,
The excitement of the 4th of July performance lingered on for a few days. If anything, the event solidified my belief that I was truly a girl, at least in spirit and feelings, if not in my body. Our performance had truly won the hearts of our audience and the daily newspaper ran a lovely picture, focusing mainly upon me as I sang the Patti Andrews part in “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” It was true I could tell from the picture, no one could have mistaken me for a boy: my slender arms and pretty face created a picture of sweet femininity. Fortunately, the picture did not identify me; someone might have connected “Terry Michaelsson” with the boy of the same name and that would have been a disaster.
Aunt Adele, I know, was still disturbed that she had pulled off a deception by casting me as a girl, but was comforted with the fact that without the group including me there would have been no performance at all. And I had become a so totally girlish for the part, too. Yet, the fact that I had taken so completely to living a girl’s life I know was beginning to bother auntie, and she hinted almost every day at having me wear more boyish outfits. I no longer pictured myself as a boy, and resisted her gentle suggestions.
In the days that followed, I continued to live as a girl, getting together with Wanda and Serena when I could, giggling together as girls do while we went to the sweet shop or gathered at one of our homes. I day-dreamed constantly, too, about being a girl friend to Bert who knew me as a boy but treated me as his girl, relishing in the memory of his kisses and caresses. Almost at the same time, my thoughts would turn to Matthew, who knew me only as a girl and worshipped me for my sweetness. As the thoughts of the two boys turned in my head, I felt so confused, wanting to have the affections of both Bert and Matthew.
It was a warm day in mid-July when I got home from a walk with Serena. As I entered the house I heard Aunt Adele was talking on the phone in the hallway. Before I could yell, “I’m home, auntie,” I overheard her say to the person on the other line, “I’m so afraid I’ve done a bad thing with Terry.”
This sounded weird to me. I couldn’t imagine that anything auntie did would be “bad.” She was always so good to me. Her kindness had helped to remove the sting of my dear mother’s death last November; she had rescued me from my grandparents and their strict rural prison and given me a warm home and loving care. I sat down on the steps going upstairs where I could listen unseen to her phone call.
“Yes, Tillie,” she said, apparently in response to a question. So, she was talking to her best friend, Matilda.
“I’m sorry we deceived you and Matthew, but Terry was still in a very delicate state after his mother’s death. He wanted to go out to the ballet that night as a girl, and we didn’t think Matthew would become so interested in her . . . ah . . . I mean . . . him.”
Auntie waited before speaking again.
“He’s had such a tough life, Tillie, and he really is so sweet.”
(Pause)
“Yes, I encouraged this. It seemed he was so disposed to it, as well. I’m not sure if he needs some sort of treatment.”
(Pause)
“I know it’ll be difficult, but I have to do something before school starts. We’ll need to get his hair cut and then somehow get him to recognize the fact that he is a boy, not a girl.”
(Pause)
“And who knows how long this war will act, and it’ll likely mean he’ll have to go into the Army. I’ll have to do something.”
(Pause)
“Thank you, Tillie, for your understanding. I love you, dear, and say ‘Hi’ to Matthew for both of us.”
The phone hung up, and I started to cry. I got up and started up the stairs, when I heard auntie yell: “Is that you Terry? Are you back?”
My tears were flowing too much and I couldn’t answer.
“Terry, answer me,” Aunt Adele insisted.
“Yes, auntie,” I said, the words coming out between sniffles.
“OK.”
I ran into my room, hopped on the bed, grabbing my favorite fluffy teddy bear and cried, my sobs loud and continuing. I curled up, hugging my bear tightly.
I heard my bedroom door open, and auntie entered.
“Why are you crying dear?”
“It’s . . . nothing . . . auntie.”
“It is something, Terry.”
I buried my head more deeply into the pink covered pillow, my sobs growing in spite of my efforts to stop them.
“Did you hear my phone call with Tillie?” she said firmly.
I nodded. She sat down on the bed next to me, pulling my sob-racked body next to her, patting me gently.
“I’m sorry you did, honey, but we need to do something. You can’t continue this way.”
“Am I weird, auntie? Sick, or something?” I had stopped crying now, just feeling terribly sad.
“No, dear,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. “You’ve had a difficult time in your life. You’re so smart and talented and you’re very sensitive. That’s all good.”
“But I don’t feel I’m a boy, auntie.”
“Oh, honey.” She said nothing. She held me and I soon fell asleep. My dreams were troubled.
*****
Three days later, Aunt Adele took me to the beauty salon, where we all cried, auntie, the hairdresser and myself, as my lovely hair was trimmed, leaving me with a totally boy’s haircut. I felt undressed and ugly, and couldn’t get home fast enough, running up to my room, burying myself among the bedclothes and sobbing. It was awful.
I could tell auntie felt as badly as I did; she had never done anything to hurt me before, and even though she believed she was doing the right thing for me, she knew she had hurt me deeply. She left me alone for a while after we got home, but soon I heard a gentle knock on the door: “Terry, are you all right?”
I didn’t answer, merely began to resume my crying, which had finally subsided a bit. Auntie waited a few minutes and then entered the room, and sat besides me, reaching over and picking me up, holding me tightly in her arms. I laid my head on her shoulder, and cried as she held me, patting me gently, rocking me as if I was a baby. I felt so helpless, so without hope.
I could never be a boy, I thought as a rocked in her arms. I am too weak, too shy and too frightened to do what boys do, such as work in a factory, become a soldier or fight somebody with my fists. It was so scary. Since I had been with auntie, I had never been happier, even though I missed my mother. I know my mother must be up in heaven now, looking down upon me, proud of her pretty, talented daughter. How could I be a boy?
Auntie must have sensed my thinking, and she finally said: “Terry, my darling, I think I’ll fix you a nice warm bath and then we’ll dress you up in something nice, and you’ll feel better. I know this is a shock for you.”
“A bubble bath?” I inquired.
“Yes, if you like,” she said. I could tell she wished I would not want that.
“Oh yes, auntie, I do. Please.” I kissed her.
“OK honey,” she said, releasing me from her arms. “And if you like, you can put on that nice yellow sundress, but just for tonight.”
“I love you auntie, but my hair, it’s too short now to be pretty.”
“Oh my darling Terry,” she said, “You’re impossible.”
I giggled.
“Well honey, we can do something with your hair so you’ll still be a pretty girl,” she said.
“You think so?”
“Yes, honey, but remember this is just for tonight and just for in the house. From now on, outside the house, you’ll always be a boy.”
I kissed auntie as she left the room to begin to draw my bath and I undressed, readying myself for the bath. I was so happy I had a caring auntie. She was going to let me, for a while at least, to be a girl at home, but otherwise I’d have to be a boy and I wondered how I’d fit into boyhood. I had previously been such a failure. Would I lose Wanda and Serena as my girl friends? And what about Bert, who loved me as a girl? And Matt, too?
