1 – Joining the Girls
Molly and I became truly good friends; maybe you could say girlfriends. During the last few weeks of summer before school would start, Molly, my little sister Carolyn and I had a great time playing with dolls. Usually she joined us at our house, but every so often, Carolyn and I went to her house to play with Molly’s large collection of dolls. Both Molly and I were twelve at the time, about to enter 7th Grade.

Because mom and dad both had to work, I had assumed the job of watching over eight-year-old Carolyn the previous school year. It was then I created a fondness for dolls, having first joined Carolyn to play with her dolls in those after-school hours to keep her happy. At twelve, most girls rarely played with dolls, much less a boy at that age. But I guess Molly and I were exceptions.

What was most fun were the scenarios we created with the dolls, with each of us assuming a character and acting out various roles. Since the only dolls we had were girl dolls that meant I played the part of a girl. Eventually we developed three distinct girls, Molly was Nancy, who was sort of a tomboy, Carolyn became Hester, a mischievous little sister to Amy, who was me. As the imaginary girls developed through those late summer weeks, Amy became the girliest of the three. I hadn’t planned it that way, but that was just how I came to feel.

“These feel so real, Polly,” Molly said. Like Carolyn, she had begun calling my Polly, my name Paul or Paulie being used only when others were around.

“I know. I feel sometimes that I am just like Amy,” I said.

“You are just like Amy,” Carolyn chimed in.

“You really are, Polly. You’re such a girl,” Molly said.

I should have been mad at her for saying that, but for some reason I didn’t object. I think I blushed, however.

Mom had been apologetic for asking me to look after Carolyn in the after school hours, but I knew the problems our family was facing. We didn’t have much money, since dad had been laid off so long during the recession, and mom needed to work; baby-sitters were too expensive. Dad wasn’t home much; he worked two lousy jobs and when he was home all he did was eat, watch a little television and go to bed to find a few hours of sleep.

“You’re such a good boy, Paul, and it’s a shame we have to have you watch over Carolyn,” mom told me.

I truly understood the situation and I felt almost like a grown-up to be given this trust. Besides I found I liked doing stuff with Carolyn. Both mom and dad, however, had grown worried that I might not be losing out of playing with my friends. I didn’t really have any friends, except for Chad Entermann who came to play video games with me every so often. And, I didn’t like most of the boys from school; they talked nasty, made lewd comments about various girls and liked to make fun of other kids. Often I was laughed at for hanging around the girls; some kids had taken to calling me names like “fag,” “sissy,” “fairy boy” and “girl.”

One day, a week before the fall semester was to start, Molly entered our house carrying a backpack.

“I brought you something, Polly,” she announced.

“What? What? Show us, Molly,” Carolyn demanded excitedly.

“No, Carolyn. It’s for Polly, not you,” she said, stifling my little sister’s enthusiasm.

Molly suggested the two of us go to the bedroom, where we closed the door, leaving Carolyn alone in the living room.

“What’s this all about?” I asked, suspicious of what she had in mind.

“Here,” she said, opening the backpack and extracting a pair of denim girl shorts, a pink tee shirt, a pair of panties and a bra. She laid them out of the bed.

“If you’re Polly, you should dress as Polly,” she said.

“I can’t,” I argued.

“Why not? Only Carolyn and me will see you, and I know you like playing the role of a girl.”

I blushed. She was right, of course.

“But?”

“No buts. You’ll look so cute, Polly.”

I nodded. “OK,” I said.

She left the room while I stripped down; I put on the panties and they felt so smooth and soft. Since my male organ had hardly matured, it made but a tiny bulge in the satiny material. I loved the feeling. I yelled out, “I’m ready” signifying that it was OK for her to come in and help finish dressing me. I hoped Molly wouldn’t be disgusted at seeing me like this, my slender, weak body; I felt I was to be humiliated.

If she was critical of my less than impressive physique, she didn’t show it; her smile seemed to show that she liked what she saw.

“Carolyn’s all upset at being in the dark on what we’re doing in here,” Molly said, when she re-entered.

“I hope she won’t tell mom and dad.”

“I’ve already warned her that this is a surprise for her and that it was to be a secret just for us three.”

“She should be OK,” I said. “I think she really likes me.”

“She does, and Polly, you have such a lovely body. Just like a girl’s.”

I said nothing. Molly helped me put on the bra; it was one of her training bras, and she found a pair of my socks to stuff the cups. I stepped into the denim shorts; they were quite short, showing most of my thigh. I noticed they had no fly in the front. The tee shirt was pink, with purple words that said, “Girl Time.” When I was dressed, she brushed my longish light brown hair (it came down to my shoulders) and applied a pair of barrettes to hold the strands in place.

“Here, step into these,” she said, having brought a pair of sandals from the backpack.

“You even have pretty feet,” she said.

I am a girl, I thought, as I looked at myself. Molly was right; I was cute.

Molly leaped with joy when she saw me. “Now I really have a big sister.”

*****
When I started 7th Grade, I had to go to a new school; it was a bigger school called Mary McLoed Bethune Middle School. I don't know why, but for some reason, Jefferson, the grade school I attended, went to the sixth grade, while most kids went to schools that ended at the fifth grade. So that meant, the few of us from our school were looked upon as being "different" and as being "new," since most of the kids had already had a year to get acquainted and to make friends.

The first thing I realized was that I would be separated from most of the kids of my class from my first school, which was both good and bad. The good part, of course, was that I would be likely separated from all of the kids who bullied me in grade school. The bad part was that I would also be separated from the few friends I made in grade school, like Molly and the other girls.

The size of the new school also scared me; I was always on the small size among the boys, and in my grade school many of the girls towered over me as well. In Bethune School, it seems all of the kids were big and I feared that I might be bullied more than ever.

Fortunately, my friend Molly and I took the school bus from the same stop, and she'd be accompanying me into school. The fact was we were both frightened as to what we'd find there, fearing that either we'd get lost and never find our classrooms in the monster school or that our lunch money might be stolen. We had heard about many such horror stories occurring at the big school.

"I think I'll be laughed at," Molly said as I met her. She was standing apart from three other kids at the school bus stop.

"Why?” I asked.

“’Cause the way I’m dressed.” Molly wore a full skirt that went below the knees, a beige blouse and a light green cardigan sweater.

“You look nice, Molly,” I said sincerely.

"Look, they're all in jeans," she said, pointing to the two girls and the single boy at the bus stop.

"Oh? Then look at me," I replied, suddenly feeling overdressed in my black trousers, a light blue shirt with a button down collar and black running shoes.

