a word to anyone and Jack, who had fallen asleep on my shoulder in the car, went to bed. I tucked him in and kissed her forehead, with mixed emotions and pronouns. Don and Tim turned on the Friday night boxing match and reveled in the testosterone driven physical violence men enjoy inflicting on each other as sport.

* * *

I expected everything about our daily lives to dramatically change after our reveal to Brenda and Tim. There were no more secrets; Don was fully informed and on board, Tim and Brenda knew and swore their understanding and acceptance and Jack had a green light to explore this Becky thing. Actually it was a yellow caution light. To my surprise no one did anything much different for weeks. Jack continued to spend time in his room, or the third floor, presumably in a dress; Tim never mentioned it but stayed away from his brother, and Brenda, when she was home, didn’t ask to meet or bond with Becky as a “little sister”. As for myself, I was almost relieved; this way there was little chance that anyone else might discover our family secret.

My feelings of safety evaporated more than a week later when my mother showed up on my porch. She didn’t ring the bell or knock. She just opened the door and came barging in, calling my name. I was shocked.

“Miriam.” She called. I was upstairs making beds and jumped at the sound. It brought back memories I thought I had successfully suppressed. Why was my mother walking into my house in the middle of the week? She didn’t drive and I knew my father was working, out of town in fact. Grace never did this. On a Saturday or Sunday, sure, I expected to see her but this was as if she was checking up on me.
I ran to the top of the stairs and looking down saw the familiar face of the upstanding Christian woman my mother was. I knew in an instant I was in for a sermon, most likely sans scripture.

“Mother.” I exclaimed with genuine surprise. “What on earth are you doing here? How did you get in town?”

“Jim drove me.” She noted answering the second question first. Jim lived in one of the two cottages on the farm my mother and father rented out. He was married with more kids than the cottage could handle and did chores around the farm to pay the rent since he was constantly out of work.

“And I think we need to talk.” I was already halfway down the stairs by that time; too late to make some excuse like I had yellow fever and tell her to go home for her own safety. My only chance was to divert.

“Is it daddy? Is he all right? Did he do something?” I always called my mother “mother” and my father “daddy”. Invoking him was a calculated gamble. Mother never missed a chance to complain about him and how he was on the road so much, not at home where he belonged, not eating right and not sleeping in his own bed. I suspected she was more concerned about the sleeping part than the eating part.

“Don’t get me started on your father.” She warned as she carefully hung up her coat and headed for the kitchen. “Is there any hot coffee left?” I poured her a cup and sat at the table across from her and waited.

“Have you thought about taking Jack to that doctor I told you about?” She immediately asked. I paused. I simply didn’t know how to discuss Jack with my mother but I knew she was unlikely to leave it alone. She had done something similar when Brenda turned thirteen and I let her wear a little makeup. I told her then not to question how I raised my children. She was obviously hurt but got over it. This was different. She was suspicious and telling her to butt out would raise her curiosity. I decided right then and there to do something I had never done in my life; ask for her advice.

“Actually mother,” I began, “I’m glad you are here. I’ve been worried about Jack and just scared for him. I didn’t want to bother you and well,…” I let tears form in the corner of my eyes and stood up, turning away from her, looking out the window for answers. I don’t think I had ever cried in front of my mother before. Oh, I was a crier, alone, in front of daddy, in church, at funerals, during weddings, reading books and poems, listening to opera and making love to Don. But never in front of mother. I waited for a compassionate voice, a hand on my shoulder, a hug.

“You should be worried.” I got instead. I turned to see the same stern cold stare I was so familiar with. Mother had not bought my act. I remained standing while she continued.

“Miriam, it’s not my place to say but your husband just isn’t up to the task.” I never knew what to expect from my mother and she again did not disappoint. How did her concern about Jack suddenly fall on Don’s shoulders? I was soon to find out.

“Your husband is a nice man. I guess he provides well enough in whatever he does but well, Miriam, he’s just not a good role model for the boys. Now I’m sure he loves them but really Miriam. Can you honestly say that either one of them is going to grow up to be a good Christian man?” I wisely did not suggest one of my sons could grow up to be a good Christian woman. She paused waiting for my agreement with her premise. I glared instead so she dug deeper.

“Tim is a smart boy but Miriam, he has no direction. He has all this energy, he’s so rambunctious, running wild, doing whatever he wants. When was the last time Don made him come out to the farm and do some real work? I can see trouble ahead for him.” With a capital “T”, I was sure. Another pause. I again refused to engage.

“Don needs to get involved with Tim.” Her eyes got that look, the one that said ‘I know everything’. “Miriam, I heard about the fight Tim was in at school with the Adams boy. What in the world?” I wondered if my mother had heard the reason for the fight and knew her grandson was standing up for his brother and Reuben Rogers when Jerry Adams called them ‘queers’.

“If you are going to live in town then Don needs to get Tim in sports or Boy Scouts.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The image of either Don or Tim doing sports together was preposterous, and Boy Scouts, well let’s just say that neither of them was suited for any activity that had rules, or expected conformity. She didn’t smile. I knew she was building up to the real reason for her unannounced visit. She wanted information about Jack and why he was looking so different. My mother was on a mission from God.

“Tim and Don do all kinds of things together. Remember, he took Tim turkey hunting last fall and the truck, they’re always working on that or talking about it. Don’s a great father, mother.” I argued defensively. She didn’t flinch.

“Hmmm,” she answered skeptically. “Well, no father would let their son have such long hair, at least not a Christian one.” She added quickly switching to discussing Jack. It was an opening that I took.