*****
It was a warm night, and auntie said I could wear a shorty nightgown; it was a gauzy light tan affair, with thin straps holding it onto my puny body, my legs showing from about mid-thigh on down. I found my fluffy pink slippers and looked into the mirror.
“Aghhhhhhhhhhh,” I let out a screech, horrified at what I saw staring back at me.
Auntie overheard me and came into the room, breathlessly inquiring, “What happened?”
“My hair,” I screamed, shocked at how short it was, still matted down a bit from the moisture in the bathroom.
“Oh my gosh, Terry, you’re such a girl! Let’s just fix your hair up and I think you’ll like it.”
“But auntie, it can’t be fixed,” I said, about to break into tears.
“Now, now honey, calm down, and auntie will make you all pretty again, but, remember, tomorrow, when you go outside, you’ll have to change your hair back to being a boy’s cut.”
I nodded, and let auntie led me into the bathroom.
“You know, darling,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re crying about. You still look like a cute girl to me.”
“Do I auntie?”
“Yes, honey, you look just so girlish in that nightie. Now let’s fix your hair.”
She had me stand in front of her, while she sat on the closed toilet seat and began to work with my hair, first rubbing it briskly with a towel to dry it out (she didn’t have a hair dryer at home; few persons did in those days). Then she brushed it, helping to fluff it out, before applying some sort of gel to my hair, rubbing it in with her fingers.
“Good, the hairdresser left it longer enough so I can work with your hair, Terry. You’ll look very pretty when I’m done.”
“Really, auntie?”
“Yes, honey, and remember lots of girls are wearing their hair short these days, particularly if they have to go to work in the war plants,” auntie said.
I remember seeing pictures of girls with short hair; it was true some could still be very beautiful.
Aunt Adele continued to work on the hair, and I was getting impatient, eager to see how I’d look. Finally, she led me to the mirror.
“Oh auntie, I am still pretty,” I said, kissing her. “I love you.”
She had fixed my hair, creating a small bang, while combing back the hair on the side of the head, into a modest ducktail.
“Now, if you aren’t the cutest girl,” Auntie said.
“I am, auntie, maybe even prettier than before.”
I did a little pirouette in front of the mirror. I did, indeed, look like a cute girl, my slender legs and arms smooth and soft-looking.
*****
Wanda and Serena came over the following day to hang out with me. I told them I couldn’t leave the house and if they wanted me to join them, they’d have to come over. They knew I had my hair cut and was supposed to start acting more like a boy; they were curious, I guess, as to how I’d look, but they were surprised.
“My Terry,” exclaimed Serena, “You’re cuter than ever.”
“Oh yes,” Wanda added. “I don’t know how you’ll go back to school as a boy any more.”
“I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I have to, auntie said.” I explained that auntie would let me dress as a girl only at home, but from now on I’ll have to return to being a boy outside the house and in school.
“We’ll still think of you as our girl friend, Terry,” Wanda said, reassuringly.
“I hope so,” I said, worrying about whether they’d still want me as a friend.
“But you’ll still be able to be a ballerina in dance class, like the rest of the girls?” Serena inquired.
“No, that’s over with,” I said. “Auntie thinks she’ll recruit a few boys this year and I’ll have to dance with them.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Serena said. “I can’t see you as a boy dancer.”
I couldn’t either, but I guess felt I had no choice if I wanted to dance again. I just didn’t feel I was strong and muscular enough to dance the male parts. And, the truth was, I didn’t want to have muscles that bulged and were so ugly. My arms and shoulders were so pretty now; what will happen if I continue to make them strong?
The three of us retreated to my bedroom, where we giggled as we always did, and we played with each other’s hair, trying various styles. Later we painted each other’s toes. It was such a fun day!
*****
“What kind of a boy friend do you want, Wanda?” It was Serena who posed the question, when we were done painting each other’s toes.
Wanda blushed easily, just like I did. It seemed her freckles just popped out of her pale board Teutonic face when she grew red. Wanda was really a plain girl, almost cherubic, but when she blushed, her eyes would glisten, and she looked truly charming, so sincere and warm.
“Serena, I don’t know,” she said. “Mom told me not to worry about boys yet; we’re only going into the 8th Grade.”
“That’s when we should think about boys,” Serena said firmly. She had a dark beauty and he already began developing into a young woman physically. Her bosom had already begun to burst tightly within her blouses.
“Terry doesn’t have to worry about boys,” Wanda said. “She already has two boy friends.”
“I do not,” I protested.
“You do too, and they’re both nuts about you,” Serena said. “Anyone can see that.”
It was my turn to blush. It was true, I had two boy friends, but they liked me as Terry, a girl, not as Terry, a boy. I dearly wished I could still be their girl friend, but those days are over. It was enough to make a girl cry.
*****
“What happened to your hair?” cried a shocked Bert when he came to the house, planning to go on a bike ride with me.
I had combed it as a boy would in those days, complete with a part, and a prominent pompadour above the forehead, my longish hair ending in a ducktail at the back. He hadn’t seen me since my haircut, and I hadn’t told him that my life as a girl was about to end.
I was dressed in shorts, a white tee shirt and tennis shoes — an all-boy outfit — but with my slim body and still longish hair and, I guess, pretty face, you could still see the girl in me. It was a warm, muggy late August day, just about two weeks before the start of school. In my outings with Bert, I usually dressed this way, putting on my girlish outfits only when we were home, except for one time, shortly after the 4th of July program, he took me to see a movie, “The White Cliffs of Dover,” a tear-jerker of a World War II movie with Greer Garson. Bert knew I liked romantic movies, just as any girl would.
“I want you to go with me as a girl,” Bert said. “To show you off. I know you’ll be the prettiest girl in the movie.”
At first I objected, pleading that someone might recognize me as a boy or that we’d bump into somebody we knew. That would be a disaster, I told him. He persisted, promising to go to an out-of-the-way movie house, meaning we’d have to take a streetcar.
“Don’t worry,” Bert said. “Everybody can see you’re a girl and we’ll have fun.”
In the end, with auntie’s reluctant permission (I brought tears to my eyes to persuade her), we went to a Sunday matinee at the Tivoli across town. On the streetcar, in the line at the movie house and at the sweet shop afterwards, I saw people looking at us and smiling, obviously pleased to see a handsome boy with his pretty date. I have to admit such admiring looks are intoxicating.
Bert bought the popcorn and he held my hand during the movie, sometimes slowly moving his fingers up my arm, caressing its smoothness. Soon I snuggled as close to him as I could, restrained only by the armrest between our two seats. He was so much a gentleman, taking a clean hankie from his pocket and gently rubbing tears that streamed down my face as the movie hit a poignant part.
