Chapter One: A Budding Columnist

It was strictly happenstance that I became the only male employee at “Women's Place,” a magazine that claimed to be “By women, for women and about women.”

You see, Edith Banks, who wrote their popular “Ask Edith” column, died without warning of a heart attack in mid-June — just six months ago. The column, of course, was one of those lovelorn places where women came crying, seeking advice about cheating husbands, men who ignore them, teen girls with crushes on quarterbacks or wives with troublesome mothers-in-law. Edith's advice usually was right-on-the-mark, I believed.

My name is Jeremy Sullivan, and my really best friend in the whole wide world is my mom. Together, we eagerly awaited each monthly issue of “Women's Place,” having had established a routine many years before, when I was about 12, of reading the column together right after supper — even before the dishes were done — on the day the magazine arrived. Almost from the beginning, I began reading the letter-writer's question mimicking a female voice and mannerisms as I did it. Then I'd turn the publication over to mom and she'd read Edith's answer.

At first I did it as a lark typical of a boy my age who liked to make fun of elders. Mom and I would giggle a lot during those earlier sessions, but by the time I was 14 I began to take the letters more seriously, and my female voice imitations became less outlandish and more realistic. Soon, mom and I discussed some of Edith's answers in detail, even offering suggestions different from the expert.

I remember how vehemently I argued against one answer Edith made to “Maryann. Age 16. Shreveport LA.” I read the question aloud in a sweet, girlish tone, almost falling into tears as I understood the desperation in the writer's words:

Dear Edith: There's this boy who I'll call Jimmy (that's not his real name) who is my partner in chemistry class and he’s very smart. He's real nice and handsome, too. He's very helpful to me and I will get an 'A' in that class. I am told I'm pretty and cute, and yet the boy doesn't seem interested in me.

I know he's shy, since I asked one of his friends about him. He said the boy has never even kissed a girl yet, and he's almost 17. Should I ask him if he's gay or something?

I think I love this boy. How can I make him like me and ask me out for a date? Help me, Ms. Edith. I'm desperate. Your friend, Maryann.

I read that aloud, using a sweet girlish voice, almost breaking into tears as I did so. Mom then read Edith’s answer:

Maryann: Give up on the boy. He's hopeless. If you're pretty and cute, you should have no problem getting dates. But don't ask him if he's gay? That's too personal. You're too young, my dear, to worry about finding love. Edith.

“Mom, she's not being fair, really,” I said. “That's girl's in pain. I can feel it in her letter.”

“But honey, the boy doesn't seem interested,” his mother argued.

“She did say he was shy, mom. Maybe she needs to find an excuse to invite him to something.”

“Well, usually Edith is right about these things, Jeremy. Besides, you're a boy, honey, how can you know what is best for a teen girl?”

“I guess so mom,” I said, shaking my head in despair. “It still seems there might be real love between these two kids.”

The answer bothered me so much that I had trouble concentrating on the social studies homework that night. Eventually I gave up, and went to the computer and wrote my own answer, as if I were “Edith Banks.”

Maryann: While I normally respect Edith's advice, I think she's wrong in this case. I think girls can fall in love at 16, first of all. And, if you really like this boy, continue to show interest in him, and maybe get him to tell you what he likes to do in his free time. Find out what movies he likes. Just try talking like a friend to him.

Many boys I found are just shy, like his friend says he is. He'll need a little prodding by you to maybe show he's also interested in you. Is there something you could invite him too, like an art exhibit or something like that? Get talking about a movie he might like, and suggest maybe the two of you could go to that.

A girl should never give up on her true love.

I wondered whether I should send the answer in to Edith Banks. The columnist each week ran a column on the magazine’s website, where she included comments by readers, even those critical of her advice. The only problem was that I'm a boy, and the letter sounded a bit like it came from a girl. Anyway, no girl wants to take advice from a boy.

I printed out and showed it to mom, who was in the kitchen working on a crosswords puzzle.

“You think a girl should do what you say, honey?” mom asked me.

“Yes,” I told her. Just about all of my friends in school were girls and they talked openly before me. I had become kind of a listening post for some girls, who insisted on sharing their stories about their boyfriends, just as if I was a girl, too.

Mom must have sensed I was right about my answer, since most of my time seemed to be spent with either her and her girl friends as well as the girls in school. Often I seemed to be teamed up with Tammy and Sasha on trips to the mall, fast food joints or the movies. The two girls had been to the house often and I guess she must have heard me giggling along with them.

Sasha once told me I knew more about girl's clothes than she or any of her girl friends. I guess I did, since mom was always a classy women; she believed in dressing in good taste, with great effort at assuring the colors fit the person.

“Mom, I feel sorry for that Maryann girl. I just gotta send that letter in, but I can't sign it 'Jeremy,' can I?”

“No I guess you can't, dear,” she said, going back to her crossword puzzle.

Later that night, I clicked the “send” button to submit my reply to Edith. It was signed “Gerianne, Age 15.”

Guess what? It was the first comment printed on the website column a day later, bringing about several later comments, all supportive of “Gerianne's comment.” One writer said: “That girl, Gerianne, is wise for a teen girl.”

A month later, I posted another comment; that, too, got plenty of response, mostly favorable. Then, I was hooked, commenting on one or another of Edith’s solutions about once a week, most of them gathering other responding comments. I was surprised to soon become sort of an icon on Edith’s comment page, even to the point that she featured one of my comments in the monthly column she puts into the print edition of “Women’s Place.”

I had become sort of a celebrity by the time I was a junior in high school on Edith’s page in the “Women’s Place” website. Eventually there were requests showing up to tell more about myself, my location, whether I had boyfriends, and how did I look. Some suggested I show a picture of myself.

That got me thinking: Maybe I should create a female character that could be the one writing these incisive responses. In other words, I could create myself as a teen girl. The idea excited me, and it really wouldn’t be such an untruth, would it? I spend most of my time with my mom, and she’s introduced me to all sorts of femininity; I’m an expert at most forms of housework, including cleaning, clothes washing, cooking and even sewing. I’ve joined her in shopping for her clothes, and learned plenty about fashions. And, together, we’ve watched plenty of female-oriented television and movies. I’m somewhat ashamed to admit, too, that I’ve found lots of joy in reading novels created strictly for teen girls as well as romance novels for older readers. I love such stories and find myself identifying with the heroines, crying, laughing and loving right along with them.

And, as I said earlier, when I’m at school my friends are all girls. So why not create Gerianne?

My name is Gerianne and I am 17 years old, completing my junior year at a public high school in the Midwest. I am shy and I enjoy writing. I’m hoping to go to college to study communications and became a writer-reporter.

I have been a reader of Ms. Edith’s column since I was 12. I’m about average height, and just ordinary-looking. I have a nice figure, except that I could lose five pounds.

Besides writing, I love to cook, sew, read teen novels and do things with my girl friends. I do not at present have a boyfriend.

I was totally honest in that portrait of myself, except that I knew it left the impression that I’m a girl. On the other hand, I so often feel I am a girl that maybe that portrait isn’t such a lie after all.

Mom is the only person in the world who knows I’m Gerianne. I haven’t even shared that information with Tammy or Sasha, even though they might enjoy knowing it and probably could keep a secret.

Mom opposed my idea of sending this portrait into Edith Bank’s online comment section.

“Really, honey, that could lead to all sorts of problems if the truth ever came out,” she said.

“But who’s going to tell them anyway, mom,” I said.

I sent it in, just as you read it, and you can’t imagine the comments that appeared in response. Most were surprised that I was such an ordinary girl; several wondered how dare I give advice when I apparently had such little experience dating; several wanted to be friends with me, and four said they had brothers or cousins who might want to date an “ordinary girl.” “Why don’t you post your picture?” a few asked.

Strange as it may seem, the popularity of my comments grew, with some readers even suggesting to Edith that she consult with “Gerianne” when it came to discussing teen girl issues. “How else can you comment on teen issues, Ms. Edith, unless you're a teen girl like Gerianne,” wrote one person. Another said: “I always like to read Gerianne's comments. I feel just like she knows me so well. Just like she's my best girlfriend.” And so the comments went, and to tell the truth, I loved reading them. Particularly those who referred to me being a teen girl just like they were.

At school all my friends (girls, of course) discussed Edith's column and particularly that girl Gerianne. I'd have all I could do to keep my mouth shut and not blurt out that I was that girl. I must admit to having a private chuckle whenever the subject came up.

“I read some of Gerianne's ideas on line that other day, and I think she's all wet,” I said, just hoping to get a rise out of my girl friends.

“What do you mean, Jeremy?” Sasha asked. “What would you know anyway? You're a boy.”

“Well that one answer she gave about continuing to pursue a boy who was ignoring her. That was all wet. No boys like to be pursued.”

“Ah, you're just jealous 'cause none of us are pursuing you,” Sasha teased.

“Yeah, and I cry about it every night at bedtime,” I said sarcastically.

In fact, I never really cried about that. I don't know why; for some reason I wasn't interested in dating girls, but I loved being with them. I loved how they wore their clothes and their smooth, soft features. I loved how they walked and talked with their hands. I loved how emotional they were, so quick to giggle or laugh and then to cry and mope.

Tammy rescued the situation. “Don't say that about our Jeremy, Sasha. We all love him, don't we girls?”

“He's just one of us girls,” added Stephanie, a round-faced girl with eager eyes.

Tammy hugged me from the left and Stephanie from the right. We all giggled.

*****
In the summer after graduation I could find no job before entering college that fall; I moped around the house for a few days and missed my group of girlfriends, all of whom seemed to have found summer jobs. The biggest disappointment of all was that both Tammy and Sasha — my best friends — had found boyfriends, and you know where they ended up spending their free time. Certainly not with a loser like me.

For sometime I had been toying with the idea of establishing my own website for Gerianne; it had become easier and lots cheaper. With nothing much to do after the housework was done, I set about to do just that. Thus, “Ask Gerianne” was born. I created a Facebook site to accompany it as well as a Twitter account. I had judiciously maintained a contact list of every girl who had commented online and promoted the site to then.

Several girls even snuck messages onto Edith's online comment page giving out my website address. Within two weeks, I was getting 5,000 hits a day, and by the end of the summer more than 20 times that many. Each day, I provided answers to three or four questions, trying to use my own common sense and what I thought I knew about girls.

Mom knew what I was doing and she was uneasy with it. “What if you gave some girl the wrong advice and she hurt herself? You'd never forgive yourself.”

Mom was right, of course, and to avoid that awful thing happening, I spent lots of time researching my answers, often referencing prominent psychiatrists, sociologists or psychologists in my answers. It was then that I hit upon the idea of letting the readers provide the answers, with me sorting them out and coming to a consensus. I called it my “Tell Gerianne” page, and it quickly became popular.

I continued my Gerianne website for all of my four college years, even getting to the point that I could sell advertising on the site. I got so busy I had to take on a business partner, a girl I met in an online marketing class who understood how to use the Internet to make income. Helena was an outright capitalist: she had no problems with the dishonest moral dilemma that I was passing myself off as a girl as long as there was money to be had.