She nodded. "Yes, we look like nerds, I guess."

I almost felt like running home and changing, but there was no time for that. I looked at Molly and we both giggled, perhaps a nervous response as we contemplated the day ahead, fearful we’d likely be the subject of ridicule of every other kid at Bethune Middle School.

*****
The first few days of school turned out to be cool; no one bullied me, for one thing. All of my classes were with other seventh graders like myself, and I guess we were all getting used to the flow of the school at the beginning of the school year. The school day started with a ten-minute period in our homerooms, which I quickly discovered were populated according to the alphabet. Molly Edwards would obviously be in a different homeroom, since my last name was Torrance. That did put me in the same homeroom as Sarah Simpson, my classmate from grade school. I blanched when I entered the room to see her already there; she had been my enemy in grade school since she thought I stole the lead soprano role in chorus. ("A girl should sing the lead soprano part," she had argued.)

I was surprised when she waved at me, offering a big smile and pointing to a vacant desk next to her. Fearing what Sarah might have in mind, I hesitated before accepting her invitation to sit next to her. I looked around to see if there were any other friendly faces, but the only other former classmate I saw was already surrounded, with no available seats near to him.

"Hi Sarah," I said hesitantly as I sat down next to her.

"I thought we'd be in the same homeroom, Paul," she said cheerfully.

"I guess," I said, not certain how to respond to her sudden burst of friendliness. We had hardly talked in grade school; she had her clique of "in-girls" and none of them ever spoke to those of us they considered "beneath them."

"Did you do any singing this summer, Paul?" She asked, as we waited for the class to begin.

"Not really, just around the house."

"Oh, I sang in the choir at our church," she said proudly. "I was the youngest member. Can you imagine?"

"Nice, Sarah. You have a beautiful voice," I said, happy to praise her.

"But you know what?"

"What?"

"They made me an alto. I'm no longer a soprano. Can you imagine?"

"Alto?" I said.

"The director said my voice really was being strained when I sang soprano and that I'm better suited as an alto," she said.

"Sorry about that, I know you liked singing soprano," I said, since sopranos always seemed to get top singing roles.

"I did, but I think the director was right and I feel good singing alto."

"Well there are many great altos in the world, like Whitney Houston and Ella Fitzgerald" I said, hoping to comfort her, since I felt she was still disappointed over not singing soprano.

She smiled, perhaps surprised and grateful for my words. "Are you going to try out for the chorus here?" She asked.

"Not sure."

"You should, Paul. Your voice is terrific. Everyone said you had the purest soprano they'd heard."

"But didn't you say only a girl should sing soprano?" I teased.

"Well, yes. But you sang beautifully. I could never hit those high notes like you did."

"Quiet down all of you," a booming male voice said. "Welcome to the first day at Mary McLoed Bethune School."

With that Mr. Reynolds started the homeroom period.

*****
Even at twelve years old, Sarah was a strikingly beautiful girl with long jet black hair that hung down to the middle of her back. She had dark eyebrows that created sort of a mysterious demeanor. And, she was already sprouting noticeable breasts that had become the envy of other girls in her class who despairing over the slower pace of maturation.

Even though I had never considered Sarah as I friend, I was enraptured by her and I loved watching how she walked and used her hands. Her motions were fluid and easy, not overly dainty. I heard some of the boys talking about Sarah's budding breasts, and I felt their comments were ridiculously lewd. I wondered what it would be like to be a girl like Sarah and to know that boys were probably making nasty comments about your breasts. I wondered if Sarah liked having bigger breasts than the other girls.

On the first day of school, Sarah wore a knee-length green and yellow print skirt and dark green peasant blouse with yellow trim. She wore yellow Keds and no stockings on her healthy, tanned legs.

"You should join the chorus in school," she told me as we left homeroom for our first class of the day. We were both scheduled for English with Mrs. Popovich.

"I don't know," I said truthfully. While I was certain I'd likely make the chorus; my voice was certainly good enough, I had been assured, but I knew I'd be singing in the soprano section, again obviously the only boy in the sea of girls.

"Come on. You'll get some after-school credit," she said.

"No, I don't think so," I said, hoping she'd forget the idea.

"Why?"

"You know why?" I replied sharply.

"Oh? 'Cause you'll be the only boy?"

"You and the others will just make fun of me," I said, starting to cry.

"But . . ."

"Just leave me alone," I said, turning from her to run into the boy's bathroom.

I wanted a place to hide, and rushed into an unoccupied stall, grabbing some toilet paper from the dispenser and rubbing my eyes to dry the tears. I couldn't stay long, since I didn’t want to be late for class, particularly on my first day in the new school. I rushed out and headed to Mrs. Popovich's class, entering just as the tardy bell sounded, finding the only empty seat was next to Sarah. She must have been saving it for me. I sat down without looking at her.

A few minutes into the class period, I stole a look in Sarah's direction; she caught it and smiled at me. It was a sweet, caring smile, I thought. I gave her a tentative smile in return. I found it hard to concentrate on Mrs. Popovich's words, my thought wandering into speculation about Sarah's surprising interest in me. I was hardly boyfriend material, and I had seen her in the company with a tall, muscular ninth grade boy, Harrison Mitchell, who had already made the high school football team.

Throughout the morning, I could not escape Sarah; we both had the same class schedule it appeared, and she always managed to be at my side. We met two of her close friends from Jefferson, our grade school, in Mr. Hawthorne's math class, just before lunch.

"You remember Paul from Jefferson," she said after we were settled near to each other in the classroom. Mr. Hawthorne had yet to open class.

I recognized the two as Ingrid Bjorstrom and Melody Nelson, both girls with pale complexions, long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Ingrid was short, soft and cuddly while Melody was taller, extremely thin.

"Sure," said Melody. "The voice."

I blushed with her description, unable to respond as the class started.

As class ended, the four of us rushed out together to the cafeteria to begin lunch period. "You should eat at our table," Sarah said to me.

"With you?" I asked, incredulously. I knew it would be all the girls from her in-crowd group at Jefferson.

"Sure, please Paul," Melody said.

I begged off, saying that I had promised Molly that I'd join her for lunch period.

"I think there's room for both of you," Sarah pressed. "Join us."

As we entered the cafeteria, Molly beckoned me; she was at the end of the buffet line and urged me to join her. “I’ll join Molly now,” I said, breaking away from Sarah.

“OK, but when you get your trays, you’ll see our table over in the far corner,” Sarah said. “We’ll save two seats for you.”