I loved being his girl friend, and could hardly see myself now as just another boy.
We biked on that warm day to our usual spot along the river, but the bugs were too bothersome, especially the pesky black flies. We finally stopped at a water fountain for a drink at a park, about halfway home, and Bert looked at me, saying, “I only see a girl in you. I wish you were one for real, Terry.”
We propped our bikes up against a tree and sat on a park bench, hoping the flies and bugs might not be as bad as they were at the river.
“I know, Bert,” I said slowly. “But auntie said I have to start living again as a boy; that’s who I am and I have to plan for the future.”
“Terry, I know it, too,” he said, leaning over to give me a quick kiss.
I accepted it, knowing that we shouldn’t really kiss in such a public place, but for the time being we were alone.
“Who knows how long the war will last, and we’ll both be drafted,” I said. “I just can’t see myself as a soldier or sailor.”
“You could go as a WAAC or WAVE,” he said, with a smile, referring to the two units of the Army and Navy that were organized for women.
“I’d like that, but it’s not possible, since my birth certificate says ‘boy.’”
“Terry, you’ll always be my girl friend,” Bert said. “Remember that. And we can still do things together.”
“I hope so, Bert, ‘cause I like you so much.”
And I pecked him on the cheek. We rode home slowly, saying little to each other. For some reason, I felt my time as Bert’s girlfriend was at an end, even though he promised otherwise. A girl can just sense those things.
*****
A day after the bike ride, Matt called me. Auntie answered the phone and I heard her say, “Nice to hear from you, Matt.”
She listened to him for a moment, then replied, “Well, I’m happy you feel that way.”
I was mystified, wondering what Matt was telling auntie. I was so afraid he was mad at both of us for deceiving him that I was as a girl, but auntie seemed to be smiling, and I took that as a good sign.
“He wants to talk to you, dear,” she said, finally, handing the phone over to me.
I was trembling as I took the phone, fearing what he’d be saying.
“Hi,” I said weakly.
“Hi Terrance,” came his voice, strong a clear. He was using my full boy’s name.
“Hi Matt,” I said with more strength in my voice.
“I know the full story, Terrance,” he began, “And I was mad for a while that you and your auntie lied to me and mom. But mom explained everything, and I think I understand, though I don’t know why a boy would want to be a girl.”
“Thank you, Matt,” I said simply, not trying to respond.
“Can we still be friends, Terrance?”
“If you want to be, but I’ll have to only be a boy with you,” I said.
“That’s OK, I think,” he said, slowly. “I find it hard to think of you as a boy, but we had such nice conversations together, and we like the same things.”
“I know, and I like you Matt, too.”
“Can you go to the Museum with me next Saturday?” he asked suddenly.
“I’ll have to ask auntie, but I’d like to. Don’t they have that exhibit there showing the buffalo and all that?”
“Yes, and a whole lot more, too.”
“I’d love that,” I answered, my voice rising to a higher scale, a sweet girlish tone. Somehow, I’d have to start sounding more like a boy.
*****
Despite what Aunt Adele did, she could not erase my effeminate behaviors. I continued to walk in short steps that seemed to exaggerate my hip movement and I often sat, legs tucked under me as a girl would. And, I couldn’t resist flicking my hair repeatedly, keeping the longish strands from flowing into my face.
Even though I was entering the 8th Grade, my voice still retained it sweet soprano quality, and, as far as I could tell I was to be the only boy in my class who still sang like a girl. It was humiliating, but for some strange reason I liked the idea. My singing as Patti Andrews in the 4th of July program had caused me so much praise and joy. I both wanted my voice to change so I could be like other boys and didn’t want it to change, so I could still be a girl. It was obvious I couldn’t have it both ways, although I suspected nature would eventually make the choice for me and somehow make me a boy.
Auntie bought some weights for me to use to strengthen my arms, to give them some tone. Needless to say, I hated using them; so boring to do repeated lifts. And my arms grew weary so quickly. It was funny, I liked having soft, weak arms like a girl, but, alas, that would have to change, too. I was thankful for one fact: I was still in the grade school setting in 8th Grade, and our school had no gym like the junior and senior high schools did where I’d have to change in a locker room, change into gym clothes and later shower before resuming classes. I hated the thought of changing clothes in front of other boys, all of who would have muscles, and who would make fun of me. And the thought of doing all that boy stuff in gym also scared me; how could I possibly do all of it. I knew I was too weak.
How sad I was to see that summer of 1942 end. It had been the most exciting year of my life, largely because I had spent almost all of it as a girl, but that was over. Somehow, I’d have to be a boy from here on in. Auntie Adele was right: I had no choice that once a boy always a boy; there would be no changing that.
Not too much changed in 8th Grade: the kids in the school had come to accept me, except for a few bullies who occasionally sent taunts my way. Sometimes they’d pushed me around, and challenge me to fight back, but I‘d usually figure out a way to flee without being harmed. I guess they got bored in teasing me, and I settled back into an easy school year, where I found my studies interesting, the teachers friendly (maybe ‘cause I was such a cooperative student) and my girl friends still accepting.
*****
Wanda, Serena and I seemed to be together all the time, walking together often both to and from school, sitting together in the cafeteria or just hanging out in the hallways during our brief breaks. Sometimes, a few other girls would join us, and I would be there, the only boy, but hardly a boy at all. My giggles matched the high pitch of all the girls and my gestures — the flailing arms, the posture and all — were just as girlish. It’s as if I was just one of them.
In truth I couldn’t have been happier, except when I thought of my mother, who by the time I entered 8th Grade had been dead nearly 10 months. I thought of her mainly after school, when I’d want to rush home to tell her I might have met a new friend (it was always a girl), or a teacher had complimented my work or I had been picked again to be the lead soprano in the school chorus.
The teacher, Mrs. Watkins, had auditioned all of the students that tried out for the chorus to figure out where to place them, either as sopranos, or altos, or mezzo-sopranoes, or tenors, or basses. After they were completed, she posted a list in the music room just before our class of where we all were to be placed. In eagerness, hoping to be a tenor this year, I looked on the list, and my name was not there.
“Terry, you’re not listed,” Serena said. “I don’t know why. You got the best voice among the group.”
I couldn’t believe it, and began to hold back tears. I loved singing so much, and I honestly felt I was really good at.
Just then, Mrs. Watkins entered the music room, and walked over to us. I must have given her a dirty look, for she quickly said, “Terry, I need to talk to you. Come with me into the sound room.”
I wanted to burst into tears, thinking I had done something wrong. I saw Serena and the others watching me dutifully follow the teacher into a small room that was used for solo teaching assignments and practicing.