Teaming up with Helena turned out to be the best decision I had made in my young life. To be truthful, I didn’t really like her. Perhaps it was because she seemed to be solely interested in making money; I tended to be tortured so often that I’d be giving some girl really bad advice that could hurt her. I was even known to have cried as some girls related their tales of cruel or uncaring boys; weren’t there any kind members of the male gender in this world, I wondered? Well, there were Jesus and Gandhi, I guess. And I’m told Mohammed was kind and gentle, too.

Also, Helena was from one of the ritzy suburbs around Chicago, and she also seemed to fashion her blonde flowing hair in the latest of styles; she was always perfectly groomed. There really wasn’t anything natural about her, I thought.

But she was a whiz at running the business, and I will be forever grateful to her. To her credit, too, she was totally honest as to the financial side of things and she knew how to keep the accounts straight. Consequently by the time I graduated with my degree in social work — certainly no money in that career — we had a highly profitable business, so profitable that I was able to finish my senior year without relying on student loans (hurray!).

It was just a few weeks after graduation that Edith Banks died; there was great sadness among her readers, including myself. I had Gerianne write a warm tribute to this queen of the lovelorn columnists, calling her an inspiration to women everywhere and stating that she was a true feminist, while heralding the values of femininity. “Ms. Edith showed women how to respect themselves without losing their charm and womanliness,” I wrote. I cried while I wrote those words.

As I said, I spent that summer after graduation working on the “Ask Gerianne” website from the spare bedroom in our three-bedroom 1930s bungalow on Chicago’s north side. I was happy not to have to go out in the working world so that I could continue to live as I have for I most of the first 22 years of my life, at home with my best friend, companion, and “love of my life,” my mom. From time to time, Helena stopped by to do our website business, which continued to thrive and pay off for the both of us in real money.

*****
A month after Edith’s death, I got a phone call from a Ms. Cecily Winston, who identified herself as the executive editor of “Women’s Place” magazine.

“Is Ms. Gerianne there?” the woman asked.

I never got phone calls for “Gerianne,” largely because most calls were for Helena concerning business matters for the website. And, there was no indication on our website who “Gerianne” was or where she lived. I was nonplussed. How was I to answer?

“No, she’s not,” I said, biding for time to answer.

“May I ask who this is?” the woman said. Her voice was crisp, short and business-like.

“Ah . . . this is Jeremy,” I stuttered. “Ah . . . her brother . . . and . . . ah . . . her associate for the website.”

The woman seemed to think about the answer for a minute, before responding: “I take it, then, that you’re very much associated with her website then,” she questioned.

I admitted that I was, though I said there was another partner in the business.

Before it was over, Cecily Winston invited Gerianne, myself (as Gerianne’s brother) and Helena, our other business partner, to lunch at a private room at the Drake Hotel, one of Chicago’s oldest and classiest of hotels. She said that she was impressed with our website as well as the strong following it had gathered, particularly among teens, college-age girls and the twenty-somethings.

“Perhaps we need to meet, Jeremy, so we can talk about some eventualities,” she said.

“Like what,” I pressed.

“Who knows, Jeremy? Maybe nothing. Who knows?”

“Ok,” I agreed.

I told her that I handled Ms. Gerianne’s calendar and we settled on a mid-July date.

*****
We — meaning Helena and myself — arrived at the Drake Hotel on N. Michigan Ave. along the city’s “Magnificent Mile” at 12:30 on the appointed day, and as instructed called Ms. Winston on our cell as we handed the car over to the valet; I was dazzled already by the uniformed doorman, the ever-present bell hops and the upscale dress of everyone in the area. I must say I was feeling most out-of-place. I thought I had dressed appropriately, but realized I probably should have worn a business suit instead of the khaki slacks, a light blue open shirt and a navy blue blazer. It was a hot day, and I was sweating. The sweating may have been as much due to my fear of having to explain that Gerianne was a fraud and that I was the young “woman” lovelorn writer named Gerianne.

She told us to wait in the lobby, that a woman by the name of Merilee D’jourdai would meet us. We weren’t there but 30 seconds it seemed before a tall, erect dignified woman approached.

“I’m Merilee,” she announced. “And you must be Jeremy and Gerianne?”

“No, Gerianne couldn’t join us today,” Helena said. “She’s under the weather.”

Merilee nodded and without saying anything further led us to a private elevator that scooted us to a top floor suite. She said little, other than to ask if we used valet parking, which I said we did. She asked for the ticket so that she could validate it for us, saving us the cost of the parking fee.

Ms. Cecily Winston, as expected, was a fiftyish, slender woman with a narrow face and piercing dark eyes. She had full lips and would have been a strikingly beautiful woman, except for a long, narrow nose that dominated her face.

Helena, as we had agreed while driving down, took the lead, introducing us by our real names, but lying in explaining that I was an “associate,” handling computer issues and website management.

“Gerianne’s got a severe asthma attack, Ms. Winston, and when she gets those she best stay at home,” Helena lied, not blinking an eye.

“Oh, I agree, and we have one of those ozone alerts in Chicago today,” she said. “But I think this will be valuable so we can get to at least know each other.”

We nodded, and she led us to a dining room, already set up for our lunch.

We both declined a cocktail or wine for lunch, opting for iced tea, as did Ms. Winston. It was obvious she was eager to talk business, whatever it was, but she put us at ease quickly with her small talk.

“Now that we’re done with our food, I’d like to have you think about something,” she began.

“I figured you had something on your mind,” Helena said, showing her impatience.

“First of all, I’m sorry Gerianne is not with us, because it concerns her,” she began.

Helena looked at me, and I tried hard to hold back a blush. It didn’t work: I blush so easily, it seems.

“Well, let’s hear what you have to say, Ms. Winston,” Helena said.

“Oh, call me Cecily, dear,” she said.

“Ok, Cecily,” Helena said.

It turns out that Women’s Place Magazine, Inc., wanted to buy out our website, but that the deal would hinge on getting Gerianne to sign a long-term contract to agree to work exclusively for Women’s Place Magazine.

“We have a most generous offer for you, but before we can tell you what it is, we need to meet with Gerianne and also get a few answers to some of our questions,” she said.

“What’s generous?” Helena said, always one to get quickly to the point.

“Let’s say that if we like the answers to our questions, you’ll be more than pleased with our offer,” Cecily said.

I tell you I grew impatient. I knew this would be a great opportunity to get out from running this website, since I really wanted to be a social worker. We were making lots of money, and perhaps it seems strange that I would want to give up the money-making website in order to work with trying to assist high school dropouts find themselves. I had a job offer from just such an agency that would put me in a position to help young boys into a more fruitful future, and would like to accept it — even if it meant an income of one-fifth the level I got from the website.

“When do you think Gerianne will be free to see us?” she pressed on. “I want to see her in person and talk with her.”

By then I had had enough.

“You are looking at her and you’re also talking to her,” I blurted out, aiming my eyes straight into those of Ms. Cecily Winston.

I must say Cecily looked confused; she looked toward Helena and then back to her companion, Merilee, who had been introduced as the corporation’s vice president for finance. Helena shot angry looks at me.

“You, Miss Helena? You are Gerianne?” Cecily asked.

“No ma’am,” I interjected. “I am Gerianne.”

“What?” she said. “What’s going on here? You’re a young man? I really want to speak to Gerianne.”

It took a while, but I eventually convinced her that I was indeed Gerianne and that I had been solely responsible for writing virtually all the answers to the “Ask Gerianne” website for five years.

Within two weeks, we agreed to terms for the sale of “Ask Gerianne,” a limited liability corporation to Women’s Place, Inc. for $1.2 million, with the stipulation that I sign a personal contract for two years, with a option to renew for three additional years, to continue hosting and writing as “Gerianne” both on the website and for the printed magazine. And of course, my salary would be in the six-figure level. Too good to pass up. That’s lots of money for a 22-year-old boy, or in my case, girl. Good-bye social work career.

Chapter Two: A Big Decision

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Time article commented:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

“You’ll see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom, did you hear me?” I repeated.

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

“Does that bother you, mom?”

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

“What then, mom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think so, mom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, mom,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh mom that’s so perfect,” I said.

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

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

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

Chapter Three: Trouble at the Office

It was great that mom and I were the same size — a woman’s 6 for the most part — and that morning I could fit into a conservative navy blue pencil skirt that ended at the knees; it was a little tight at the belt line, and a bit loose in the hips, but other than that it looked fine. I wore one of the blouses I had purchased; it was a satiny light blue and I covered it was a colorful, embroidered vest. I put on sheer, coffee-colored pantyhose and two-inch heeled pumps. Mom insisted on light makeup, using mainly natural colors and few highlights.

“You have a naturally pretty face, Vicky, with such smooth skin,” mom said.

“Thanks,” I smiled.

“No sense in covering it up with a bunch of makeup, dear. You’ll have plenty of time to do that when you get as old as me.”

“Mom, you’re not old and you’re so pretty.”

“Not as pretty as you are, Vicky. You were such a pretty baby, too.”

“Aww, mom.”

Mother had a beige winter coat, with a fur lined hood, that she let me wear for the trip to work. It was apparent I had lots of shopping to do to become a fulltime woman. The sun was low on the horizon over Lake Michigan and it promised to be a sunny but cold day, with a brisk wind from the northwest. I was sorry I had agreed with mom to wear a skirt the moment I stepped outdoors and began my walk to the bus stop. I suddenly realized why so many Chicago women wore slacks during the colder months.

There were a few patches of ice on the sidewalks and I had to walk carefully in the heels to keep upright.

“Good morning, miss,” said the bus driver, as I deposited my $2 into the fare box.

I had been afraid he’d recognize me; his name was Sam, a cheerful African-American with a lined-face and close-cropped graying beard. I thought he looked like Morgan Freeman. Sam had been on the route most days since I began taking the bus on my daily ride to Women’s Place, and we had exchanged pleasantries. He did look at me strangely, but I didn’t feel there was any sense of recognition. As I walked back to my seat, I realized I’d soon have to introduce myself to him. Contrary to the habits of most bus drivers in the city, Sam relished getting to know his regular passengers; his route, particularly during the morning rush hours, was loaded with regulars, all headed to offices in the Chicago Loop. I knew many of them by sight, of course, and worried that some of them might recognize me.

Fortunately, a grandmotherly woman, whom Sam addressed as “Anna,” filled the empty seat next to me a few stops later. I recognized her, and wondered about her; she didn’t look like a professional woman, more like a cleaning lady on her way to the job. Yet, she carried what appeared to be a lawyer’s briefcase.

“It’s a cold one today, dear,” the woman said as she plopped down next to me.

“Yes it is,” I agreed, making my voice soft, and hopefully feminine.

“You young ladies, why must you wear skirts in this cold weather? Aren’t you freezing?” she said with exasperation.

“Yes, I should have. Just didn’t realize it was so cold.”

The bus lurched on, stopping at every corner and soon filling up so it was standing room only. I noticed one youngish, professional looking man glancing my way several times. Once I returned his look, and he quickly averted his glance, and I saw his face redden quickly. He was blushing, and that made him look so cute. It was obvious with his otherwise pale complexion and pug nose that he must be Irish, like me. I’d seen him on the bus before, although not on a regular basis, and I began fantasizing about him.

“That young man has his eye on you,” my seat mate pointed out.