Molly was puzzled by Sarah’s eager invitation. “What’s she plotting now, Paul? She’s always scheming something. Let’s eat alone.”

“No, we better join her,” I said. “She’s been in all my morning classes and she’s been nice to me.”

“OK, but I don’t like her anyway,” Molly said.

After we got our food, I could see Sarah beckoning for us to join them and I nodded in reply.

“I guess we should join them,” I said to Molly.

She agreed and we walked over the table where five girls sat; there were three empty seats. Thus it was that I began spending my lunch periods with seven girls; I was the only boy. I felt right at home.

*****

“Do you like Sarah, Paul?” Molly asked as we left the school bus several afternoons later, just before we headed to our homes. I had to hurry home to be there when Carolyn got home from school.

“She’s kind of nice,” I said.

“Are you going to join the chorus?” she asked.

“I don’t know that I can. They practice two days a week after school and I have to get home to watch over Carolyn,” I explained.

“But do you want to?” she pressed.
[
“I guess.”

“You can spend more time with your Sarah then,” Molly said, her tone snarky.

“What?”

“You really like her, don’t you?”

Suddenly I saw where Molly was headed with her questions. She was jealous of the time I was spending with Sarah.

“Yes, I like her and she’s nice to me, but I like you and being with you even more,” I said, honestly.

“Really?”

“Really. I’ve never had more fun with anyone but you. I love being with you. You let me be who I am. You let me be Polly.”

Molly smiled at me. “I like you as either Paul or Polly,” she said.

“I’ll call you tonight,” I said, leaving her to hurry home to Carolyn. If we got our homework done, I figured we might have some time to play with her dolls.

2 – An Awesome Mimi

During my early afternoon Study Hall period on the Friday at the end of the first week of school, I was summoned to the music room with a note from Mrs. McNally, a teacher who directed the school’s chorus groups. I had heard she regularly put together chorale groups that won school district honors as among the best.

Carrie McNally looked surprisingly young for someone who had achieved such a wide reputation for leading the chorus. She was tall, strikingly handsome and somewhat masculine in her demeanor. Her students were said to adore her, but I was scared of her, perhaps due to my always cautious and fearful nature. She looked like she could be terribly demanding.

“Thank you for coming, Paul,” she said, her face suddenly warming. She had a lovely smile, so different from the teacher who had appeared at first glance to be a cold, hard woman.

“I had to. I got this note,” I said. It was all I could think of to say. People of authority scared me.

“Well, thank you anyway. I’ve heard so much about you and your marvelous voice.”

“You have?” I wondered how she could have heard about me. Did Sarah tell her?

“Of course,” she said smiling. “I got a note from your teacher at Jefferson who urged me to make sure you continued singing. She sent along with a tape from one of the performances you did last school year. I’ve never heard a clearer, more lovely voice.”

“Thank you,” was all I could say.

“I want you to try out for the chorus. Your friend Sarah Simpson tells me you still have that beautiful soprano voice.”

*****
On the school bus that afternoon, I told Molly that Mrs. McNally’s wanted me to join the school chorus and that our grade school music teacher had said I had too good a voice not to perform.

“You’re going to try out for it, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What? Why not?”

“Well,” I stuttered with finding a suitable answer, without revealing the obvious reason: that I might become a laughingstock, probably because I suspected I’d be the only boy among a crowd of girl sopranos. And, from the way Mrs. McNally was speaking, I might become the leading soprano soloist.

“Why not?” she pressed.

“Well, for one thing, who will watch Carolyn after school?” I asked, finally finding an ironclad excuse.

“How many days would you have to rehearse?”

“Mrs. McNally said it would usually be two days a week, except for those weeks before a concert. It might be more then,” I replied honestly.

Molly nodded, obviously realizing the need to watch over my little sister. The money situation at home hadn’t improved, since mom’s hours of work had been cut, putting even more pressure on our parents to pay the rent and keep us reasonably fed and clothed. It wasn’t until we left the bus at our stop that we spoke of Mrs. McNally’s invitation to me. Just before we split up to go to our respective homes, Molly turned to me and said, using my girl’s name, “Polly, I got an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“If our parents agreed, I could watch over Carolyn on those days you needed to rehearse,” she offered excitedly.

“They won’t agree,” I protested.

“They will too. Your mom knows me and my mom loves Carolyn. Carolyn could come to my house after school and stay until either you or your mom got her.”

“Not gonna happen,” I said firmly, hoping the subject would go away.

“You know I like playing with your sister and I know she likes me,” Molly persisted.

We parted without saying anything further. I walked home slowly, reflecting how mad I was at myself for telling Molly of the offer to sing in the chorus. I was also mad at Sarah for telling everyone I had a “lovely soprano voice, as beautiful as any girl’s voice.” The idea that I might be a star singer was intriguing and enticing. Maybe my voice would finally change suddenly and end this dilemma. Yet, I wondered, if I could be a beautiful girl then that would be great. What an intriguing idea.

*****
Mrs. McNally summoned me a few days later – after I had agreed to join the chorus – and suggested that I listen to a few famous arias performed by sopranos. She had sent a note to me in homeroom, saying I had been freed from my study hall period to join her for a brief private lesson two days a week, when she also had a free period.

I wasn’t sure what she had in mind with this special attention, but she had seemed excited when she heard me sing in person. Mom had a ton of CDs at home of opera and, with mom accompanying me on the piano, I had learned the famous “Sì, mi chiamano Mimì” (“They call me Mimi”) from Puccini’s “La Boheme.” It’s a marvelous solo in which Mimi, a young seamstress, introduces herself to Rodolpho, followed by a lovely duet. It was one of mom’s favorites and I began singing it just because it seemed like fun. Of course, I faked singing it in Italian that I had learned to mimic by listening to one of mom’s CDs. At mom’s advice, I read the synopsis of the opera and studied the English translation of the piece so that I could sing the words convincingly, just as if I was the flirtatious Mimi.

I performed a portion of the piece a cappella for Mrs. McNally, apparently hitting the high notes cleanly and without straining. She said she was impressed, and we spent a few minutes while she played recording of some other soprano solos of famous operas, providing some other examples for me to hear.

One aria that stood out, sung on a You Tube clip by Barbara Bonney, was “Ave Maria,” by Franz Schubert. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkxlFhk1FcM)

“You liked that one, Paul?” she asked.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said, truly entranced by the sweetness of Barbara Bonney’s lovely voice.

“You want to sing that? It’s difficult to do well,” she said.