“Terry, you’re probably wondering why you’re not on the list,” she began, after having me sit down in one of the two chairs in the room. I sat down primly, my two hands neatly folded on my lap, as was my manner now.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, honey,” she began slowly. “You know you have a lovely voice, dear.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“But, honey,” she continued, as if she were addressing a little girl, “I could hardly make you a tenor. You’re voice still has the quality of a soprano, and I don’t know where to place you. As a soprano, you’d have to standing among the girls, dear.”
I nodded, a bit puzzled. I had sung as a boy soprano last year, along with two other boys, but now in the 8th Grade Chorus, she explained, I’d be the only boy still singing soprano.
“I don’t know if you still want to be a soprano,” she continued. “It’s where your voice places you, and you’d be so good there. The chorus would sound lovely with you as the lead soprano.”
I was startled. “The lead soprano?”
“Yes, Terry, you have the loveliest voice among all the girls . . . er . . . sopranos.”
“The lead?” I repeated the question.
“Terry, would that bother you to be among the sopranos as the only boy?”
I took a minute to answer. I really wanted to sing soprano and was so flattered she thought I could be the lead, which would mean solos and everything. But, would that open me to even more teasing and bullying? It probably would mean some people’d harass me, but they were stupid, I thought.
“No, Mrs. Watkins, if you think it’s best for the chorus.”
“Good,” she said. “You’re a soprano then. Just take you place with the soprano girls, OK?”
I wanted to leap with joy and couldn’t wait to tell Serena and Wanda. I know they’d be pleased. Too bad I didn’t have my mom around to tell. But I know Auntie would hug me when I told her. Little was I to know that my pleasure at being picked as a soloist would soon cause me great pain.
(To be continued)
My joy in being named soloist — as a soprano — for the school chorus was ended quickly, since Marian Cosgrove thought she had the best soprano voice; her mom had been paying for lessons in opera for Marian at the Conservatory of Music and felt she deserved being lead soprano. And Marian did indeed have a good voice; she was never flat and she sang with great clarity. Her voice did have a rather harsh quality though.
I guess Mrs. Watkins felt that my voice had warmth and sweetness that were most compelling. I just loved singing — even more than dancing — and tried always to make sure the audience understood the meaning of the song. It was so marvelous to sing a love song, putting all my heart and soul into it.
As rehearsals began later in the class period, Mrs. Watkins told the group that I’d be singing as soloist in the Christmas concert with Marian being backup and taking other solos. The fact that I would be singing most of the solos brought some minor clapping from the students, and one large grunt.
“What about me, Mrs. Watkins?” Marian Cosgrove challenged.
“What about you, Miss Cosgrove,” the teacher replied tartly.
“I should be the soloist, not Terry,” she exclaimed in front of the whole class. “I have the best voice and he’s a boy. Not a girl.”
“I chose Terry for the soloist and you as backup, Miss Cosgrove. You both have nice voices, but I think Terry’s fits in best for the chorus. That’s it, dear.”
“But . . .”
“Marian,” Mrs. Watkins warned, looking the student directly in the eye. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Marian Cosgrove grew red and turned away, as if to cry. The girl, however, was not done with the issue. She was a tall, husky girl who might in some day be a truly fine opera singer. She had stage presence, probably drilled into her by her mother. She was waiting for Terry as he left the school. He was alone, since Wanda and Serena were staying after school for a 4-H club meeting.
“It’s not fair,” Marian said, grabbing me by the arm, almost causing me to drop my books that were cradled in my arms.
“I didn’t do anything, Marian,” I said, somewhat frightened by her brisk manner. “She chose me on her own. I didn’t ask for it.”
“You’re such a sissy,” she began. “No boy should WANT to sing soprano, like a girl.”
“I can’t help it that my voice hasn’t changed yet,” I said, but the words came out almost as a whimper.
She was looking so mean and she was even a little taller than me and probably stronger.
“Put your books down,” she demanded.
“Why?”
“Just put them down, sissy.”
I wanted to run away from her, she was looking so mad. I put the books down, and saw she was about to hit me, and I put my hands up to my face hoping to ward off the blows. She easily pushed my hands away and slapped me in the face.
I tried to cover my face with my hands and she easily pulled them away. I was weak to resist her stronger arms, instead started cowering and sobbing uncontrollably.
I don’t know how many times she hit me but soon I was on the ground in a fetal position, powerless to stop her hits, which by now weren’t too hard.
“Look at the sissy,” I heard someone yell. “Being beaten up by a girl!”
I looked up to see a crowd had gathered and they were beginning to cheer Marian for the beating she was delivering. I could hear laughter and hoots, all directed at me, along with words like “homo” and “fairy.” I buried my head in my arms, trying not to look, afraid I’d get hit again. She was so strong.
Since we were a block from school no teachers showed up to break up the beating. It all ended quickly, with Marian taunting me with the words, “If she wants to sing like a girl, let her lay there.”
“And she fights like a girl, too,” someone else chimed in.
I lay there, maybe for several minutes as they all left the scene. All I could do was to cry!
*****
I was so ashamed and I tried to get home and up to my room to clean up before auntie could see me and ask what happened. My clothes were wrinkled, but not torn and my face was all wet and dirty from the tears that fell down as I cried. My face was all red from where she slapped me, and my arms had welts from where I was hit.
Auntie heard me come in and yelled “hi,” but I merely said “hi” back and hurried up to my room; this was unusual because I normally rushed to see her and tell her what happened that day in school. I had so wanted to tell her I was chosen to be a lead singer in the Christmas concert, but now that was spoiled. I rushed into the bathroom to clean myself up, but I no sooner closed the door and auntie was there, rapping gently. “Are you all right, dear?”
“Yes, auntie, just cleaning myself up,” I said hurriedly.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I knew she could tell something was wrong.
Rather than answer, I merely started crying again. “Terry, open the door,” auntie demanded. I did, and soon I was comfortably cradled in her comforting arms. Between sobs, I told her the whole humiliating story. As I ended the episode, I cried out in desperation, “I was beaten up by a girl, auntie, and all I could do was cry.”
Auntie must have held me for a good 15 minutes; it felt so good in her loving arms, so protected and safe. Why, oh why, did I have to leave that protection and go out into the world? I was not fit to be alive.
I kept those thoughts to myself, but auntie must have sensed my feelings. She held me so firmly, so protectively, whispering in my ear what a talented, caring child I was, making me feel like I was somebody, not just a pathetic, sissy boy who could be beaten up by a girl. Even though Marian was bigger than me, I still felt most girls could have beaten me up; it was a repulsive thought for a boy to have, but probably a true one.