I nodded, lost in my own thoughts. What was happening to me? Here I was on my first day as a woman, wondering about a young man on the bus. I decided I wasn’t ready for such a relationship, but for some reason the idea of being a girlfriend to a cute boy was tantalizing.

*****
As I exited the elevator on the 25th Floor, the ever-present Spencer McGurk was stationed at his desk in the hallway, carefully examining every employee’s credentials.

Sharp-eyed as he was, Spencer recognized me immediately; yet, he asked me to show my employee card. He smiled:

“Good morning, Miss Sullivan.”

I was flabbergasted. He addressed me courteously as a female. I felt like giving him either a kiss or a curtsey. My puzzlement must have shown, since he whispered to me: “Mrs. Winston informed me of the change, dear. I must say you look mighty pretty.”

“Thank you,” was all I could muster and I entered the office, my heart pounding with excitement. The previous night I had called Cecily Winston at her home to inform her of my plans to be dressed as a woman the following day; after some discussion, she had given her approval, but only for one day to see how I was received by the staff.

I walked deliberately, hoping to maintain a dignified, purposeful walk down the long aisle between the cubicles to my office at the back of the floor. I noticed most of the women looked closely at me as I walked by, but no one said anything. I heard someone murmur: “My God, she . . . ah . . . I mean . . . ah . . . he looks stunning.”

I entered my office, with brief “hi’s” to my direct staff, Maxine, Louisa and Paula. Naturally, Maxine and Louisa replied cheerfully, but Paula only scowled, creating a scowl that was even more severe than before. I closed the door, but realized I would have no privacy; since the inner office walls were of glass, I felt like I was to be stared at all day like a mannequin in a department store window.

I was hardly settled down at my desk when Cecily Winston entered the office. A knot formed in my stomach as the editor sat down in the chair opposite me. She forced a smile, and I realized that she was not feeling too happy this morning.

“We need to talk,” she said simply. “Let’s go to the diner at the corner for coffee.”

*****
“Good morning, Ms. Winston. I’ve shut down the back room so you and the young lady may be private for a while, just as you requested.”

“Thanks, Henry,” Cecily said, as she lead me into the back dining area, which normally would be empty at this time in the morning.

“He didn’t recognize me,” I said, as we sat down.“Why should he? You couldn’t be more convincingly a girl than if you were Scarlett Johansson,” Cecily said, a slight chuckle following the comment. Did I really look like the lovely Scarlett?

I had become a fairly regular customer of Henry’s diner, often grabbing a coffee or small Danish roll on my way to work, or a salad and soup for lunch. In spite of Henry’s great attention to cleanliness, there was still a mixed scent of fried food, onions and garlic permeating the place.

Henry had been in the location more than 20 years, I had learned, and had made it a practice to remember the names of every customer once they had been in more than two or three times. I thought he might notice that underneath my girlish garments lingered a young man named Jeremy.

“Now you better explain to me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours,” Cecily said, her tone bordering on sarcasm.

I blanched at the “pretty little head” reference, but felt it best that I not waver in expressing myself:

“Frankly, Ms. Winston . . .”

“Please, call me Cecily, dear. This is not a disciplinary discussion. I just want you to tell me honestly and frankly what’s with this sudden appearance of such a lovely girl.”

I blushed. Truth be told, I was tense and scared, even with the open invitation to be open with Cecily.

“Well,” I began. “I’m unhappy with the dishonest feeling I have had about this whole business. I should never have written that first letter to Edith, passing myself off as Gerianne. This whole thing just steamrolled over me. I didn’t see it coming, Cecily, but all of a sudden I was posing as this girl called Gerianne.

“And now everyone is speculating just who Gerianne is and who is actually writing this column that seems to understand female feelings so well.

“That female is me! Me! But I’m supposed to be a boy, a man. Yet, I feel I am a girl, a woman, Cecily. I don’t think I could ever live as a man, now. I never was much of a man, was I?”

Suddenly I burst into tears. I shook as I tried to keep my sobbing inaudible. Cecily reached over, handing me a tissue she quickly removed from a small pack in her purse. When I finally calmed down, Cecily looked at me closely. “Well, right now, Jeremy, I see only a very distressed young lady.”

“Jeremy, doesn’t sound right, does it, Cecily?” I said.

“Shall I call you Gerianne, then?”

“No, call me Victoria, or Vicky,” I said, smiling. How I liked the sound of the name.

“Victoria,” she said, running the name around in her mind. “Victoria. I like that.”

“Mom and I chose that name last night,” I said. “She helped fix me up and this outfit and coat are hers.”

Cecily smiled.

“Cecily, I’ve been looking into my future,” I started, “And believe that I should transition to be a female, and the sooner the better. It’s certainly possible these days, as thousands of girls have already done.

“Lot of it has to do with what’s in our mind, in our own being, and for as long as I can remember I seem to be more comfortable being with women or girls and doing what women or girls do. I’ve made an appointment with a gender specialist to begin considering whether I’m a good candidate.”

“Well, you certainly appear to be a good candidate, Vicky,” Cecily said. “You might already be the prettiest girl in our office.”

I giggled. “Oh, I doubt that, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“So what about your contract with us as Gerianne?”

“I think it’s best that I go public now, admit who Gerianne is, and tell the whole world that I’m transitioning.”

Cecily looked at me in horror. “You can’t do that. You’ll destroy the credibility of Gerianne and ruin the column, not to say what it might do with the credibility of Women’s Place. We have a reputation to preserve, Vicky.”

“But, Cecily, I can’t keep living a lie.”

*****
My morning coffee meeting with Cecily made me uneasy. She had always been more like a kindly auntie to me, easily understanding how a boy like me could come to be so intuitive of the feelings of women. She had spoken up for me in the past. Today, however, her attitude was chilly, and it became even fiercer as we returned to the office.

My co-workers all stood up as the two of us entered the office and watch as we walked back to our respective offices. The office was strangely silent; there was not even the sound of computer keyboard tappings, with the only sound being my heels on the tiled floor and the rustle of my nyloned thighs rubbing together as I walked. It sounded thunderous to my ears, and I couldn’t escape fast enough to my office.

“Enough of your gawking, ladies. Get back to work.” Cecily’s voice thundered through the office.

Almost in unison, I heard the plop of butts onto chairs, and slight squeak of chair wheels, as the women headed back to their seats. I entered my office, wishing for a place to hide, but with the glassed walls, I was fully visible to all, unless I hid under my desk. As ridiculous as it sounded, I felt like doing it. I sat down in my chair without taking off my coat and whirled my chair around to face the window which looked north on the magnificent view of Lakeshore Drive, the lake and the posh near North neighborhoods, its trees barren in the winter. Even in the grey of the morning, it was a breathtaking sight. The beauty of it, however, only seemed to intensify my pain: I cried and cried.

Slowly my tears subsided, and my mind began turning somersaults. Was I wrong to want to live as a woman? Was I wrong to want to tell the world my secret? Is it Ok to live a lie? Look at all the good I had done for other women even as I lived this lie. Not to think of how the magazine has flourished in the few months that Gerianne had been there.

“You’re going to do what!” The voice of Helena, my former business partner, thundered in my ear, interrupting my soul-searching.

I turned in my seat to confront the red-faced Helena, my onetime financial partner who had truly help to make me the popular columnist, plus making both of us lots of money.

“Oh Helena, please don’t be too harsh on me, but I just can’t go on deceiving everyone,” I said.

“But you have a contract, Jeremy, requiring you to be silent,” she said, her tone still hard and cold. “If you renege, you’ll lose everything and I will, too.”

“I’m aware of that, Helena,” I said. Fortunately, I was able to get myself in control.

“Look, Jeremy,” Helena said, also calming down in her voice. “We’ve been together on this for nearly five years now. We made a great team, I thought, and I admired your talents. You have to listen to reason.”

I smiled at Helena, realizing that I did have some power and that I didn’t have to be shy about using it. Had not Gerianne become the nation’s top lovelorn columnist?

“Look, Helena. I’m not about to do anything stupid. We’ll go to our attorney and discuss the ramifications fully.”

Helena looked at me carefully, as if considering her next words. “Look, Jeremy. I know Cecily is not going to take this laying down. She called me into her office immediately after you two returned and said they’d sue you for everything if you ever uttered a word outside of this office about who you are. I never saw her like that.”

“I’m aware of that,” I said. “And it was funny, since when I called her last night to give her a heads-up that I’d be dressing as a woman today, she sounded totally understanding.”

“In the meantime, Jeremy, she talked with the publisher and the company’s attorneys,” Helena said. “I think she’s under extreme pressure not to let the truth come out.”

“Oh my God, no wonder she’s changed. I so hope I haven’t caused her lots of trouble.”

Helena smiled: “If you keep your mouth shut, she’ll be happy, I think. And you better keep your mouth shut, or else we’re both going to cook our golden goose.”

As you know, I didn’t like Helena, whose motivations were always too materialistic, too focused on money. I respected her, however, both for her financial judgment and her complete honesty. She was dependable and trustworthy, I knew. We discussed the situation for a few more minutes, and I finally agreed to see our attorney before doing anything further.

“Did you want to join me in the meeting with the attorney?” I asked.

“No, dear, this is your mess,” she said. “You keep me out of it.”

I looked at her, my dislike of her growing deeper.

“I must leave now, Jeremy,” she announced. “By the way, you’re a beautiful woman.”

She turned to leave, and I said, “I still hate to be a fraud, Helena, and you might like to know the woman before you has a name: Victoria Marie. Others may call me Vicky, but from now on you may refer to me as Miss Sullivan or Victoria. Good bye.”

She slammed the door so hard I was afraid the glass wall would shatter. I couldn’t help smiling, in spite of the difficult situation I was in.

*****
Later that morning, I wrote a memo and, sent it to Cecily, suggesting that I send it to the Women’s Place staff. I asked for her input before I sent it out, realizing she’d refer it to the company attorneys and top executives.

While awaiting a response from Cecily, I asked my direct staff, Maxine, Louisa and Paula, to come into the office. Maxine and Louisa took chairs opposite me, but Paula remained standing, her hands folded across her ample breasts, scowling. They were obviously eager to hear what I had to say, and Maxine, oh, how I loved her, was quick to put us all at ease before I explained my situation.

“You look very lovely this morning, ma’am,” she said, addressing me with a warm smile.

Louisa nodded, but as usual the look on Paula’s face was cold and distant.

“First, you may call me Vicky, since my full name from now in the office will be Victoria Marie Sullivan.”

Maxine nodded approvingly.

“I like that. It’s so feminine, Vicky,” Louisa said.

I took a few minutes to outline my decision to begin living as Victoria Marie. Maxine and Louisa nodded in agreement with the explanation, but Paula said nothing, a look of disapproval noticeable on her face.

“I think it’s disgusting,” Paula blurted as a completed my monologue.

“What?” Maxine said. “Don’t you understand? I think she’s sincere in this. Hasn’t been obvious to us all that she always seemed to have the instincts of a girl? My God, Paula, haven’t you noticed that.”

“No, I just saw an effeminate man, a disgusting bit of manhood,” she said. “I don’t how I tolerate working here when everything tells me Jeremy is violating the word of God, of the Bible. He’s a living blasphemy.”