“Please, Mrs. McNally. I’d like to try.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said, giving me a High Five.

*****
Mrs. McNally’s enthusiastic support of my talent was tempered by the fact that I was a boy singing female roles; there were seven sopranos in the chorus and, of course, I was the only boy among them. Too make matters worse, I stood in the front row in a sea of girl sopranos and altos, while other boys filled the ranks of baritones and basses. Most of the other singers in the chorus seemed pleased to welcome me into their ranks, and I heard no taunts or whispered laughter about my unusually high, lovely voice.

Mrs. McNally had smoothed my acceptance, I believe, when she addressed the group on the first day of rehearsals and telling them that she felt all of the students exhibited such great talent that she felt the group could win the state singing championship in the following May competitions.

“We’re a team,” she said, “just as much a team as our football or basketball squads. As you know, the boy who plays center on the football team is just as critical to victory as the quarterback. If he doesn’t center the ball cleanly or fails to block the defender, the quarterback won’t even get a chance to throw the ball.”

“But, Mrs. McNally,” Jorge Alvarez interrupted, “Why does everyone know the quarterback and no one knows the center?”

“That’s a good question, Jorge. And, I know it always seems that way, doesn’t? But, remember what I said: the important point is that the football team wants to win and it can’t win without the center doing his job. His role is not easily noticed, but you can bet that the quarterback and the star end who catches his passes will be easily noticed. That’s just the nature of the game, but every good quarterback fully knows he owes his success to the boy that plays center as well as the other four linemen whose jobs are to protect him.”

“What’s that got to do with us, Mrs. McNally?” asked Emily Waters, one of the sopranos.

“It’s this, Emily. Some of you will be asked to sing solo parts, and that means those few singers will be identified and most likely applauded. Those who sing in the background will likely be ignored, and that can be hard to understand for those of us who don’t get to do solos. We work just as hard, practice just as long, yet only a few will get the applause.”

“Aren’t we all getting applause at the end of the song if we sing well?” asked Dimitrus Chambers, a towering young man whose bass voice had become a powerful force in the chorus.

“Exactly,” Mrs. McNally said, smiling at her crew.

“We get it, Mrs. McNally,” Emily responded.

“And now I’m going to ask you all to help us on something that could be a problem this year,” she said, her voice becoming a bit stern. “We’ll probably be asking Paul Torrance, who is new to the school to be singing some solo soprano parts, and it’s likely to bring some unwelcome attention to us. It’s rare for a boy to have such a high voice by this time in his life, but Paul’s hasn’t changed yet. As we audition for the solos, Paul could easily win a chance to sing solo; I’ve heard him sing and I must admit his voice is clear and smooth and very lovely.

“Paul doesn’t like the attention, but he clearly loves to sing. I hope all of you will accept Paul as one of us. His unique voice may bring some teasing or taunting, but I don’t want to hear any of that coming from his chorus mates. You hear me?”

I hated Mrs. McNally at that moment. I hated her for drawing such attention to me. It showed me again what a failure I was as a boy. I looked down to the ground, afraid to look the others in the eye. I felt humiliated. I was ready to quit the chorus.

Sarah, who sat in the chair next to me, must have sensed my distress. She whispered in my ear, “Look, Paul, she’s saying this to make it easier for you.”

“I suppose so,” I said back, already beginning to fight back tears.

Sarah leaped up from her chair, and said, “Mrs. McNally. May I say something?”

“Yes, Sarah, what is it?”

“Ma’am, I’d like to tell you that Paul has a remarkable voice and could help us win back the state championship this year,” she began. “We sang in the chorus at Jefferson and I was a soprano then, too, and he beat me out for the solo parts. At first I hated him. A boy shouldn’t be singing those parts, I thought. But his voice is so beautiful and can hit high notes so easily, that I realized he was better. Besides, he’s a nice guy.”

I looked up at her, stunned at her endorsement. It seemed like she helped to raise the cloud of depression that had fallen down upon me that day.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself. Thank you, Sarah,” the teacher said.

Mrs. McNally turned to me. “Please stand up so we can introduce you to the rest of the chorus Paul.”

I rose and gave a tentative wave to the others, who numbered about twenty-five. Most applauded, and I sat down quickly.

*****
I began to take my singing even more seriously, thanks to the encourage from Mrs. McNally and growing support from among the girl singers in the group. After auditions, I guess it was obvious that I had the best soprano voice; all of the others sopranos (all girls, of course) seemed to applaud my selection, as well as that of Tamara Lincoln as my backup, and occasional partner in soprano duets. I was pleased that Sarah was chosen to sing the lead alto parts, and that we would likely participate in some dual singing segments.

Most of the boys in the chorus shunned me, even though I had tried to befriend a few of them. It was obvious that none of them wanted to associate with me, for fear that they’d also be branded as some sort of weirdo. Jaime Lopez, who was at Jefferson with me and had been friendly, had also changed; he almost brought me to tears one day as I tried to sit next to him in an English class.

“This seat ain’t for you,” he said, waving me away. “Go sit with the other girls.”

I looked at him, shocked at his attitude. It wasn’t like him.

“Go, there’s a seat right in among the girls. That’s where you belong.”

I took his advice and sat down in the only other vacant seat which was surrounded by seats occupied by girls.

“Sit here Paul. We like you,” Emily, my soprano friend from the chorus, said. Girls were all around me. They all smiled at me.

“Thanks, Emily,” I said.

“I saw how he treated you, Paul,” she said, leaning across the aisle to so that we could talk without being overheard.

“He used to be my friend,” I said, still on the verge of breaking into tears.

“You’re one of us,” Emily said.

I wanted to ask her what she meant, but just then Miss Heppinger called the class to order, “Now today, class, we’ll being learning something about poetry.” There was a groan coming from some of the boys, but I was looking forward to the discussion, having tried to write poetry myself and failing miserably.

She was introducing us to some of the Sonnets of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, starting with the most famous of them that begins, “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . .” I loved that sonnet, as did the other girls in the class.

“That’s a corny poem, Miss H,” piped up D’ontre Adams, on the boys.

“No, it isn’t,” I yelled out in protest.

“Maybe you girls like that lovely stuff, but real boys don’t,” D’ontre responded quickly.

“I’m not a . . .” I began to yell back, but was quickly interrupted by Miss Heppinger who told us both to be quiet.