Finally my sobbing stopped, and auntie told me a take my shower, clean myself up and come down for supper. “I have some ideas for you, darling, and we can talk about them later,” she said.
*****
I debated what clothes to wear after the shower. I wanted to put on a nice skirt and blouse, fix my hair and put on some light makeup, which is what many women and girls do when they’re feeling sad. It would comfort me so much. But maybe, given the circumstances, I should put on my boy stuff, but that would only remind me of the afternoon.
I needed to feel good about myself, so I did the only thing I knew would cheer me up. I decided to treat myself, and dress up in a very pretty, frilly peach-colored dress, with puff sleeves and a full skirt, along with my two-inch sandals and ankle socks. It always made me look much like a little girl on her way to church. I loved it.
“Aren’t you pretty?” auntie said when I finally showed up in the kitchen. “No wonder it took you so long to come down. I got worried about you, honey.”
She drew me to her, pulling me tightly against her small, firm breasts and trim body. I always wondered how someone so muscular and hard could feel so warm and comforting. I loved her dearly, almost as much as my mother. Tears came to me as I reflected how lucky I was to have such a loving auntie.
“Help me put on the supper, honey, and please don’t spill anything on that nice dress,” she said.
She handed me an apron, which I put on, asking, “What ideas do you have for me, auntie?”
“Not now dear, let’s eat, and we’ll talk about it later,” she said.
“OK, auntie,” I replied, glad to put the memories of the beating behind me, at least for now.
*****
Just after supper, auntie excused me from the dishes, and suggested I get into something more comfortable and begin to do my homework. When she was done with the dishes, she told me we could talk more about my situation.
I had no sooner completing the change of clothes, putting on a loose pair of Capri pants and a teal-colored sweatshirt with bunnies on it, than the phone rang. Knowing auntie’s hands were likely in dishwater, I ran to answer it.
“Terry, is that you?” I heard the voice ask. It was Wanda.
“Yes,” I said. Even though Wanda was my best friend, I really didn’t want to talk to her just now and trying to be cheerful. I had hoped no one — besides the bullies — knew of Marian’s beating of me, just wanting the whole incident to be gone and forgotten.
“Are you all right, Terry?” she asked.
“Yes.” It was obvious she knew something.
“I just heard,” she said. “Oh how awful. That horrid girl.”
“I’m all right,” was all I could think of do say.
“I’d like to scratch her eyes out for you,” Wanda said. “I love you Terry and so does Serena. We just talked about this and we want to help you. You’ve been our friend.”
“Thank you, but I’m OK, really!”
“And no one came to help you, to stop her?” she asked.
“No, and I couldn’t do anything about it. She’s so strong.”
“My poor Terry,” she said, making me feel even more helpless. “What caused her to attack you?”
“Well, you know it looks like they want me to be lead soloist, and Marian thinks she should be the lead. That’s all. She’s jealous. And she doesn’t think a boy should be singing soprano.”
“Oh the big cow,” Wanda said. “Everyone knows you got the prettiest voice.”
“I suppose if you and Serena heard about the beating, it’s all over school,” I queried.
“Yes, everyone’s talking about it.”
“Oh I can’t go back to school tomorrow . . . never,” I said, beginning to cry.
“Terry you must.”
“But they’ll all laugh at me.”
“Not everyone, in fact most of the girls I talked to are on your side, so are some of the boys, I bet, but most of them are too cowardly to admit it.”
“Oh, I can’t,” I said, realizing my being beat up by a girl was the big news so far of the school year of 1942-43 at the Wisconsin Avenue School.
“Serena and I will be with you, as will a couple of boys we know,” she pleaded. “You must come back.”
*****
Even Bert heard about the beating, and he isn’t even going to the school anymore; he’s a freshman at West Division High School.
“Terry, you’re still my girl,” he said when he called me that night.
I started to cry when he said that, remembering the sweet times we’d had together; he had been bothered by auntie’s decision to start making me more of a boy, since he told me I could some day be Miss America, or, at least, Miss Wisconsin. I missed him so much; he had protected me in the previous year in school from all the bullies.
“Don’t cry,” he said. “Marian is a big girl who could probably beat up half the 8th Grade boys.”
“But I didn’t even fight back, I just laid there and cried and took it,” I protested.
“Please, Terry, stay as sweet as you are. I’ll always think of you are my girl, even if you can’t live as a girl.”
Bert told me I should really go right back into school the next day, with my head held high. “You did nothing wrong, Terry,” he said. “And you won the right to be soloist by being the best singer. Forget Marian.”
“You think I should, Bert? They’ll all be laughing at me.”
“Some will, but only the stupid ones,” he said. “Marian will still rally her buddies behind her, but remember she’s in the wrong.”
“I don’t know, Bert,” I said, doubting my own resolve, feeling very weak and inadequate at the moment.
It was then Bert changed the subject. “Do you think your auntie would allow you to come to the 9th Grade dance with me next week? At my school? You could be dressed all pretty and no one knows you here.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, surprised at the request. Did he want to parade me in front of the whole high school as his girl friend? What would happen if someone there found out his “girl friend” was just a guy?
“Ask her for me, Terry,” he pleaded. “I’d love to show you off.”
“Bert, you could have your pick of any of the pretty girl,” I protested. “Why me?”
“I don’t know, Terry. I just like you. You are the prettiest girl I know, and you dance so nice and you can do the jitterbug. I can see the whole school surrounding us while we danced, watching our moves.”
It sounded so tempting; I could see myself as a dazzling girl in my nice lavender and yellow dress, with thin shoulder straps, bare legs and yellow ballet flats. And Bert was such a good dancer; I just float in the air when I’m with him.
“I’ll ask her, Bert, but I know she’ll say no. She wants me to be a boy. No more running around fooling people that I’m a girl.”
“You’re not fooling people, Terry,” Bert argued. “You’re as much a girl as any girl in the school.”
“I’ll ask her, I promise. Call me later this week, OK?”
As might be expected, Auntie’s answer was “NO.” But both Bert’s call and Wanda’s convinced me to go to school the following day, planning to continue the rehearsal to be the major soloist — as a soprano — in the chorus and to be the best singer I could be for the chorus.
*****
Ever since Aunt Adele mentioned she had some “ideas” for me, I wondered what they were. I was so confused since part of me hoped she was thinking of ways of making me even more of a girl, while the other part of me wondered if she had some magical way to make me like all other boys, strong and confident. Deep down, I really wanted to be all girl.
She told me her thoughts as I got ready for bed; I had taken time doing so, putting up my hair and putting some cream on my face to hopefully prevent the zits from appearing. All the time, I admired the pretty girl in the mirror, my slender shoulders and dainty neck.
“Terry, finish up in there,” I heard my auntie yell at me. “I want to talk to you before you go to bed.”