I was taken aback; I had known Paula disliked me, but I thought it was professional jealousy. I had never known her to profess such a strong sense of religious rigidity. Her disgust with me, I could see, was sincere and honest. I violated all of her beliefs.

Both Maxine and Louisa said nothing, obviously shocked by Paula’s harsh words.

“I’m sorry, Paula,” I began, not sure how to respond. Her words hurt, they really did. She was accusing me of doing something unnatural and strange.

“I hope it won’t hurt our working relationship, Paula,” I continued. “I value your professionalism and you along with Maxine and Louisa have helped to make Gerianne and the magazine thrive. Please try to understand.”

Paula shook her head. “Whether I understand is not important, Jeremy,” she said, persisting on using my male name. “It’s whether God understands. And He will only understand if you live your life as a man, a real man instead of that girlish version we’ve seen in the office.”

“I’m sorry, Paula, but my mind has been made up,” I said, taking a firm, commanding tone. “I am planning to undergo treatment preparatory to transitioning to fulltime womanhood. And, I am to be addressed by my female name, Victoria.”

With that I dismissed the three of them, and the minute they left the office, I shivered, so frightened of the way I had to act.

*****
Surprisingly, Cecily came back within an hour, basically agreeing that I could send it out as a personal statement. The attorneys and top executives apparently suggested a few minor changes, which I incorporated into the message. I made them, and punched the “send” button. By noon, all of the staff received — and read, I’m certain — its contents. It read:

To my co-workers:

I feel I owe you an explanation. Today, I arrived dressed as a woman. I did this since I have long believed I have been a woman, even though my physical anatomy is that of a male. As most of you know, there are individuals like myself throughout all walks of life who were born of one gender, but for reasons largely not of their control, begin to feel that they are in their thinking and attitudes of the other gender. These people are called transgendered.

I am beginning treatment for gender dysphoria (or gender identity disorder). Part of that treatment suggests that I begin living fulltime as a female.

I hope you understand my personal situation. I believe this should not alter our working relationship in any way whatsoever. I have enjoyed working with all of the staff and have been grateful for the warm welcome you gave to me, even though I was different.

Feel free to call me or to stop by the office if you wish me to discuss that any further. In the meantime, I would appreciate being treated as just one of the women in the office. Please address me as Victoria, or Vicky, from now on. And, I’m “she” and “her,” but if you forget and call me by my old boy name, or say “he” or “him,” I’ll forgive you.

Thank you, Victoria Marie Sullivan.

A few minutes later, the staff received the following message from the Phyllis Frazier, Publisher:

To the staff:

This is to follow up on the email message all of you received recently from Victoria Marie Sullivan, formerly Jeremy Sullivan.

The executives and management of Women’s Place in no way endorse Ms. Sullivan’s decision to explore a gender change. We understand there may be a medical circumstance that forces such a decision.

It is her/his right to live as she/he desires. We expect all of the staff to respect that decision and continue to work as before to make Women’s Place the No. 1 media in the life of American women.

Meanwhile, you are ALL reminded that you have signed a nondisclosure statement not to reveal to ANYONE the identity of Gerianne.

If any of you have questions, please contact Sally Symkowski in the Human Relations Department. Thank you.

Phyllis Frazier, Publisher

*****
I tried mightily to get my mind focused on producing the next day’s online column, which was due by 3 p.m., our daily deadline, but I could not get my thoughts off of how delighted I felt wearing a skirt, blouse and other female clothing. I constantly brushed my hair, using a dainty brush of my hand. Yet, the dread of my altered looks — and their impact upon others — continued to haunt me.

Paula’s comments rang in my ears: “God will only understand if you live your life as a man, and not that girlish version I see in the office.” It was obvious she saw me as contemptible and a blasphemy.

From among the nearly 1,000 submissions we got each day from readers seeking advice, the staff typically chose ten for consideration to be put into the daily column. It was typical that all four of us would assemble at the small table in my office to discuss which three of the submissions would make the column for the day. I typically asked each of them to identify their personal top three; from them, we’d chose, usually by consensus, the ones for the column.

I encouraged the staff to openly defend their picks, along with the possible answers, including necessary research to back up our answers. It made for some spirited debates, but I felt the process created a diverse and appealing column.

Our daily conference would begin at 11:30 a.m., sharp, and continue until 12:15 p.m. If no consensus was reached by then, I would send them out of my office, and I would choose the three “winners.” That rarely happened, for which I was grateful, since I believed strongly in having all three staff members feel they had a real role in our success, which they did.

Paula did not show up for our 11:30 meeting; she had never before missed a meeting, nor had she ever been late.

“Where’s Paula?” I asked.

Louisa looked at me, her dark eyes showing intensity: “I don’t think she’s coming, Jeremy . . . ah . . . Vicky.”

I wanted to smile at her stumble over my name, but I was concerned about Paula’s absence. It wasn’t like her; she was always punctual and professional.

“She was fussing over things at her cubicle,” Maxine added. “I don’t think she had anything prepared for our meeting.”

I frowned, but realized the deadline had to be met.

“Well, let’s get started without her,” I said.

At 1 p.m., just after I had wolfed down a salad — delivered from the diner — I began to write the column, finding the need to produce the column making me able to focus and helping to erase the day’s unusual happenings from my thoughts. A few minutes later, there was a rap on my door, and I looked up to see Paula standing there, a piece of paper in her hand. I motioned her in.

“This is for you,” she announced, plopping the paper on my desk in front of me. I looked at her, but she averted my gaze. Through the glass wall I could see Louisa peering into my office, obviously interested in what was occurring here.

“Sit down,” I ordered.

She did, and I read the paper, which contained one paragraph, following by Paula’s signature and today’s date:

I hereby tender my resignation from Women’s Place, effective immediately. I feel I have no place in this Godless enterprise. I wish two of my co-workers, Maxine and Louisa, the best and express my appreciation for their support during my employment here.

I looked up at Paula, who continued to look down at the floor.

“This is it?” I asked. “You mean this.”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

“Is this because of me?”

“Yes,” she said, finally looking up at me, her round chubby face, gaining a fierceness I had never seen before. “You’re shameful, and any publication that would tolerate someone like you is further spitting in the face of God. And vengeance is the name of the Lord.”

I was shocked. I had never seen such emotion before from anyone, and it was an angry emotion.

“But Paula,” I said, recovering from her painful words. “You have been of great help here. Your research and your editing skills are tremendous. We’d hate to lose you.”

She stared at me, a meanness emanating from her wide green eyes.

“I’m gone, Jeremy,” she said, spitting out my male name.

With that she left my office. She said not a word to Louisa or Maxine, who looked at her closely, as she put on her coat, grabbed file box loaded with personal items and stalked out of the office.

Somehow, we met the 3 p.m. deadline that day for the column.

Chapter 4: Sidewalk Encounter
My life as Victoria Marie soon became surprisingly ordinary, up in the morning (at least an hour earlier than Jeremy did) to take a shower and pretty myself up, off to catch the bus and hear the bus driver’s cheerful “Good morning, Vicky,” (what a joy it was to have a regular driver like him in the sometimes cold, bleak Chicago winter mornings!), waves to my co-workers (some not too cheery-eyed) as I entered almost precisely at 8:55 a.m., intense editing and writing and discussions with my small staff, meeting the daily 3 p.m. deadline (each day seemed to mount different challenges), then the relieved post-deadline chatting and preparing for the next day’s offerings, the not-so-cheery bus ride home, the after-work sharing of the day’s happenings with mom (who was my best girlfriend!), and maybe a little television, checking the Internet, an hour perhaps with Danielle Steele, Nora Roberts, Debbie Macomber or some similar romance author, and soon sound asleep with my bed partner being Harry, my stuffed bunny rabbit, nestled tightly in my arms.

The girls in the office soon accepted me, it appeared, and while small talk was at a premium in the busy editorial office I was welcomed into the circle of gossip, giggles and gasping. At first, Cecily suggested I use her private bathroom to attend to my personal needs, hoping to avoid any unhappy situations with my female co-workers over the use of the ladies room. Within a week or so, I began using the regular facility labeled “Women,” and I felt right at home, sharing conversations with the other girls as we fixed makeup over the large vanity mirror.

It took just a few days after my introduction as Victoria for the staff to no longer use “Jeremy” or “him” or “he” in referring to me. At one point, I mused that I must have been so feminine in my earlier persona that the switch to Vicky must have seemed to them to be the normal progression. Maybe they thought I was really a girl all along. Well, wasn’t I?

To be truthful, I soon missed Paula’s sharp editing eye and tremendously fast research skills. The woman certainly had great skills, but I certainly didn’t miss her sour face and negative reactions to life. Within two weeks, however, we found a more than adequate replacement: a tall, husky, softish young woman with a broad Eastern European face from a farm in Central Wisconsin named Sophia Eleanor Wisniewski. Her sweet peasant face belied her sophisticated knowledge of the classics and the English language. She had both bachelors and masters degrees as a student in classics at the University of Chicago, where because of obvious brainpower she had been a full scholarship student.

“What prompted you to accept the position on this magazine staff?” I inquired of her in her first job interview.

“First of all,” she said in a flat, deliberate voice which betrayed no indication of emotion. “You pay well and have good benefits and I like Chicago. Secondly, I welcome a chance to use the classics in a place which caters to more ordinary folks. I’ve had six years of academia. I figured it’s about time I get back into the real world.”

I smiled: “So many people think a lovelorn column is sewer journalism. What do you think about it?”

“Some of it is, but I read Edith’s column and then Gerianne’s almost everyday in the Stevens Point Daily Journal since I was about 11 years old, and I soon found those columns to be literate and informed and caring. I sometimes even found myself crying with some of the questions.”

When Sophia first entered my office, I could see this strong young woman had a truly sensitive soul; as we talked, she related how lost she felt as an 11-year old girl, being taller than any of the boys in her 6th Grade Class in a small consolidated school located amid the broad vegetable farm fields of Central Wisconsin. She said she found so many of the women and girls who wrote to both Edith and Gerianne went through similar feelings of being “strange, different or odd.”

How I could relate to those feelings, never quite being the boy everyone expected me to be.

“I learned a lot from that period of my life,” she said during the interview. “I realized that my mom and dad and my brothers all loved me. I realized that I was special in many ways. I thought for a while that being the smartest kid in class was just awful, but soon learned that was a blessing. I began to write and work on the school paper and help my dad on the farm. He often said I worked harder than the hired man we had.”

I could tell, too, that Sophia, with her broad face, would be sensitive to our writer’s feelings, something that I don’t think Paula — as talented as she was — ever understood.

Thus, Sophia became a pleasant addition to the staff; soon she would become my closest girlfriend, after mom, of course.

*****
I literally bumped into Rosa Chavez one chilly noon while venturing to my favorite deli on the western edge of the posh North Shore district where our office was. Like so many days in Chicago in February, the sidewalks were damp from melted snow and a light mist that was falling, and I was concentrating more on making sure I didn’t slip on residual sections of ice when Rosa rounded a tight corner colliding with me.

I caught a whiff of cheap perfume as I reached down to pick her up from the sidewalk. Despite the near freezing temperatures, Rosa was dressed in a mini-skirt, four-inch heels and a light jacket fringed with faux fur. On her legs she was black mesh stockings, complete with holes.