“Both of you be quiet,” the teacher said firmly. She could be a commanding figure in the classroom; she was a large, husky woman who seemed quite old to me. I remember some of the boys talking about her among themselves in the cafeteria and then laugh after one commented she was obviously too ugly to ever get a man. “I bet she’s still virgin,” one boy said. “Nah, she’s gotta be a lezzie,” piped in another. For some reason I felt offended by their comments; I had grown to like “Miss H” because she was obviously in love with teaching us about good literature. Of course, I was cowardly and said nothing at that time.

“Now D’ontre,” she said, “Tell us why it’s corny.”

The boy, a tall, sinewy boy who I knew as a good basketball player seemed tongue-tied for a moment. “I don’t know why, it just is corny,” he finally said.

“You know D’ontre, it’s OK that you don’t like the sonnet. Just because others may like it doesn’t mean you have to, but you should be able to tell us why it’s corny,” the teacher said. Her voice was gentle and kind, and I knew she never tried to belittle a student. I liked that.

“Likewise, Paul,” Miss Heppinger said, turning to me. “You have to have a reason for liking the sonnet and to tell D’ontre why it’s not corny, as he says.”

“Well, it’s romantic,” I said, trying to search for an answer. I found myself as tongue-tied as D’Ontre.

“What makes it romantic?” she pressed.

I tried to figure out an answer; it took me a moment before I finally answered. “To me it’s really one of the most beautiful expressions of a girl’s love for her man. See the numerous ways she tells of her deep love for the man. I can imagine a girl writing this for her boyfriend. I can feel she’s truly in love with him.”

“How do you know the poem is expressing a girl’s love for a boy?” the teacher probed.

“Oh?” I said. “It just seemed that way, but now that I look at it, maybe it’s the other way around.”

“OK, class,” she said. “This is the point I’m making. A good poem will affect each of us differently, but the important point is poetry should be written to arouse your emotions, to make you feel strongly about whatever meaning you get out of it. Now D’ontre, do you still think it’s corny?”

“Well, maybe not,” the boy conceded. “But I think the poem is depicting a guy writing his girlfriend.”

*****
“Paul, how’d you like to get singing lessons from a real pro?” Mrs. McNally said one day, asking me to stay a few minutes after rehearsals ended.

I told her I’d like to, but that my parents couldn’t afford to pay the tuition.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” she said. “Remember I recorded all of you when you did your auditions. I always do that so I can listen to you all afterward before deciding who should sing what.”

I nodded. I remembered how she insisted that we each sing directly into the microphone she had set up.

“You ever hear of Andrea Laskiewiecz?” she asked.

“Oh yes, she’s a great singer and she lives here, doesn’t she?” I had heard her sing at one of the summer park concerts, the concert where they featured famous operatic arias. It had been a magical night. Madam Laskiewiecz had performed a few times at the Met and often with the Chicago Civic Opera, and had settled in our city, her hometown, where she ran the vocal music department at the Juneau Conservatory of Music.

“Well, I shared the recording of your voice with her,” Mrs. McNally said. “You blew her away, Paul, you really did. And she said she’d love work with you, said you had ‘some rough edges’ but that you had potential.”

I didn’t know what to say; of course, I’d love to study under the great Andrea Laskewiecz, but there was no way we could afford her. Besides, I wasn’t sure what good it would do since I figured in a few months – or at least in the next year – my voice would change and lose its lovely high ranges.

“She’d probably take you on as a scholarship student,” my teacher continued. “The Conservatory has a program for young people with talent to attend without charge, or with minimal costs, anyway. I’d like you to meet her.”

*****
Two days later, I took the No. 30 bus to the Conservatory to meet the great Andrea Laskiewiecz. My heart was pumping a million miles a minute as I walked between the great columns that marked the front entrance of the century-old Conservatory building. I felt tiny and insignificant as I waited in the crowded and busy reception area, looking at the photos of the many musicians and singers who had studied at the school and moved onto greatness throughout the world as pianists, violinists, cellists, jazz performers and singers. I felt I was a fraud to even consider being good enough to be in the Conservatory program.

“So you’re Paul, the lad behind that exciting voice I heard on tape?” Madam Laskiewiecz said, as she beckoned me to sit down in a chair in her cluttered, cramped office space. Books on music mixed with CDs and sheet music folios on her crowded shelves and on virtually every flat space in the room.

Pictures of her family, a prosperous looking older man, obviously her husband, and three strapping teen age boys, who looked like they’d likely be football players rather than musicians or singers.

She spent more than half an hour talking to me, all of the time her piercing dark eyes focused on me, as if she were sending laser rays into my own thoughts. At first I felt ill at ease, fearing that she was discovering all of my deepest secrets, but as the conversation wore on I began feel more comfortable. Soon her tone became gentle and soft, almost motherly, and I grew to feel safe in her room.

Then she surprised me with a comment that upset the comfort I had been gaining.

“I know what’s bothering you, Paul,” she said, her voice kind. “You’re the only boy singing soprano and you think you’ll be laughed at, probably even called names, like ‘faggot’ and such.”

I merely nodded and, almost on cue it seemed, tears began forming in my eyes. I felt I was about to cry.

“That’s the price of being special, of having great talent, and I can tell you’re both,” she said, smiling.

She handed me a tissue to wipe my eyes.

“That’s OK, Paul, real boys cry,” she said.

When I had settled down, she led me out of her office and into a small studio that contained an upright piano and two chairs.

“Now I want you to sing for me. I understand you can sing ‘Mimi’s Song’ from La Boheme, is that right?”

“Yes ma’am, it’s one of my favorites,” I said.

“You know the story, right, about Mimi who sings the song while introducing herself to Rodolpho, a handsome young poverty-stricken poet?”

“Yes ma’am. It’s so beautiful.”

“To sing really great opera, dear, you must assume the part,” she said. “You must be Mimi. You cannot only be a person who is merely singing the words. You have to think, feel and care as if you are Mimi. You got that?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good, because if you achieve that, you’ll be a great singer and you’ll be so good, people will praise you and they won’t care if you’re a boy or a girl. You’ll just be Mimi.”

Madam Laskiewiecz then placed a piece of music on the piano and sat down on the bench and ran a few riffs on the piano that I recognized as the intro music to Mimi’s solo.

“Sing now, Mimi, dear,” she commanded after giving me a short pause to collect myself.

“I’m ready now,” I said after running through one of my warm-up exercises to loosen my voice.

“You’re even lovely when you warm up, Mimi,” she said.

At first I was mystified at her calling me “Mimi,” but then I realized she may have been conditioning me to fully assume the role of the French girl; she wanted me to become Mimi, even for this brief audition.