“And that’s why I need your opinion.” I fired as quickly as I could. It worked. I caught her off guard.

“Sure.” She agreed turning the floor over to me, looking surprised but skeptical. I sat back down and looked into those steely blue eyes.

“It’s not Don’s fault. He and I have talked about this. We both know something is different with Jack. He’s so…” I searched for the right word.

“Stubborn.” She suggested thankfully not using another “s” word.

“Yes, he is that. I like to say resolved. He really challenges me mother. He knows what he wants. And it’s not…” I stopped in mid-sentence afraid what I would say.

“What boys usually want.” She finished my sentence. “You were going to say ‘Jack doesn’t want what normal boys usually want’, weren’t you?”

“No, I wasn’t going to say “normal” but yes that is what is troubling us. Jack isn’t like other boys.” I was being honest and my mother shook her head in agreement, saying nothing, hoping to learn what was really going on.

“How do I explain it? Maybe it’s nothing. I didn’t have brothers, I don’t know what’s normal, for boys. Jack just isn’t into being a boy much.” I confessed. “Maybe it will change when things start happening for him.” I speculated eluding to puberty. “But right now, he fights me on everything, his hair, his clothes, his friends. He gets good grades and he isn’t mean or angry. He’s just…”

“Stubborn.” She said again.

“Right. Stubborn. I don’t know, mother. I read something about it being harder for boys. Girls seem to know what they want. You know, grow up, fall in love, get married, raise a family. Boys have trouble figuring it out. I guess that might be what is happening with Jack.”

“And that’s the problem, Miriam. You can’t wait. Boys have to be directed to Christian manhood. It’s the only way. Jack may be stubborn but he needs more forceful direction. His hair has to be cut and don’t tell me Jesus had long hair. Jack is not Jesus.” Or Mary I almost quipped. “No offense Miriam, but Don just isn’t the right person to help Jack become a Christian man.” She was right about that but it terrified me where she was going with this.

“And?” I asked.

“Well, you won’t like this but I’ve taken the liberty of talking to Pastor John.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe it. My meddling mother managed to do the one thing that would cause me to explode.

“How could you?” I asked rhetorically. But rather than being drawn into my mother’s mischief I decided to go in another direction, one that would perhaps equally enrage her.

“We’ve taken Jack to a doctor in Wheeling, a psychiatrist.” I said repressing a smirk.

“What?” She couldn’t believe it. This was the one thing I knew bothered my meddling mother. Any deference to matters of the mind was a tip of the hat to the devil, in her view. To her, psychiatry was claptrap; Christians didn’t need help from secular frauds; they just needed to trust in the Lord.

“How could you?” She asked rhetorically. Then she pitched the benefits of Pastor John’s divine work; he would teach Jack how to pray, point out applicable Biblical verses, encourage him to confess and finally explain the wonderful rewards a Christian man would reap with a Christian woman, a rare reluctant allusion to the joy of sex in a union blessed by God, the Creator obviously.

For a moment I actually considered her proposition. I assumed Reuben had suffered through counseling with Pastor John and it didn’t seem to affect him. He was still, uh, ‘queer’. So what harm would it do for Jack to spend a little time with Pastor John? It would be a good cover. I pushed the thought out of my head. I knew Jack. By the end of the first session, Jack would explain Becky to the pastor and there would be a crises in Simpson Methodist Church.

“We had to.” I told her. “We had to find out why Jack wasn’t fitting in; why he was acting strange.” I explained.

“Humph! I’m sure he told you Jack needed lots of visits and it would cost lots of money.”

“Not exactly.”

“So Miriam, when will this doctor convince Jack to cut his hair? And when will he tell him how to become a man, a Christian one?” She asked snidely.

“Actually mother. Doctor Ellis is Jewish.” I paused to enjoy the effect this revelation predictably had on my devoutly Christian mother but quickly continued before she could react. “He doesn’t recommend we force Jack to cut his hair, and well, as for the man thing, what Dr. Ellis does doesn’t work like that. It’s about Jack discovering who he is, something about self-actualization.”

“Self what? You’ve lost your way, Miriam. You and that husband of yours have lost your Christian way. Humph. A Jewish doctor.” She stood up and headed for the door. No hug, no kind word, no support. As she was putting on her coat she reached out and put her hand on my arm.

“I won’t give up, Miriam.” She announced. “I will pray for you. But mostly I will pray for Jack. Only God can help him now. Only God can lead him into manhood.”

My mother’s unannounced visit really didn’t scare me. I knew she wouldn’t go talking to anyone else about her concerns and I felt I could keep Jack from being alone with her; the SM had a way to encourage confession. But what she whispered to me on the porch as I saw her out terrified me.

“Miriam.” She started calmly. “What you are doing with Jack hurts your father terribly.” I’m sure I loved my mother. She was a good person and was never really mean or nasty to me, as a mother. We just weren’t close and we were polar opposites. I adored my father however. He was everything to me and as his only child he doted on me and spoiled me. Disappointing my father was the one thing that truly terrified me. I couldn’t say anything. She didn’t let me.

“He’s afraid you are making Jack into a sissy.” Her words pierced my heart. She turned and was getting into the waiting car before I could react. I stood there shivering until she was out of sight.

After my mother left I didn’t cry. I wasn’t even on the verge. For some reason I felt elated, just like what I had read about being reborn. Somehow I knew my mother was sent by God to me that day. God knew I was second guessing the course we were on with Jack, with Becky and He sent my mother unexpectedly to me as the one person who could make me see with complete clarity that our child was a special gift who needed no help becoming who she was.