“A cheap whore!” was my immediate thought. Instead, I said, “I’m sorry, dear.”

The girl stood now, her dark eyes furtively darting this way and that, as if she were fleeing someone. She was my height, but extremely slender. Her face, however, was cherubic and would have been exceedingly pretty if she hadn’t overdone her makeup, which made her lips a bright, glossy red and her eyebrows and lids darkened with sparkling purple shadings.

“Watch where you’re going, woman,” the young woman’s voice said in a high excited pitch. “Gimme $5. You knocked me down and I’ll sue you. You tore my stockings.”

“You ran into me, miss,” I said, aghast at her outrageous demand, “And I’m sure those stockings were already full of holes.”

“Gimme $5,” she demanded again, but her voice was quickly losing its intensity.

I looked at her closely; this person was just a child it seemed.

I grabbed onto the girl and she tried to wriggle loose. I looked at her closely. She couldn’t be more than 14, I thought.

“How old are you?” I demanded, holding the girl, squirming hard in my hold. She was not strong, as malnourished as she must be.

“Eighteen,” she said quickly.

“Is that what your pimp told you to say, eighteen?”

“I am eighteen,” she persisted defiantly.

Finally, I gave up and asked her if she was hungry. She nodded, but then regaining her confidence, she said, “Just gimme $5 and I’ll feed myself.”

“No you won’t,” I said, grabbing her by the arm and leading her into the deli.

Maximilian, an ageless, angular man with a heavily wrinkled face and tight jowls, scowled as I entered. He usually scowled, but this was a more intense scowl than usual.

“What ya’ bringing that waif in here for, Vicky?” he groaned, looking over as he passed a waiting customer his change. As usual, there was a line of customers waiting for their orders, and they all knew to be ready to shout out their choices quickly, or else Maximilian would move off to another.

Simultaneously, he took orders, greeted most customers by their first names, shouted their orders out to a crew of sandwich makers, salad tossers and dessert chefs, and finally collecting their cash or running their credit cards. It was a marvel to watch him move.

“I caught that one jumping into the dumpster last week, and gave her some food then,” he yelled at me.

“Isn’t my money any good in here anymore, Maximilian?” I yelled back, having learned that once I had become a regular here I could yell back in kind. The deli owner seemed to relish the repartee; I had become, I felt, one of his favorite customers, but realized it was probably because he considered me one of his “cute girlfriends.” Really, the old crouch was a sweetie, and, he made the best deli offerings in the Chicago loop.

Maximilian smiled back, and I yelled my order to him, soup and salad special for me, plus tea, and a soup and turkey sandwich for my disreputable young lady friend.

“You two get outa my sight now,” Maximilian ordered, as he gave me my order. “There’s an empty staff table behind the curtain in the back, and the staff’s all working now, so it’s empty now. Eat there.”

I wanted to argue with him, saying we didn’t want to be treated like second class citizens, but held my tongue. Besides, my friend did give out a disagreeable odor of a combination of cheap perfume and unwashed clothing. I could see his point.

“Don’t let that waif steal anything back there, Vicky,” Maximilian bellowed as we headed for the back.

*****
Maybe it was Maximilian’s navy bean soup that did it, but even before my filthy-looking new friend began her turkey sandwich, she began to talk; the words came haltingly, but as she talked I could see she had perfectly formed teeth, a sign that during much of her life she had good dental care, obviously some parent or caregiver cared deeply for her at onetime.

“No one’s ever been so kind to me,” she said, the words now being accompanied by almost unnoticeable sobs. “And from such a pretty girl, too.”

I smiled, nodding acknowledgment, but saying nothing, realizing the girl would soon be telling me more. I couldn’t but be surprised at the precise language she was using; this was no ordinary street person. Even her eyes seemed to lose their earlier dullness and began to sparkle in the cheerless white light given off by the backroom fluorescent ceiling lights.

“You might begin by telling me your name, honey,” I said.

“It’s Rosa,” she said, her voice shy.

“Nice meeting you, Rosa, and I’m Vicky,” I said, reaching over to take her hand and shake it.

“You don’t want to shake my hand, Vicky,” she said, withdrawing her hand to place it under the table. “You might get lice or something.”

I smiled. “I guess your right, Rosa. You’re very considerate.”

“Mom always taught me to be considerate of others,” she said, suddenly breaking into sobs so loud that I was afraid they could be heard over the din of the crowd in the deli.

I moved and hugged her, forgetting the issue of lice or roaches or whatever was being harbored in this girl’s filthy body clothing. Her tears subsided.

“Mom died last year,” she said, her crying now subsiding. “My stepdad kicked me out of the house.”

“Oh that’s terrible,” I said. “Are you really 18?”

She nodded, but it was a hesitant nod. There was no way, I was sure, that this girl was 18; she looked closer to 12 than 18, I thought. I decided not to pursue the matter at the moment.

“You better eat your sandwich, dear,” I said.

“Thank you, Vicky, you’re kind,” she said.

With that she began eating with gusto, attacking the sandwich as a hungry animal might. As she did so, I realized I had to do something with this girl, and pulled out my iPhone, punching in “Chicago women’s shelters” into the search engine.

“What are you doing?” she asked when she looked up from biting into the sandwich.

“Looking for a place to take you to get cleaned up, Rosa.”

“Where? I don’t like those places.”

“I know of a place that works with young girls like you!”

“No way. They’ll just put me in foster care or something worse, like send me back to Hank.”

“Who’s Hank?”

“My stepdad. He’s just a perv, he is!” she said, and began crying again, only the sobs were softer now, almost plaintive.

The girl put her half eaten sandwich down on the table, as I handed her a tissue from my purse. She wiped her eyes, some of the dark makeup coming off on the tissue as she wiped. I could see under the grime on her hands, she had lovely slender hands.

“I know just the place for you,” I said, seeing the name popup on my screen. The Courtney House on Division Street was just a few blocks away, and specialized in handling street girls, many of whom had been duped into prostitution by pimps. One of the girls on the reporting staff had been doing research on the House, in the hopes of doing a story on street girls. I knew we could probably find a place there for Rosa.

“You’re not 18, are you, Rosa?”

“How would you know?” she looked up, her face defiant now.

“If you’re 18 you wouldn’t be worried about foster homes,” I said.

The girl took on a sheepish grin.

“Ok, I’m 16,” she said, quickly.

“No you’re not,” I replied quickly, and with an authoritative voice. “You’re more like 14.”

I could see I hit a nerve just then with Rosa.

“That’s it, you’re 14.”

Under all the dirt on her face, I could see a blush develop.

“Ok, finish up your sandwich now,” I said, taking my iPhone in my hand and preparing to call the Women’s Place reporter to see if she could arrange for Rosa to be accepted at Courtney House.

Rosa stopped eating, and looked at me closely. “That place only takes girls, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, especially girls like you.”

“I can’t go there,” she said flatly.

“Why?”

“I’m not a girl. I’m a boy.”

I tell you: I couldn’t have been more shocked.

*****
Even after he admitted to me that he was a boy, he held firm on claiming that his name was “Rosa;” in fact, he even had an Illinois picture ID that showed him to be “Rosa Chavez,” born January 14, 1994, making him (or her) 18 years old. Though the ID appeared to be authentic, it was obviously counterfeit, probably supplied by her pimp.

His features were as fine and dainty as my own, I could see, and my mind soon began running through scenarios in which I might have been facing the same wretched life as Rosa. I guess I had to be lucky I had a mom who must have understood and loved me; I could imagine how rough it would have been to lose a mother and be thrown into the hands of a perverted, cruel stepfather.

At that moment, sitting in the back room of Maximilian’s, I realized I had no choice, except to help this fragile young boy.

In a quick search on my iPhone, I found a Youth Center that caters to LGBT youth on N. Broadway; it was located adjacent to a Methodist Church, and offered showers from 1 to 4 p.m., each afternoon. They also had some used clothing available for the drop-ins. Somehow I needed to get Rosa to that Center.

Luckily, the column for the day was in good shape, and I could trust Maxine, Louisa and Sophia to put it “to bed,” a traditional publishing term meaning to send it for publishing. I phoned Maxine and told her I’d be back late, maybe just 30 minutes before deadline to give final approval. I knew they’d do a fine job in completing it, since we had fully discussed the content of the answers before I left for lunch.

I hustled Rosa out of the deli and into the street; several empty cabs passed us before I finally grabbed one as it discharged passengers in from of Maximilian’s, not giving the driver a chance to avoid us. Obviously, Rosa’s questionable appearance did cause cabbies to avoid us, probably realizing that admitting the girl into the cab might infest it with lice, or at least the residual odor of filth and cheap perfume.

I gave the driver an extra tip, perhaps to excuse my audacious cab-grabbing action, as we reached the Center.

“I’ve been told to stay away from these places,” Rosa said, almost escaping from my grasp as we got out of the cab.

“Well, you’re not going to avoid this any longer,” I said, happy that she was in such a weakened condition that even I could restrain her. “Who told you to avoid the Center?”

She looked sheepishly, as we walked to the side entrance, which had a discreet sign, saying only: Harriet Long Youth Center.

“My man,” she said.

“Your pimp, you mean,” I said.

“I guess, but he was so nice to me, gave me a clean bed and outfitted me,” she said. “I had to do what he asked.”

I scowled; so many girls (and boys like Rosa, too) were found wandering the streets by traffickers and pimps and turned into a life of prostitution. It was shameful, and no one seemed to care. All of these children — and that’s what they were, really, children — were victims, but so many people looked upon them with disgust.

I left Rosa in the good care of the people at the Harriet Long Youth Center, and returned to work that day. If I thought I was done with her, I was wrong.

Less than 10 days later, I got a call from Stanley, the guard at the front desk, who said there was a young boy named Enrique Chavez wanting to see me.

“I know of no Enrique,” I said, puzzled.

“Ok, I’ll send him away,” Stanley said.

“No, don’t send him away,” I yelled into the phone, quickly realizing this young boy might be Rosa.

It was after 3 p.m. and the pressure of the deadline was passed, so I led Enrique to the diner, where he told me a story of being a happy, well-loved boy with a single Venezuelan mother who worked as a hotel maid. He had learned to cook, sew, and keep house for his mother; he shared much with his mother, who warned him against hanging out in their tough South Side neighborhood, particularly with boys. It was only natural that Enrique developed such gentleness.

“Perhaps that’s why I liked so many things that girls do,” he said, as he related his story.

When he was ten, his mother married Ricardo, a Mexican man who worked as an auto mechanic. “He seemed nice at first, but he teased me a little bit for being a sissy,” Enrique said. “Not too much at first, and mom always told him to shut up about it, and he usually did.”

Then, the boy began to cry. He raised a slender, pretty hand to accept a tissue I gave him, gently wiping at the tears. Now that he was cleaned up, I could see what a lovely child he was, still soft and cherubic, with dark, intelligent eyes peering out from his face with its high cheekbones. He was such a dainty child, hardly looking his 14 years of age.

“Then mom died,” he said through his sobs. “It was so sudden, like in two months. Some form of cancer.”

“She was my only friend, and my stepdad then changed for the worse,” he said.