“Yes, auntie, just be a minute,” I said. I was standing in front of the mirror, still in panties and a training bra. I put on my light teal blue nightie and went out to meet auntie.
Auntie was sitting on the vanity bench in my room and she beckoned me to sit on the bed.
“First of all,” she said. “Do you really want to go ahead and sing as a soprano in the chorus?” Her voice was firm and direct.
“Yes, auntie, I do,” I said without hesitation. “I earned it and Mrs. Watkins thinks I’m the best for the chorus.”
“You saw what happened today after school? You want more of that?”
“No auntie, but Wanda and Serena think I should go ahead,” I said. “Besides they’ll be there to protect me.”
“Terry, girls to protect you? That’s so ridiculous; you’re a boy and you should be able to protect yourself, at least from a girl.”
“She caught me off-guard, auntie,” I pleaded.
“It doesn’t matter, dear,” she said, her voice softening. “You still need to realize that soon you’ll have to act like a man in a man’s world.”
“Why can’t I just live as a girl and a woman, auntie? Can’t I change my sex, cut off my boy part? I don’t feel like fighting people. I’ll never be strong. I’ll never be able to be a real man, auntie. Please, what can I do?”
She got up, sat next to me and held me in her arms, comforting me, and I began to sob.
“Honey,” she said, finally. “The fact is there is no way to make you a woman. You have a boy thingee and as far as I know there’s no record of people changing that.”
“What about letting me go to Denmark?” I asked. “I heard they do it there.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I heard that, too, but I don’t know how successful it’s been. Besides there’s a war on and Denmark is in Nazi hands. They’ll never allow it.”
“Oh, auntie, I’m so scared. I can’t be a man.”
“Now, now,” she said, ending the hug and taking my two hands in hers. “You’re a very smart, intelligent young man, Olaf Terrence Michaelsson, and you can do whatever you want, short of becoming a girl.”
I nodded. It was true; I got top grades in school and enjoyed learning.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said. Then she told me her plan.
*****
Wanda and Serena, along with two boys I hardly knew, met me halfway to school the next morning, walking with me into the building. Students lined both sides of the sidewalks as I entered the school, but I noticed several teachers standing among them, stern looks on their faces. The teachers rarely stood outside before school, but I got the feeling they were there to maintain the peace. It was obvious the whole school knew of the beating of the “sissy boy” or the “homo,” which seemed to be the favored phrases used to identify me. I was scared stiff and feeling so strange to be the subject of so much attention, but walked ahead with the head held high, trying to show confidence that I really didn’t feel inside.
I tried not to walk like a girl, which was hard to do. I tried to step out more broadly, but it seemed strange. I tried holding my books in one arm at my right side, instead of cradling them in my arms across my chest as I had been doing, but it was just two awkward, and the books began to slip. I ended up cradling them in my arms, just as the girls tended to do.
“There she is,” I heard some boy say.
“I’ll have none of that Bobby,” a teacher warned the offender.
At the entrance, I saw Mr. Karsten, the principal. He stopped me, telling Wanda, Serena and the two boys to go on into the school and their classrooms.
“You come with me,” he said, his voice firm and demanding. He seemed angry.
Mr. Karsten was a big man, and had hard, muscular arms; it was obvious he must have been an athlete at sometime in the past. His neck was thick and he had a full head of jet black hair and a full set of bushy eyebrows, making him look mean. I thought he was going to hit me.
I felt so weak and inconsequential sitting in his office, where he told me to stay until he returned. Of course, my natural impulse was to cry, but I tried to hold that back.
“You’ve got to start acting more like a boy, young man,” he said, upon returning. “I can’t have this disruption in my school.”
“But, Mr. Karsten . . .” I started to say.
“I heard the whole story, and I’ll talk to Marian,” he began. “I can’t reprimand her for hitting you, because the fight occurred off school grounds. But, young man, you’re asking for it by acting so much like a girl. You’re just inviting being teased.”
I wondered what was happening; why was I getting blamed for this. All I was doing was walking home from school.
“I can see she beat you pretty badly,” he said. “But fights happen and a boy should expect a few bruises and a black eye and learn to fight back.”
He had obviously seen my right eye area was black and blue where she had slapped me. I had worn a long sleeve shirt to cover the bruises and scratches on my arms.
“But, Mr. Karsten . . .” I tried to answer. He cut me short:
“Listen, our boys are dying in the South Pacific and in North Africa and soon you’ll likely be going into the Army and you must be strong and prepared. There is no room in this world for sissies. Let this be a lesson to you.”
“But Mr. Karsten . . .”
“There’ll be no buts, Terrence,” he continued firmly. “You have to get yourself in shape. And another thing, I’ve asked Mrs. Watkins to remove you as soloist. Such a performance will bring shame to the whole school.”
“What? Stop me from singing?” I was shocked. How could he?
“Yes, we can’t have you standing up in front of all the parents and the school singing like a girl. I just won’t have it.”
I felt tears beginning to come to my eyes. Oh how I loved to sing, and now he’s taking that from me.
“But, Mr. Karsten, I just . . .”
“Just go and quit being such a girl,” he interrupted gruffly.
I couldn’t fight back the tears. I cried. Like a girl.
*****
I ran out of the school, my crying taking over all my emotions. I wanted my mother so badly. I needed her protective love and I wanted to bury my face into her ample bosom and feel her comforting caresses. Thinking of her, now dead and gone, I could only cry more.
I loved my Aunt Adele and I knew she would comfort me too and listen to my awful story. I know she, too, would wipe the tears from my face. She was so sweet to me, too, but she wasn’t my mom.
At that moment, all I wanted to be was a pretty little girl, to be the daughter my already dead mother would have loved and enjoyed and to be a niece to my dear auntie. But now Mr. Karsten was telling me I was nothing but a shame to the school, a terrible weakling who could easily be beaten up by most of the girls in the school. How could I possibly be a real boy, strong and muscular and ready to fight the Germans or Japanese?
By the time I was a block from the school, I was out of breath from the combination of my running and crying, and I sat down on the front steps of some house to rest. The street was quiet, except for the rustle of leaves, being blown by a gentle fall breeze; there was a slight chill in the air, but it was refreshing and felt so good after the stuffiness of Mr. Karsten’s small office.
My crying was slowly ending, and I began to day dream that I was a cute girl walking down this very street with handsome Bert on my arm; I pictured myself as a cheerleader with a short white pleated skirt and a top carrying the red and white colors of the West Division High School Cardinals. The dream helped me to stop crying just as I heard the clopping of horse’s hooves and wagon wheels on the concrete.