“Paul, Paul,” Madam Laskiewiecz said excitedly when I finished. “My darling, that was magnificent. I was nearly in tears when you ended. You have a few things to clean up, and some of your Italian was unintelligible, but those can always be fixed.”

“Really,” I said, excited by her praise. I felt I had done well, but feared it would not be good enough for a critic such as the Madam was known to be.

“Do you know Italian?” she asked.

“Not really, but I listened to mom’s CD of Renata Tebaldi sing that song maybe a hundred times and just got the words from her, as well as the melody,” I replied.

“You never saw the words in print, nor the music?”

“No, just by ear.”

“Remarkable.”

She agreed to take me on as her student; she knew our family couldn’t afford the tuition, but said she was confident I’d qualify for one of the full scholarships the Conservatory offered for low-income students.

I was in a dreamy state on the bus ride home, excited to tell mom about my meeting with the famed singer and her acceptance of me. My mind drifted to the life of Mimi, how it felt to be a poor, struggling girl in love with Rodolpho. Wouldn’t it be great to play Mimi in a real live opera production? I fantasized about being that pretty French seamstress, standing on the Met stage, looking lovely even in my tattered dress, and singing the Italian words that mean, “They call me Mimi.”

3 – The Performance
The next afternoon I had no lessons or rehearsals scheduled, and I could be home to watch over my sister Carolyn, rather than saddling my friend Molly with that chore. Actually Molly didn’t mind spending time with my sister and, as she often did, Molly joined us that day for my after-school duty of watching over Carolyn.

“I wanted to watch this video of an opera,” I said to Molly when she entered the house. “If you don’t want to watch that’s OK, and you can play with Carolyn.”

“An opera? Why?” she probed.

“I just wanna.”

“OK, be that way,” Molly said testily, heading back into the bedroom that Carolyn and I shared to see what my younger sister was doing.

On my return the previous day from my meeting with Madam Laskiewiecz, I had stopped at our Public Library branch and found a DVD of Luciano Pavarotti performing the opera, with a soprano by the name of Fiamma Izzo d'Amico playing Mimi. When Molly left the room, I eagerly put the disc in our player, and pushed the “play” button. Of course, I had to set the sound it at full volume; how else can you appreciate opera?

Soon, both Molly and Carolyn emerged from the bedroom, obviously drawn into the living room by the sound. Pavarotti’s magical voice has been known the thrill just about everyone, including those who claim to hate opera. It was an easy lure for Molly and Carolyn. I was pleased to hear that Ms. D’Amico’s voice was nearly as equally compelling as the great tenor’s.

“Wow, that’s something,” Molly said after Pavarotti, as Rodolpho, completed one of the first act arias.

I shushed her, since I knew Mimi’s song was coming up next. (I had begun to think of it as my song!) As Ms. D’Amico moved into introducing herself to Rodolpho I began singing along with her; I rose from the chair and began flitting about the room, my voice soft and low in volume, seeking to duplicate every move of the lovely young woman performing on the TV screen. I was Mimi, a poor seamstress, finding my love suddenly in the handsome Rodolpho (though by that stage in his life, the aging, portly singer was hardly a typical heartthrob).

When the aria ended, Molly motioned me to pause the video, which I did.

“What?” I said, feeling angry that she had interrupted the opera.

“Your voice, Paul. It’s really beautiful,” Molly said. “You really sounded good, maybe just as good as that singer in the video.”

“You could be that girl, Polly,” my sister added, using the name she and Molly had begun calling me.

I blushed, finding great comfort in their praise. In their mind, and to my joy, I was indeed a girl.

*****
By mid-semester, Mrs. McNally’s chorus was coming together beautifully; even though we all thought we were singing quite well, our teacher pressed us to do even better. She was a stickler for details, making certain we stayed on pitch. She was brutal when someone hit a sour note – even a tiny off-key note – calling them out. How she could determine which of the twenty or so members of the group hit the bad note, I’ll never figure out. Yet, she did it in a gentle, yet firm way.

She was no less sparing in her criticism of those of us who were taking the solo parts, who were the so-called “favored ones.” Sarah, of course, had become the lead alto and Dimitrus Chambers the principal bass. I was the lead soprano, and most of my chorus mates seemed happy for me. Yet, for a few girls, my selection didn’t go too well. Not only was I an underclassman, the fact that I was a boy naturally continued to bother them.

“I wish your voice would change,” one of the said, her tone snarky and nasty.

Hearing the giggles and whispers (coming mainly from the boys) obviously aimed at my girlish voice and mannerisms, I wanted to just fade away, never to be heard of again. Why couldn’t I be a real boy? Or, as the question seemed to becoming up more often: Why couldn’t I be a real girl? Most days, I had sung my solos to near perfection, something that should have made me feel good, but too often I felt devastated. Many afternoons, following rehearsals I boarded the late school bus, ready to break into tears, knowing that I was considered nothing more than a freak, a faggot, or a weird creature of a cruel bit of nature.

“Why are you sad, Paul?” Dimitrus said to me one afternoon in mid-October as we both rode the late school bus to our homes. (The school scheduled several buses that would leave about an hour after classes ended to accommodate those of us who took part in extracurricular activities.)

Dimitrus and I had become friends, since we were working on a duet together. He sat next to me, his large, muscular frame seeming to dwarf me. Already, his deep voice had matured, and even though he was but a year older (he was an 8th grader), he already seemed to be developing a beard. We bonded when I told him about one of my favorite singers, Paul Robeson.

“Who’s he?” Dimitrus asked.

“You don’t know about him?” I asked, incredulous that Dimitrus, a young African-American boy who loved to sing, had never heard of Robeson, also African-American, who had been an All-American football player who went on to be one of world’s greatest singers.

“Oh, Dimitrus, you should listen to him sometime. You’ll be thrilled,”

I told him I’d loan him one of the CDs that mom had in her collection.

“Thanks, but you’re just changing the subject,” he replied. “I asked you why you’re sad, Paul.”

“I’m not sad, Dimitrus,” I replied.

“Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your face,” he said.

“I guess,” was all I said in reply.

“I like you, Paul,” his words simple. And honest.

“I like you, too, Dimitrus,” I said, suddenly feeling much better.

*****
The chorus rehearsed intensely in preparation for the school’s annual holiday concert that was held in the second week of December. For many of us, it was the highlight of the school year, a time when our parents and grandparents would pack the school auditorium to cheer on their kids, hooting and hollering as if they were cheering a performance at the Metropolitan Opera. Not only would our chorus perform, but so would the orchestra, two jazz bands and the brass band. We had two featured pieces, one a set of spiritual songs sung by slaves, with Dimitrus singing solos in “Follow the Drinkin’ Gourd,” and “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.” The other was the always popular and emotional “Ave Maria,” and I was honored to do the solo.