“That’s Ok, tell me only as much as you’d like,” I said, purposefully turning my attention to my latte, so as not to embarrass the boy.

Enrique’s story came out in bits and pieces; it was a tragic story, with his stepfather at first belittling him for his lack of “guts,” for not being a “man.” In a few months, he started forcing the boy to wear girl clothes, put on lipstick and brush his hair like a girl. It wasn’t long before he was forcing the boy to perform sexual acts, giving him an education in the most sordid of them.

“He hurt me something fierce, but I didn’t cry, never!” Enrique told me.

“Why didn’t you tell someone?” I asked.

“Who? Who’d believe me? I’d become the sissy boy in our neighborhood and I was so humiliated. Oh, how I missed mama. I still do.”

He said he snuck out one summer night after Ricardo had fallen asleep drunk, dressed as a sexy young girl; he stole some money from his stepfather’s wallet, threw some clothes, his toiletries and a teen girl novel he’d been reading into a bookbag and left, unsure of where to go.

He went to Cicero Avenue, a main street near his neighborhood and was picked up there by a young man and his girl friend. He said: “They took pity on me, or at least I thought they did. They seemed so kind at first, taking me in that first night, giving me a bed and something to eat.”

He said he awoke the next morning to find he was one of three young boys in the household. The others, like himself, were dressed a girls, but they were immediately jealous of him, since he said he was obviously the prettiest of the three. It wasn’t long before he was being “rented” out for the night to men, apparently for lots of money. “I got only about $10 a day spending money, but they did keep feeding me and giving me a place to sleep.”

At this point, the boy blushed: “He rented me out to only really rich guys, and most of them treated me tenderly,” he said. “But one night, one of the men got really nasty, so I did the only thing a girl could do: I bit his cock so hard it drew blood. And while he was screaming, I escaped. And, when the couple found out I had hurt one of their big spending guys and left without collecting the money, they kicked me out. It was then I finally got wise. They didn’t care about me. The next day, they drove me up to this neighborhood and dropped me off. I had no where to go, and I’ve been just hanging out and about until you found me.”

I didn’t want to know any more details about how she — I still thought of her as a girl — survived, and could only guess. It must have been horrible; who knows what kind of diseases she picked up?

*****
I called the social worker at the Harriet Long Youth Center on my cell phone while still in the diner, who, in a raspy-middle-aged voice told me that Enrique had been truthful in everything he told me. The boy had been raised by a hard-working Venezuelan immigrant mother and was a top student at his middle-school, but had never entered high school due to running away from home.

“He’s an exceptional lad,” the worker, who went by the name of Sol, told me.

“Pardon me, Sol, but doesn’t he have an interest in transitioning . . . ah . . . you know . . . living as a girl?” I asked.

“Yes, he does, and I understand that, but there’s not much we can do at this stage, Ms. Sullivan,” Sol said. “I totally understand Enrique’s situation and, believe me, I sympathize with him. He’s only 14, and with his mother gone, he’s legally under the guardianship of his stepfather.”

“What can we do, Sol?” I pleaded. Enrique, I could see, was listening closely, hearing only my side of the conversation, but obviously understanding what it was all about.

“Not much at this stage,” the social worker said. “In fact, we’re skirting the law right now by not notifying both the police and child welfare, which I’m going to have to do soon, or we’ll be in trouble here.”

“I understand,” I said, realizing that once child welfare was involved, and they learned of the abuse that Enrique suffered at the hands of his stepfather the boy would be placed into foster care, something the boy clearly didn’t want.

“You know we see cases like this almost everyday, Ms. Sullivan,” Sol continued. “I sometimes go home to my wife and kids, literally in tears over the horrible lives some of these kids live, but society doesn’t seem to care. We have hardly enough funding just to provide a warm place for them to hang out, much less give them any real service. And for LBGT kids, particularly transgendered kids, there really isn’t much available for them.”

Noticing how closely Enrique was watching me, I faked a smile, and then said, “I’m aware of that. Really the public should be aware of that.”

“You’re right, ma’am, but Enrique really does have lots going for him. He’s extremely bright and so far he’s only missed one semester of his first year of high school. I’ve been able to get him enrolled in a special school that Chicago Public Schools has set up for kids like him, if he’ll only agree to go.”

As Sol talked and I kept my eye on Enrique, my mind was racing. I couldn’t send this child back out onto the streets.

“What if there was a good family willing to take him in?” I asked Sol.

“Well, that would help,” he answered, “But we’d have to go through child welfare to get the stepfather’s right of guardianship suspended. Then, a lot would depend on what proof there was of abuse. Enrique’s word would not be enough, and after nearly five months on the streets, any signs of physical abuse would be meaningless.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling deflated by the situation.

“But, did you have some family in mind, ma’am?” Sol said.

“Yes, mine,” I said. It was a spontaneous statement, made without thinking; in the following instant I was shocked by my offer, since I hardly could countenance my mother’s reaction to it.

I explained that I lived with my mother, that I had a good job and could arrange my work schedule to be home by the time Enrique would return from school. Furthermore, we had a comfortable home and a room available for Enrique.

“Also, I have a good-paying job, Sol, as does mom, so we’re solvent,” I added.

“You haven’t talked with your mother about this yet?” he asked.

“Not yet, of course, the idea just came to me, but I will this evening.”

We agreed that Enrique should return to the youth shelter for another night; he was certainly safe there. Meanwhile, Sol would hold off notifying the authorities for another 24 hours, while I checked out mom’s thinking on the matter.

Enrique beamed with pleasure when I told him our plans, hugging me when I finished. “Oh Vicky, you’re so good to me,” he said, his voice taking on its little girl timbre. He such an adorable child, I thought.

I cautioned him against any false hopes, that several hoops had to be hurdled before he could stay with us, telling him that from now on he had to be completely truthful in everything he told us and the authorities.

“I haven’t lied to you, Vicky, not even once,” he said, offended by my warning.

I reach over and patted his hand, smiling and looking directly into his dark eyes, now growing a bit moist, and said, “No, I’m sure you’ve told me the truth, honey, but I’m just making sure you understand how important it is now to be truthful. Sol and the people at the Center are totally on your side, dear.”

“Thanks, Vicky, I love you.”

His words made me want to cry; I could see how starved the boy was for love. How lucky I was to have such a loving mom! But then, so did he, and she was gone. There, but for the grace of fate, go I.

(Copyright 2013)

Chapter 5: A Whole New Life

My concern over Rosa (a/k/a Enrique) briefly overshadowed my own concerns with the question of revealing my gender situation to the general public. It was bound to emerge soon. The question of just who Gerianne continued to be lurking in the background of media speculation, particularly among some of the alternate newspapers that were found in piles free for the taking throughout the Chicago area. Periodically, the entertainment columnists in the major two dailies in the city published rumors of just who was writing Gerianne.

Meanwhile, Women’s Place magazine sales continued a steady, though slower, increase in sales, as did the numbers of hits onto the website.

When I returned to the office late in the afternoon after seeing Rosa safely aboard a bus back to the shelter, Cecily bounded out of her office and ran up to me:

“Good, you’re back, Vicky. We have to talk,” she said, beckoning me into her office.

I had never before seen her so flustered; usually she was the coolest person I ever saw in the midst of the almost daily crises that develop in the daily publishing business. She held the door of her office open for me, then shutting it after I entered, leading me to sit on the wing chair in the lounge area of her office. Two bottles of water and glasses were placed on the coffee table, obviously one for me and one for her.

“There’s been a leak, I think. We’ve been told something’s coming out in tomorrow’s Sun-Times about Gerianne,” she said.

It was what I feared; no one could expect that among the dozens of editorial department staffers at Women’s Place that such a secret — which had become a popular topic of conversation — could be kept for long.

“What do they know?” I asked.

“We’re not sure, but my contact at the newspaper said they might even give it a big front page splash. You know how trashy that paper has become in its struggle to survive.”

I nodded, since I had seen the once-respected tabloid come into hard times.

“I bet they know it’s me,” I said.

“That’s my fear, and it’ll destroy the great reputation that Gerianne has created, and ruin the credibility of our publication,” she said.

Just then there was a knock, and I looked up through the glass wall, seeing Phyllis Frazier, the publisher, and a severe-looking woman (I knew her as Katrina Reynolds, the company’s general counsel) standing there; coming up from behind was Helena, my former partner and current financial officer for company.

We all moved into the boardroom, gathering at a broad, walnut table; I had never before been here, but was amused to see that this publishing company (supposedly owned and run by women) had all the trappings of the most heavily masculine boardrooms typical of corporate America.

My amusement was short-lived, however. Without any preliminaries, Ms. Frazier, as stylish as ever in her dark blue skirt-suit, opened the meeting once we were all seated.

“We all know each other here, so we’ll get started. We need to do something now to head off this awful publicity, and we’ve made a decision.”

Cecily immediately spoke up. “Who’s made the decision?”

“I did, Cecily,” Ms. Frazier said, giving the editor a steely look. “With advice of counsel of course.”

“I think such a decision should have considered the editorial considerations, Phyllis,” Cecily countered.

“You don’t think I thought of such things, Cecily? You and I have been together for 12 years and we both care for the publication, so don’t second guess this decision,” the publisher said. Her words were not unkind, but they were direct and seemed to brook no opposition.

“What is your decision then?”

Phyllis Frazier looked directly at me: “Jeremy, or Victoria, or whatever his name is will have to go. Immediately.”

“Right now?” I asked, incredulously. “Why can’t we just issue a public statement giving the truth. I’m willing to tell everything. I only cared for the well-being of our readers.”

I was proud of myself for not crying; I was also proud of the Gerianne story, of her successful record of revitalizing the magazine, and of winning millions and millions of new and loyal readers.

“Besides, Vicky and I have a contract with you,” Helena piped up, always the businesswoman, and I was grateful for her continuing practicality.

“I suggest both of you get your lawyer on the phone and get her involved,” interjected Chief Counsel Reynolds.

I didn’t cry until I got to my office; I was given 30 minutes to gather up my stuff and leave the premises. The Security firm had been alerted and had sent over an extra guard, who stationed himself outside of my office, ready to inspect what I was taking from the office and to escort me off the premises. Fortunately, after less than five minutes of sitting dumbly in my chair, holding my bear tightly and sobbing, my anger overcame my tears.

One fact was clear: My life as a lovelorn columnist had ended.

*****
The Sun-Times the next morning headlined: “AN EXCLUSIVE: Lovelornist Gerianne a guy!” A tagline at the bottom of the page announced: “Magazine dumps columnist.”

“Now the world knows! The popular lovelorn columnist Gerianne, whose advice to women and girls for the last 8 months has taken over the world, is actually a young man.

“His identity as Jeremy Sullivan, a 23-year-old Chicagoan, was revealed by the Christian blog site, God’s Word, written by Paula Trowbridge, a former staffer with ‘Women’s Place,’ the popular women’s magazine.

“Sullivan’s identity had been a deep secret, sealed by non-disclosure contracts forced upon Women’s Place employees and others, until revealed by the blog site.

“’Women’s Place’ immediately dumped Sullivan upon learning that the Sun-Times was about to disclose the closely held secret. (See statement on Page 2) . . .”