I looked up to see it was the iceman, stopping along the way to deliver blocks of ice to those homes on the street that still had no electric refrigerator and relied on ice boxes to keep their food. He was stopping at those homes that displayed a sign in their front windows indicating how much ice they wanted that day, either in 25 pound, 50 pound, 75 pound or 100 pound quantities.
The iceman was old, I could see, but he was big and broad-shouldered; he had stopped right in front of the house on whose steps I was sitting. I looked up to the house, noting that they wanted 50 pounds of ice that day. I felt I better go.
The ice man, dressed in gray coveralls and wearing a leather jacket with shoulder pads, took out his giant ice tongs, undid the canvas that cover the blocks of ice and wrestled a block of ice onto his shoulder. He began to walk toward to the house, looking at me strangely as I gathered up my school books to leave.
“Are you all right young lady?” he asked, apparently carrying the large block of ice without effort. He could see I must have been crying.
Young lady? Why would he think that, I wondered. Wasn’t I dressed in my boy stuff? Then I realized my longish hair had come loose and disheveled during my crying session and from the running; it had fallen over my face, and with the light blue jacket I wore and my slender body I may have looked like a girl.
I didn’t answer him, just nodded that I was OK.
“You’re sure? Can I help you?”
“No sir,” I said in a weak, timid voice. With the high register, I’m sure he must now be convinced I was a girl.
“Why aren’t you in school?” he said, still standing before me, his voice still soothing and warm. He carried the ice on his shoulder and occasionally a drop of water would drip from it onto the pavement.
“I’m sick,” I lied. “I’m going home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Just two blocks away,” I said, my voice still thin and high. “I’ll be OK.”
“You look like a nice young lady,” he said. “You be careful now.”
He walked up the steps and around to the back to deliver his load of ice. The horse whinnied at the curb and I resisted the urge to go out and pet the animal on the head.
I felt better now, having had my day dream of being a cute young girl cheerleader turned into reality of sort as the kindly iceman had called me a “nice young lady.”
*****
By the time I got home, I began to realize the truth of my situation: I was a boy who looked like a girl, but I’d have to somehow begin to look and act more like a boy. And that’s where Adele’s plan began to make sense to me. She told me about it the previous evening as I prepared for bed. I didn’t like the plan, but agreed to think about it. As you might expect, I didn’t sleep well that night.
Auntie’s plan was to help me progress into the male world while at the same time letting me live in some ways as a girl. For the time being, she didn’t say how long, I could continue wearing girl underthings at home and nightgowns for sleeping. Occasionally, she said, I’d be able to dress fully as a girl and venture out with her to places where we’d likely not be known.
From now on, however, I had to have my hair cut regularly to a more boyish length.
“You walk and act so much like a girl,” she said, in describing the plan. “We’ll have to get you out of those habits, or else you’ll be pegged as being strange.”
She also told me she was beginning a dance class for boys.
“You’ll no longer be able to dance as one of the girls, honey,” she said. “I’ve hired Andre Des Jardins as a dance coach for the boys.”
“Mr. Des Jardins?” I said. I had heard about him. He used to be a great ballet dancer, I knew.
“Yes, dear. He’s in town working in a defense factory and has agreed to work with boys on Saturday. I’ve recruited four other boys, so you’ll have company. Besides, Mr. Des Jardins is a physical fitness teacher and I’ve asked him to work with you to strengthen your body.”
“Oh auntie, I don’t know,” I said that night. “I’ll never be like other boys.”
“At least you must try, honey,” she said. “It’s the only way.”
“Yes. Aunt Adele, I’ll try.”
I knew auntie was right; I had no other choice. That night I couldn’t get to sleep, my mind whirling over all sorts of ideas in which I could live as a girl and make a living as a woman when I grew up. Why couldn’t I take secretarial classes in school and become a secretary? Maybe I could become some wealthy family’s housemaid? I had seen advertisements in the newspaper entertainment section about “female impersonators” appearing at the Empress Burlesque Theatre: I could certainly do that. What if my voice never changed and I could become a singer-dancer on Broadway?
Oh those were pleasant thoughts! I must have had been smiling as I laid on my side, my right hand resting on my left upper arm, feeling how slender and soft it was. I really had arms like a girl and everyone had commented how pretty my legs were. It was such a joy to be a soft, sweet, dainty girl. How could I ever become a rough, nasty, hard-muscled boy?
I felt my penis hardening as I massaged my arm, realizing how pathetically weak I was, how unlike a boy. The feeling in my crotch, however, revealed one fact: I may look like a girl, sing like a girl, walk like a girl, but the thing hanging between my legs made me a boy. Soon, when I turned 18, I’d be forced to sign up for the draft and likely end up in the Army or Navy, like all other boys. There was no escaping the fact. Somehow, I would have to say goodbye to Terry, the lovely, sweet girl, and make way, again, for Olaf Terrence Michaelsson, a boy and a man-to-be.
*****
I returned to school the following day, the black eye still prominent on my face; my first action was to tell Mrs. Watkins I would be leaving the chorus, since my singing as a soprano seemed to be causing problems. I found her in her room about ten minutes before school started.
“Terry, I wish you wouldn’t do that. You really have a great voice,” she said.
“It’ll just cause a fuss,” I said. “I’ll miss singing with the group, Mrs. Watkins. You’ve been such a good director.”
“Thank you, Terry, but I wish you’d reconsider. You add so much to the group.”
“I can’t ma’am. I just can’t.”
“I understand,” she said. I could tell Mrs. Watkins was sad to see me leave the group, but I think she was relieved since my presence would just cause a fuss in the school.
“You can give the lead part to Marian, then,” I said, almost spitefully. I was mad at myself for the nasty tone of my voice.
Mrs. Watkins smiled. “She’ll get it over my dead body, Terry. No way can she try to beat somebody up for a singing part. I’ve also removed her from the group. For soloists this year, we’ll concentrate on boy parts. I think Mark Luebtke has a nice voice.”
“He does,” I said, with enthusiasm. Mark had a clear tenor voice with some volume.
“And Terry, I argued with Mr. Karstens to keep you as soloist, but he was adamant, and you know the principal is the boss here.”
I nodded my head and left, fighting back tears. Why wasn’t I born a girl so I could sing beautifully while wearing lovely dresses on stage?
Epilogue
I knew what I had to do. I had to hide my girliness and try to be a boy. I really had no other choice, otherwise my life would be torturous and not worth living. Could I ever be a boy? Really, a boy? I knew I had to try. And, I cried a lot too.
I had my hair cut drastically, removing any sign of the beautiful locks that helped make me the girl I felt I was. I worked hard at trying to remove all of my feminine mannerisms; that was so hard, and I didn’t always succeed. I still carried my books like a girl; when I tried to carry them at my side, as most boys did, they tended to slip.