“You seem happy these days,” Dimitrus observed in the few days before the concert as we rode home on a cold night in early December on the school bus.

“You think so?”

“Yes, Paul. And I think I know why.”

“You do, eh? Maybe it’s because I’m thinking about Christmas and what Santa will bring me,” I teased.

Dimitrus laughed, a jovial laugh and brought a sparkle into his dark eyes.

“I guess you’re right,” I said, growing serious. “It seems I’m being accepted by most of the kids now.”

“Of course, you are,” he said. “You work hard and you’re nice and you’re friendly, too. If you weren’t a boy I would want you as my girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend?” I said, shocked.

“Paul, I didn’t mean . . . ah . . . ah . . . oh, that sounds bad, doesn’t it? It’s just that I like you. Is that all right?”

“Yes and I like you,” I replied, still dazed by his reference to me as a girlfriend.

Dimitrus smiled. “Well, I think we’re best friends, aren’t we?”

I nodded and thought to myself: I’d like to be his girlfriend.

*****
The chorus was the last group to perform before the grand finale when all the groups would gather to perform a couple of Christmas carols to finish up the evening. As we sat through the orchestra struggling through a Mozart sonata, then the brass band brightening up the night with a Souza march and “76 Trombones,” and finally followed by the jazz band’s rhythmical Miles’ Davis’ “All Blue,” I began to get the shakes.

“Are you cold, Paul?” Sarah whispered in my ear.

“Just nervous,” I said.

“Nonsense. You’ve got the ‘Ave’ solo nailed,” she said encouragingly.

Sarah was right; it wasn’t that I might flub up the “Ave,” or that my voice would crack on the high notes, I was scared at the reception I’d get when the huge audience watched me – a boy – sing in a girly soprano. I began to wish that I could sing in one of the gowns that were worn by the girls.

*****
Mrs. McNally always spotlighted the group as a whole, keeping the solo parts brief. I liked that idea, partly because I was fearful of being too prominent and also because her policy helped take away any thoughts of jealousy that the others might have toward us. I wanted desperately to fit into the group, and not to be thought of being different or special.

In our arrangement of “Ave Maria,” the chorus as a whole opened up singing a stanza before I was due to take two steps out from the first row of sopranos to perform my solo, accompanied by harmonic humming in the background. From the opening “Ave” I became enraptured by the emotion of the moment. Stage lights beamed into my eyes and all I could see were faint outlines of faces, reflections off eye glasses and the sparkling of the jewelry worn by some of the women. It was just enough to let me imagine the crowd out there, hopefully enraptured by the beauty of the moment.

I sang as if possessed by an unknown spirit, my voice ringing clear. I was soaring into the ether as I came to the end of the song.

The applause, accompanied by a few whistles and hoots, was spontaneous and thunderous. “Bravo” was shouted out by several persons; I couldn’t tell for sure, but I think one of them was from my dad. Then I did something that I regretted almost immediately: I curtsied.

The crowd applauded even louder with that; then I remembered, I was a boy. I bowed in response and I could hear some good-natured laughter. I had captured the audience. They had accepted me. I realized, however, I had neglected to acknowledge the chorus; after all, their tremendous accompaniment helped to set the emotional power of the music. I turned and gestured acknowledgement first to Mrs. McNally as our director and then with a sweep of my hand to salute my chorus mates. I could see they were all smiling as they jointly refused to bow, but then looked toward me and beginning to applaud.

In turn, I applauded them and quickly returned to my place in the first row among the other girls.

*****
Dimitrus Chamber’s performance of his two spirituals – and the impressive backing of the chorus – may have aroused even more applause. While his solo part in the “Drinkin’ Gourd” piece was small, Mrs. McNally had decided to let him perform “Chariot” as a solo, with the chorus harmonizing softly in the background. It was a powerful performance; I was so happy for him. He also received “bravos,” one from a husky, sounding man; I hoped it was his father, since Dimitrus had confessed to me that his father thought he should be playing football instead of singing with “a bunch of girls and sissies.”

He and I stood next to each other as the two of us led the audience in singing “Silent Night,” the final song of the night.

When it ended, the stage full of middle school performers stood, ready to bow to acknowledge the applause from our parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles who filled the auditorium. Dimitrus whispered as we prepared to bow: “You know boys don’t curtsey. They bow.”

“Thanks,” I said, mockingly, knowing he was teasing me.

I bowed, though I really felt I should curtsey.

*****
After the performance, Dad took mom, Carolyn and myself to Fuzzy’s Place, a popular ice cream shop for a treat; we were lucky we got the last free booth as several other families came piling in from our school.

As we waited to be served, Stephanie Stafford, one the girl altos, walked by with her parents; Stephanie gave me a slight wave and I waved back.

“What a beautiful voice you have,” Stephanie’s mother said as the family halted briefly at our booth.

I didn’t answer her right away, since I knew Stephanie was one of the few girls who wasn’t too pleased with me getting the big solo part in the chorus.

“Thank you,” my mom said, quickly rescuing the situation. Stephanie stood partly hidden behind her mom, and it appeared she had a smirk on her face.

The incident eased a bit as Mrs. Stafford introduced herself and her husband while Stephanie and I grunted “hi’s” to each other.

“I figured he may as well take advantage of that high voice until it changes,” my dad said, apparently seeking to save a bit of the boy I guess he thought I should be.

“It was a real treat to hear him sing,” Mrs. Stafford, as the family continued back to a table that had finally been freed for them.

“I don’t ever want Polly’s voice to change,” Carolyn piped up after we were alone.

“What?” Dad asked sharply. “Did you say Polly?”

“No, daddy,” Carolyn replied.

“Yes, Carolyn, you did say Polly,” he pressed.

“I think she said Paulie. She sometimes calls me that, dad.”

Carolyn was seated across from me and I could see she was feeling a bit mischievous; she could sometimes be a bit uncontrolled in her speaking, just blurting out whatever comes to her mind.

“Well, why don’t you want Paul’s voice to change? He’s a boy and it’s going to change,” dad said.

“’Cause he’s my big sister,” she blurted out.

“Your what, Carolyn? Your big sister?” Dad roared.

“Shhhhh, dear. People are looking at us,” mom said, putting her hand on dad to quiet him.