There was even a picture of me, obviously taken surreptitiously of me the previous day as I left the office to walk Rosa (Enrique) to the diner. It was not flattering, since I seemed to be scowling at Rosa, although the picture showed a young lady (me) walking with a wisp of a young boy in the gray Chicago winter afternoon. The caption read:

“Jeremy Sullivan (left) in women’s clothing is shown with an unidentified teen boy leaving Women’s Place offices yesterday.”

You can’t imagine how devastated I was; my entire life was there, plastered in huge type on the front page of the Sun-Times. I felt I was the most humiliated person in Chicago. And, all this because I felt compelled to help women and girls with their personal problems. It all started so innocently, but now I was being portrayed as one big lie. And, I felt angry because they had shown a picture of Rosa (Enrique), exposing the child to unneeded publicity that might just scare him back onto the streets and away from those of us who were trying to help him.

My anger at Phyllis Frazier and the top management of “Women’s Place” grew as I read the magazine’s self-serving statement in the newspaper:

“We deeply apologize to our readers who have made ‘Women’s Place’ magazine a trusted friend in American homes for 80 years for the deception perpetrated by the young man who portrayed himself as a woman.

“It was an oversight by our management staff that permitted this fiction to develop. We want to assure our readers, however, that while ‘Gerianne’ was a pseudonym, the final columns published in our monthly magazine and on the daily blogsite were carefully edited and researched by a trained staff of three experienced women.

“’Gerianne’s great popularity attests to the strength and basic correctness of the answers provided in the columns.

“We summarily terminated ‘Gerianne’ on this date. The column written under that name will continue to be written as before, with a trained staff, and will carry the title ‘Affairs of the Heart.’

“We pledge to continue publishing with the same high standards that have made ‘Women’s Place’ a ‘must’ publication for 80 years in over two million homes.

“Phyllis Frazier, Publisher”

“Mother,” I fumed as she entered the kitchen while I was reading the paper. “They blamed me for the lie and I wanted to be truthful from the start.”

My mom took a glance at the front page, and hugged me.

“What do you expect from corporate America?” she replied.

*****
My cell phone rang and I hesitated to pick it up, worrying about who might be calling. The screen showed it was from the Women’s Place phone number, and reluctantly I picked it up, wondering who from the office would have the nerve to call me.

“Vicky, are you all right?” It was Sophia, whose tone of voice showed real concern.

“Not really, Sophia, but thanks for calling,” I said.

“Vicky, I want you to know that Maxine and Louisa and I are shocked by all this,” she said.

“Thank you, but don’t do anything to jeopardize your jobs, Sophia. I’ll survive, dear.”

“Right now, I couldn’t care less. That was such a dishonest statement.”

Our conversation continued in this vain, with Sophia agreeing to meet me after work for a few drinks the following day.

The next call was from Helena, advising me to meet with her and our attorney soon to discuss the impact of our contract; I still had two-and-one-half years to go on my personal service contract, and I believed they couldn’t terminate it without penalty.

“I wouldn’t bank on that protecting you,” Helena said, in her business-like voice. “If you read the fine print, the company can terminate a contract if you committed a fraud, and that’s what they’re saying you did. You may be left high and dry, Jeremy.”

“Won’t that affect you?” I asked.

“No way,” she said. “Phyllis assured me that I’m safe. It’s you they’re after. You better meet with me and the attorney.”

“You’re not affected?”

“Why should I? You committed the fraud.”

“What? You insisted that I continue with this fiction. You selfish bitch!” I screamed at her, clicking the “end” button to terminate the call.

Mom and I agreed that we better get our own personal attorney; it was obvious that Helena cared only for “number one,” herself.

*****
It wasn’t long afterward that I got a call from Sol at the Harriet Long Youth Center: “I saw the Sun-Times this morning,” he began.

“I’m sorry about that,” I began immediately, realizing that I had misled him and young Rosa as to my real identity. “I should have told you.”

“Vicky,” he said, his voice soft and gentle as it always seemed to be. “You need not apologize. You’re like so many others I meet who are faced with gender issues.”

“Thank you,” I said. “This all has happened so fast.”

“You are a lovely young woman, Vicky, and I called mainly to have you talk with Rosa. I shared the newspaper with her this morning and explained your situation as I understood it. She wants to talk with you, and she’s here. Can you talk now?”

“Oh my, yes,” I said. “I hope she’s not angry with me.”

“I don’t think so, Vicky.”

Rosa’s voice came on, so sweet and lyrical. It was obvious Rosa’s voice hadn’t begun to change and still carried it sweet young boy timbre.

“Miss Vicky, thank you for talking with me,” Rosa began.

“How are you doing,” I asked, truly concerned about how the news might affect her.

“I couldn’t believe it at first,” she said. “You are so pretty.”

“You’re nice to say so, but you are as well, Rosa.”

“You’re my idol, Vicky,” she said.

We talked a bit longer, before she put Sol back on the phone. “I’m going to see if I can keep Rosa here for another 24 hours, Vicky, but we have to find a home for her, soon, and you told me you had an idea.”

“I know I did, but that was before this all happened.”

“Ok, but can you still do something?”

“Let me see,” I said. “I’ll get back to you later. Ok?”

“Fine, I hope you can, ‘cause Rosa’s really a sweet young girl and very smart too,” he said.

*****
Two hours later, I was able to call Sol and inform him that mother and I would be willing to provide a temporary home for Rosa in our own home; we had a spare bedroom that mom used mainly as a sewing room and occasional guest room which would make for a suitable place for Rosa.

“I’ll call CPS and see if that is suitable for her,” he agreed.

“CPS?” I asked.

“Yes, child protective services for the state of Illinois,” he explained. “They’ll likely send out a worker to view the place and interview you.”

“Oh? Will we be Ok’d?”

“Not sure, sometimes they’re pretty sticky about providing temporary custody to a non-relative family since they can’t do a complete check on the situation,” Sol said. “But I’ll explain that Rosa said that there’s no one from her direct family in the area, and we can’t send her back to her stepfather, that’s for sure.”

The CPS worker showed up in the late afternoon, just as it was getting dark. Mom hadn’t returned home from her job, and I was alone when the worker arrived. She must have been younger than I was and that shocked me. She was tall, a bit gawky, and wore a prominent cross outside of the sweater she wore over a blouse.

“What religion is your family?” It was one of the first questions she asked.

She caught me off guard, and I hesitated a moment before answering, “Ah . . . well . . . I was baptized Catholic, but mom and I don’t go to mass now.”

“Never?” she asked, almost in an alarming voice.

“I guess not.”

The worker looked at me, as if examining me to see what was wrong with me. She wrote something in her notebook, shaking her head negatively a few times as she wrote. She asked a few questions, and then asked me to show her my driver’s license, or other personal information.

I went for my purse which was on the dining room table, realizing that it still identified as “Jeremy Sullivan” whose gender was “M.” And I had been sitting there, dressed in a simple plaid skirt and blouse, having told her I was “Victoria Sullivan.”

“Let me explain what’s going on here,” I said, as I held the driver’s license in my hand.

“Just give it to me,” she demanded.

I gave it to her; she studied it carefully, then looked closely at me.

“Oh you’re one of those!” she said, contemptuously.

“Those?”

“Disgusting, despicable, so unnatural,” she said.

“Let me explain,” I said, desperately trying to keep calm, since I knew this narrow-minded bitch (how I hated that word, but it described her so perfectly) held the fate of Rosa’s future in her hands.

“No need to,” she said, closing up her notebook, and reaching for her coat.

“I recognize you now,” she said. “You’re that girl — or boy or whatever — who was in the news today. You’re that Gerianne person.”

“But, Enrique needs a home so badly,” I pleaded.

“Not a God-less home like this one,” she said. With that she stormed out of the house, leaving me in a mix of anger and tears.

I was still holding back tears when I called Sol to tell him that CPS would likely turn us down as a temporary shelter for Rosa.

“We’ve got to file a complaint against that worker,” he said. “But that won’t help Rosa. They’ll be coming to pick her up shortly, I assume, and they’ll take to the juvenile boys correctional facility, since they’ll hold her for prostitution, and perhaps placement in some foster home. That’s if they can prove that her stepfather truly raped her, but that may be difficult. If not, they may return her to him.”

“Won’t that be dangerous for her to go in with all those boys?”

“It’ll be a disaster; those guys will rape her and beat her. I’m so sorry, Vicky, but my hands are tied.”

Mom and I cried together that night, while I related the incident. “Mom, we need to do something for girls like Rosa,” I said.

“I know, dear, and you tried,” she said. “That’s all you can do.”

“There’s got to be something I can do.”

*****
For two weeks, I moped around, trying to figure out my future; I had hired an attorney on my own, who indicated that due to my contract I stood to get a comfortable settlement that might pay off my student loans and also pay for my sexual reassignment surgery. There was no doubt in my mind, now, that I’d live the rest of my life as a woman; it just seemed so natural.

I continued to think of Rosa and her fate, and that prompted me to volunteer some hours at the Harriet Long Center, acting as a sort of receptionist, fielding calls and greeting persons entering the Center. I was shocked to realize that girls like Rosa (and myself, too) were not the rarities I thought; almost daily, I met situations that caused me to reflect on how bad the need was for more services for transgendered persons.

Rosa, I learned, had taken matters into her own hands and fled the Center about an hour after I called Sol, and before the CPS workers showed up with the police to take her away. Sol explained the agency was in deep trouble for holding the girl more than 24 hours before calling authorities, but since he had built up a solid reputation with the authorities he was able to explain away the apparent violation.

I felt terrible for having put the Center into the middle on Rosa’s situation, but Sol said:

“Look you did the compassionate thing, Vicky,” he said. “Never apologize for that. The law’s not always right in these situations.”

I was working at the Center on a cold winter night two weeks after my firing when I got a call on my cell phone.

“Is this Victoria Sullivan?” an authoritative voice said.

“Who is this?”

“This is Detective Hearn from the Chicago police department. Do you know a Rosa Chavez?”

“Rosa?” I said, eagerly, but suddenly realizing the possible purpose of his call. “Yes I do. Is she all right?”

“What relationship are you to her?” he asked, his voice still carrying an officious, accusatory tone.

“None,” I said. “I helped her out once.”

“Doing what?” he said his voice still firm and demanding.

“What’s this about? Is she all right?”

He demanded I explain how I came to know Rosa, and I told him the story. It then he said, his voice finally growing more soft and kindly:

“I’m sorry to tell you, but we found her body today on South State Street. Can you come to the morgue soon and identify her?”

“Oh no,” I shrieked, breaking into loud sobs.

The last hours of Rosa Chavez (a/k/a Enrique Chavez) must have been horrible. She had been raped, her genitals carved out and then left to die, bleeding to death in the frigid cold on a dark Chicago street. Such a promising life. Gone.

I vowed I’d do something about it!

*****
The one thing I did do was to double up on my volunteer time at the Harriet Long Center; there I became close to a young gay attorney, who came once a week to spend several hours counseling those who had legal problems. Jay Williams was a tall, thin man, already balding in spite of the fact that he had only turned 30 recently. He had piercing green eyes, and had an unusual faculty of being a great listener and one to whom most of the visitors to the Center found easy to confide in.