Bert soon lost interest in me; he had no desire to treat me as a boy, since he had plenty of friends at West Division High School. He was headed to be a star athlete there, and any association with a “fairy” would damage his reputation. Soon I learned he had a girl friend and I cried about that, even though I knew that I could never again be his girl. I saw her once; Serena and I were at the ice cream store and she came in with some girl friends and Serena pointed her out.
“She’s not as pretty as you, Terry,” she said, a smile beaming from her face.
I nodded. The girl was a bit plain, with a broad freckled face and slightly chubby. Yet, she had sparkling eyes and seemed to have a happy disposition. I hoped she’d make Bert happy.
“When you dressed up, Terry, you actually were the prettiest girl around,” Serena said. “You could’ve been a beauty queen.”
“Those days are gone, Serena. I’m just Terrence now.”
“I know, but you’re still like a girl friend to me.”
“Yes, we’re still friends and that’s as it should be,” I said smiling.
In fact, my friendship with both Wanda and Serena survived my return to boyhood; we still spent lots of time together, going to movies and just plain talking. My other friend was Matt, who seemed to be around every weekend, even though he went to a different school and he was two years ahead of me. We both shared an interest in artistic stuff and auntie made sure we got to most of the worthwhile concerts and plays in town. He was trying to write poetry, and he always wanted my advice.
The boy’s dance class proved to be most difficult; Mr. Des Jardins was patient and kind, but still a demanding taskmaster. I proved to be the weakest of the five boys in the class, making me always the butt of Mr. Des Jardin’s entreaties. But, I tried, and he recognized that. We rarely saw the girl dancers — the ones whom I had enjoyed being a part of for a year — and I guess that was good, since I’d be tempted to join them, leaving the boys. By Christmas, I had strengthened myself so that I could better keep up.
Sadly, I lost my girly arms, as they now became toned and hard, thanks to some weights that Aunt Adele purchased, as well as the exercise regimen that the new dance instructor had developed. He was patient with my physical ineptness, but I grew stronger thanks to his attentive direction.
*****
World War II cast a dark cloud over all of us those days; while Hitler’s advances in Europe seemed to be stalled, but the war lingered on in North Africa and Italy, with every battle being a costly one. Several families in our neighborhood exchanged the blue star flags in their windows for gold stars, as their sons were reported killed in action. The Japanese Navy was still a formidable foe in the Pacific, as many ships were being sunk and fighting in New Guinea and Guadalcanal was difficult and full of casualties.
“Will the war ever end, Auntie?” I asked one night in the summer of 1943, after graduating from the 8th Grade. We were sitting together on the front porch swing on a mild, quiet early evening; it was such a peaceful evening it was hard to imagine people were being killed in other parts of the world.
“I hope so honey,” she said.
“Will I be drafted, do you think?”
“Maybe dear, if the war goes on for three more years,” she said.
“I’ll be scared to go into the Army,” I said. I seemed to always be able to tell auntie my deepest secrets, even those that were embarrassing to admit. She was always understanding.
“Afraid of being killed, dear?”
“Not really, I want to help my country, but I’m just not sure I could do all those things soldiers do, auntie. I just don’t feel ready. And I’ll miss you so much.”
“Darling,” she said, taking my hand in hers. “You’ll be as ready as any young man. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t know, auntie, I’m still not like other boys.”
She squeezed my hand gently. “You’ll find other boys like you in the Army, too, I’m sure.”
I didn’t think so at the time, but I let the matter pass. My mind turned to other happier thoughts, mainly of a dress I had seen in the downtown store window that had intrigued me. I knew I’d look just divine in it. I was always day-dreaming about dresses.
*****
I entered West Division High School in the autumn of 1943, looking more boyish than I had in grade school. Recognizing that life had dictated I live as a boy and later a man, I worked hard to be more of a boy. I took a newspaper carrier route which would further enhance my credentials as a boy. I even began playing on the 9th Grade basketball team, where I discovered my dancing had improved my stamina and agility on the court. I was a pretty lousy shot, but I could dribble and defend as well as any.
I guess I then became a pretty typical boy, eventually dating Wanda during my junior and senior years in high school. We found we loved each other. After graduating high school in 1947, I enlisted in the Navy, hoping it would not be as demanding and “macho” as the Army would be. The war had ended in August 1945, but the draft was still on, and there was no money for me to go to college, so the Navy seemed to be the best choice.
I enlisted for three years, and in June 1950 I was looking forward to discharge and an August wedding to Wanda. But, the Korean conflict intervened and the President extended my duty, taking me from a cushy on-shore duty station to an LST (Landing Ship Tank), a flat-bottomed crafts that bounced mercilessly in the seas. Our group of amphibious forces later took part in the landing of troops at Inchon. We didn’t get married until three years later when I was in college, thanks to benefits from my service during the Korean fighting.
I am embarrassed to admit that even after four and one-half years in the Navy I was still a virgin, partly because I wanted to remain loyal to Wanda but also because I was so self-conscious of my smallish penis and smooth, still puny body. How vain!
We had a happy marriage; Wanda proved to be an ideal homemaker and sweet mother to our three children. I ended up with a career in accounting. We never got rich, but we lived life to the fullest.
Best of all, Wanda and I found moments — not many to be sure with a houseful of kids around — when I could dress up pretty. We even spent a wedding anniversary at a resort for two days where we registered as sisters and I spent the entire time as a woman, even going swimming in a lovely one piece swim suit. Needless to say, our sex was great on those occasions and that resort trip — made when we were married 15 years — resulted in the birth of our last child, a girl. How fitting!
I think often of my mother and hope she’d be proud of the person I’ve become. How pleased she would have been to have played with our three children, two strapping boys, Robert and Thomas, and a daughter, Theresa, just the daintiest, prettiest girl on the whole wide earth — at least in my thinking. I have to admit I have spent more time with our lovely daughter than with the two boys, and Wanda, in her infinite, loving wisdom, has assigned me to take her shopping for clothes, now that she is a teenager.
“Terry, you’re spoiling that girl,” my Aunt Adele said to me while we visited her at her lakeshore apartment. Even in her 70s, she was a trim, lovely woman, but sadly arthritis had slowed her walk.
“I just want her to look nice,” I said.
“She does, Terry. She’s adorable, almost as pretty as you were at her age.”
“Cut it out, auntie,” I smiled. “Our little Theresa is far prettier, and so talented.”
Aunt Adele nodded. “Of course she is, and I’m so proud of the good father and husband you have become.”
“I try, auntie, but you and mom made me what I am today,” I said, tears welling up in my eyes. “And my wife Wanda who has been with me from the beginning. I’ve been so lucky.”
Every night, it seems, I dream the most beautiful dream in which I am the prettiest girl in school. I really am a woman. Don’t you agree?