Before he could say anything further, the waitress arrived to take our order.

Father looked up at the waitress. “I’m sorry, miss, but we’ll have to go. Something’s come up,” he said.

He pulled his wallet out, extracted several dollar bills, put them on the table, and ordered, his tone stern and sharp, “Get up kids, we’re going.”

He spoke softly, but directly. He was determined and I knew when my dad acted like this he was determined to do something drastic. I wanted to cry as I slid out of the booth, allowing my dad to slide after me. I caught a glance at Carolyn, wanting to strangle her not only for calling my “Polly,” but to then refer to me as “big sister.” Carolyn already had tears in her eyes; she realized she had let our secret out and I knew she was sorry. I couldn’t be mad at her, could I?

*****
It was a frightfully silent drive home. No one said anything. Carolyn and I sat in the backseat and she was sobbing. I reach over to put a hand on her hands and nodded with a smile, hoping to put her at ease. “Don’t worry,” I said, just mouthing the words and without accompanying sounds. She knew what I said and she mouthed back, “I’m sorry.” I smiled back at her. I know my smile might have been forced a bit; to be truthful, I was scared stiff. My dad never spanked us, but when he was mad at us, the contempt he had in his eyes was more hurtful than even a good whipping. I wanted my dad to like me, and when I thought I heard his “bravo” I was elated.

That joy was to be short-lived; I feared what was coming.

“Get ready for bed both of you, brush your teeth and get into your ‘jamas and then get back here into the kitchen,” he ordered us.

Carolyn and I scurried off to our room and took off our good clothes and quickly got into our pajamas. His order to “brush our teeth” meant we’d be getting no “treat” for the nice night out we had had.

“What’s he going to do to us, Paul?” Carolyn asked.

“I don’t know. He’s pissed,” I said.

“I won’t tell him anything else about our secret, Paul,” she said.

I smiled at her. “Thanks, Carolyn, but I think you better tell him everything. Tell the truth,” I advised her.

“But . . . ah . . . Paul. He’ll get so mad at you.”

“Don’t lie. He’ll get even madder,” I said, trying to reassure her, even though I was hardly reassured myself.

Butterflies flitted about in my tummy as Carolyn and I left the bedroom for the kitchen. I knew the truth would have to come out: I acted often like a big sister to Carolyn and, more importantly, I enjoyed being her big sister. I had no idea what dad would say or how he would act. I knew one truth: he’d be disappointed in me.

*****
“Now Carolyn, tell me about your big sister and Polly,” dad began once we were seated. Mom and dad were at each end of the small kitchen table, forcing Carolyn and I to sit opposite each other. I assumed a stiff position, both my legs before me, my hands clasped together on my lap; as I sat there, I mused that I assumed a position just as if I was a girl. I wondered if I should assume a more masculine posture, but decided against it. I was comfortable sitting as I was.

Both dad and mom had grim looks on their faces.

“Answer your father, Carolyn,” mom urged, offering her an encouraging smile.

Carolyn looked at me and I nodded, signifying that it was OK for her to tell the truth. It wasn’t right for her to get in trouble just because of me.

“Daddy, I’m sorry,” she began, beginning to cry. “It’s all my fault. I asked Paul to play with my dolls with me after school, and we did. I had so much fun. I liked to think of him as my big sister and began calling him Polly. That’s all.”

“That’s OK, Carolyn,” mom said, commenting before dad could say anything. “You see Charles the kids were just playing. Paul was just being a good baby-sitter.”

“Do you do that often, Carolyn?” dad asked.

“I guess,” she answered, looking down at the top table. I could see she was going to burst into a crying spell soon. I hated to see her in pain.

“Daddy,” I said, unconsciously addressing him as a girl might to her father, hoping to spare my little sister more interrogation. “We do it almost every day.”

He turned to me, eyeing me closely. Suddenly he loomed large in front of me, a seeming giant leering at me and readying himself to attack me.

“And you like being a big sister called Polly, do you?” he screamed at me.

Even though I felt like crawling under the table, I held my erect seated posture. I nodded hesitantly in the affirmative. I knew I enjoyed being a girl called Polly and being Carolyn’s big sister.

“What the hell is going on with the kids?” he stormed. “I’ve got a fairy son who thinks he’s a girl. I won’t have it. And I’ve got a little girl who likes her big brother to be a girl. What’s happening?”

Mom got up, squeezed behind through the narrow space that separated my chair from the kitchen sink. I felt her give my shoulder a gentle caress as she passed.

“Now, Charles,” she said getting to dad’s side, and grasping his shoulders. “Let’s calm down.”

By then both Carolyn and I were crying, our sobs noisily filling the tiny kitchen.

“What did we do wrong, Elizabeth?” dad asked, having calmed finally calmed down.

“Nothing, darling,” mom said. “We have two really great kids. Let’s just try to sort this out.”

Dad merely nodded. He put his head down, onto his hands and thought he must be thinking. My own sobbing subsided and finally dad lifted his head from his hands. He looked first at my sister and then at me. I wasn’t sure what he had on his mind.

He turned toward mother and said, “I guess I promised us ice cream after the concert. Elizabeth, I think we have some ice cream in the freezer, don’t we?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Well, we need to celebrate Paul’s great singing tonight, so see if you can find some chocolate sauce, too,” he said.

Mom got out the ice cream; because we had only a partial carton left, we all had small portions, but dad made sure I got the largest piece as well as the most chocolate.

“Did you hear my ‘bravo’ Paul?” he asked as we ate.

“I thought it was you, dad. I was happy you liked it even though I sang with the girls.”

“It’s the most beautiful ‘Ave’ I’ve ever heard,” he said.

We were shooed off to bed after we finished the ice cream. Dad told us to brush our teeth again, since we had eaten. He grabbed my arm, told Carolyn to head into the bedroom and then dragged me into the living room. He sat next to me on the couch.

“Paul, I’m not happy with this girl stuff, you know, but I also know you’re very special to your mother and me and we want you to be happy and have a full life. Mom and I’ll look into this. It appears you like the idea of being a girl and I don’t understand it.”

“Dad, I’m not sure I really want to be a girl, but I do like doing girl things. I’m confused,” I confessed.

“I love you,” dad said, kissing me on lips. We hadn’t kissed in years.

I slept soundly that night.

(To hear the voices of Ms. D’Amico and Luciano Pavarotti since “Mimi’s song,” go here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkHGUaB1Bs8

(For a sampling of Robeson’s voice, check it out here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtLcELU1brA&list=RDgtLcELU1brA)