I had told Sol of my anticipated problems with my termination from Women’s Place, and he suggested turning to Jay, since he worked for a top corporate law firm in the Loop.

“That’s an interesting case, and I’d like to help you if you’d like that,” Jay told me one night, as I finished relating my problem to me.

He agreed to take my case on a contingency basis, and would even reduce his usual commission should we win the case.

“I don’t want a long-drawn-out lawsuit,” I said. “I just wanna get what’s fair.”

“It’s not a sexual orientation suit,” he said. “It’s strictly contract law.”

“Oh, they fired me solely because of the transgender situation, Jay.”

“Yes, but that’s not against the law,” he said. “The gay rights law doesn’t cover the rights of the transgendered, yet. It’d be better if you were fired for being gay.”

It dawned on me that the transgendered persons truly do not have many rights in the courts today. He explained that the contract I had signed with Helena provided certain rights, which the company violated by firing me. He said I had fulfilled all of the requirements that the contract placed on me with the possible exception of one clause that called for me not to act in such a way to cause Women’s Place to be put into disrepute, or to cause any damage to the magazine’s reputation.

“They were aware of your birth gender when they hired you, Vicky?” he asked.

“Yes, we had quite a discussion about it,” I said.

He smiled. “I think you’ll be Ok,” he said.

*****
Surprisingly, it was only three weeks later that Jay called me to say he had a possible settlement.

“Already?” I asked. “That’s quick.”

“Well, I pointed out that their firing of you, Vicky, was actually a violation of the contract, which still had two-and-one-half years to run. Fortunately their attorney understood the situation and they agreed to what I think is a good settlement.”

It turned out that I would get paid for the two-and-one-half years remaining on the contract, plus another 50% of that total for the magazine to continue using the “Gerianne” name, and blocking me from using it in the future.

“I’m not interested in using the name anymore,” I said. “I’m out of the lovelorn writing game.”

“Then you’re satisfied with this?” he asked.

“Yes, and I thank you.”

“Frankly, Vicky, it didn’t take much work so I’m just going to figure my contingency fee on the 50% amount,” Jay said. “That’ll save you lots of money.”

I hugged him warmly the next time I saw him at the Center.

“You should get the payment in two weeks,” he said. “It’ll be a big check, and I suggest you don’t figure on spending it all at once. Let’s set up an investment account for you.”

“I will need to keep some of it handy for living expenses until I find a job, plus I want to put some aside for my sexual reassignment surgery and treatment.”

Jay thought my plans made sense, and suggested a financial advisor to me to handle the balance of the money. He was such a sweet man; even though he was handsome, I had no sexual interest in him; nor did it appear he had any in me. He was one of the kindest, most totally considerate men I ever met.

My doctor and psychiatrist agreed that I should proceed with sexual reassignment surgery, once I completed a year of living as a woman. In the interim, Sol offered me a job as a social worker at what he said was a “shamefully low rate,” but indicating it was all the Center could afford.

I gladly took the job, realizing that while the pay was low it would cover most of my living costs, since I continued to live with mom, who only asked that I share in food and utilities costs. I took the job for another and truly more important reason: I needed to work so that I could save others from the fate of Rosa Chavez. She would always be in my thoughts.

*****
Thus, I became Victoria Marie Sullivan permanently; I couldn’t have been happier. For fun, my friendship with Sophia grew stronger, and she and I went out to eat at least once a week and when the spirit moved us went to a show or movie. In addition, Mom and I shared many mother-daughter times together.

When Sophia and I went out, I’m ashamed to admit that I drew the stares and attention from men, while Sophia went ignored. How I hated that! Sophia was such a good, generous friend and really so smart and sweet a person that any man should have found a great girlfriend, or even a wife.

Strangely, she and I got boyfriends at almost the same time; Sophia got a call from a former classmate from Wisconsin who worked in the commodities market in Chicago, and the two began dating. He was a onetime lineman on the Wisconsin football team who easily dwarfed her in size, and he was the gentlest of men, as well. I was so happy for her; they would have sturdy, smart kids I was sure.

Craig Nicholson came into my life quite by coincidence; I found myself standing next to him almost every day at the bus stop while going to work at the Youth Center. It got to be awkward just standing there not saying anything to each other, when often we were the only two at the stop.

I could see the young man was uneasy by the fifth day, and decided to break the ice. Many young men are afraid to begin a conversation with a young lady for fear they’d be accused to being too forward. He seemed nice enough, a moderately tall, trim man with a clean-shaven face; he wore a short jacket over a white shirt and tie.

“Glad to see buds on the trees,” I said, aware that spring in Chicago was on the way.

He smiled, and I swear he blushed a bit.

“Yes,” he nodded. “But still so cold.”

“I know what you mean. Chicago can be so cold in spring.”

That was the beginning of a friendship. Craig and I met several weeks in the mornings, and usually sat together on the bus. I got off first, and he continued on to the next stop. He worked at an electronics store, but was going to night school at University of Illinois - Chicago, studying communications.

It turned out he lived a block away from me with his parents, and when he found out I loved art, he proposed spending a Saturday afternoon at the Chicago Art Institute. After finishing three hours at the Institute, he took me to dinner at the Italian Village. It was an
usually warm late April night when we left the restaurant, and he suggested a walk to Grant Park and I agreed.

He was so sweet. He held my hand as we walked, and I sort of leaned into him; we found a bench in the park and sat there; he put his arm around me and drew me close. I felt he was about to kiss me. That bothered me; he didn’t know I was still a boy.

“Craig,” I said. “You best know something more about me.”

“What? Do you already have a boyfriend? Or, are you, or were you married?”

“No, Craig. It’s not that.”

“What then?”

“Well Craig,” the words came haltingly. “I’m still a boy physically.”

“What? You can’t be. You’re so pretty.”

“Yes, I want you to know before we get too involved. I know it’s weird.”

“A boy? How?”

He was clearly confused, I could see. I quickly explained that I considered myself transgendered and that eventually I would physically be a woman, except for not being able to have children.

Craig looked at me and began caressing my hand, which was small and dainty in his large calloused hands.

Then he did something totally unexpected. He leaned into me, and kissed me, gently at first, lips against lips, and then with growing passion as he drew me into his arms. He tongue entered my mouth and we kissed for what seemed an eternity — a heavenly eternity.

“You’re still my girlfriend,” he said.

It should have the happiest night of my young life.

*****
As Craig led me along Wabash Street to the “el” (in Chicago, the commuter trains in the Loop run along ancient elevated tracks and are called “els”), I noticed a Chicago police officer leading a young, garishly dressed girl along the street; she had on ridiculously high heels, wore black mesh stockings with holes and mini-skirt that barely covered her butt. The girl was definitely Hispanic and she was bawling in a voice that sounded almost masculine. I doubted if she was even 16.

The officer had a firm hold on the girl, holding her arm crimped behind her back, and the girl had trouble keeping up. She stumbled along on her heels, finally losing one shoe on the sidewalk.

I watched in horror as Craig and I walked along perhaps a dozen steps behind them. I picked up the shoe and yelled out: “Officer, stop please. I have the girl’s shoe.”

The officer ignored my yell, and I broke from Craig and ran up to the officer, pleading, “Stop. I have her shoe.”

The officer, a huge man with a broad face with tiny eyes, squinted at me: “Forget it girl. She won’t need it where she’s going.”

“Do you have to treat her so roughly. She looks like a kid,” I said impulsively.

By then Craig came up behind me and grabbed me. “Quiet, honey, don’t interfere.”

I turned my eyes to him, and screamed into his face. “Did you see how he’s hurting that girl? He doesn’t need to do that.”

“ Don’t Vicky,” Craig said. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

I persisted: “Officer. What’s your badge number?”

With that the officer turned around and said: “Look I’ve had enough from you. This girl’s a damned whore. So butt out!”

“I asked your badge number,” I yelled at him.

“I’ve had enough from you,” the officer said, and with a click on the phone positioned on his shoulder, he began speaking into the phone: “Officer at Wabash and Monroe needs assistance and wagon. Got one prostitute and a citizen who is disorderly.”

“I’m not disorderly . . .” I began.

“Shut up, Vicky,” Craig ordered, his voice gaining into a firmness I had never expected he had.

“Yes, keep your girlfriend quiet,” the officer echoed.

“Look, officer,” Craig said. “You have no right to say my girlfriend was being disorderly. She felt she was trying to assist by returning the shoe to the girl. And, I know, you’re supposed to tell your badge number when requested.”

I looked at Craig, astonished by the command in his voice.

It seemed to calm the officer down, and he turned in a way to display his badge number. It was “1313.”

Just then the police wagon pulled up and two officers got out and were about to grab me and Craig, when Officer 1313 spoke up: “They’re all right, guys. It was all a misunderstanding. We just have this whore for you, but I think she’s a juvie even though her ID says she’s 18. It must be a counterfeit.”

“You two better go about your business,” one of the officers from the wagon, a sergeant, said.

“Come on,” Craig said, taking my arm and gently leading me away.

“Oh Craig,” I said, beginning to cry. “She looked so much like Rosa Chavez.”

“Who’s she?”

I looked back to see the two officers gently load the girl into the wagon, tears in my eyes.

“Rosa? Oh, Craig she was a lovely, smart girl. She’s no longer with us.”

He looked at me, hoping I’d give him more of an explanation. I said nothing and my thoughts turned back to Rosa and my last view of that lovely, broken, damaged girl. I did not cry, but I suddenly felt so sad, so discouraged.

I began wondering about the girl we watched being arrested so harshly by the police officer. Was she also a boy under all of that makeup, just as Rosa had been? Would she be headed to the same fate as the pretty Rosa Chavez?

Craig had my arm, holding it gently, guiding me to the steps that would take us up to the platform to await our train. I walked unseeingly, content to be guided by my sweet, gentle boyfriend. I felt so safe and comforted in the hands of this young man, at once a shy, gentle man but yet a man who could assume command and protect the girl at his side when the situation demanded it.

Sitting on the train, Craig held my hand; the train was nearly empty, since the weekend early evening trains were lightly traveled. He spoke softly to me: “You wondered if that girl was like you, Vicky?”

I could only nod; he could see how moist my eyes had become. I still held back tears, not wanting to draw attention of the few passengers on the train.

“Was that Rosa also like that?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was all I felt like saying.

Craig, the sweetheart, put an arm around me, pulling me close to him and held me. I nestled tightly against him, resting my head upon his chest. I heard the regular beat of his heart and felt comforted.

“I’m falling in love with you, Vicky,” he whispered into my ear.

I began a quiet, almost soundless sob. I knew then how life could be both cruel and joyful at the same time.

Author's Note: The child welfare worker described in this story is fictional, of course. Furthermore, the worker is not typical. The author's day job brings her in contact with the child welfare system regularly (not in Chicago, but in another Midwest state) and she knows that the workers themselves tend to be caring, open-minded individuals. They labor in often overworked and underpaid positions, causing great personal stress. The decision over whether to remove a child from a family is never an easy one, requiring great judgment. Even the best worker will make mistakes, since human beings rarely can be predictable. Sometimes the laws put them into a position of making decisions that might go against their better judgment. Yet, sadly, there are an occasional worker who will be like the one pictured.