CHAPTER THREE

One afternoon, in the school cafeteria, while fiddling with the perennial deck of cards to be found on lunch tables at business colleges, I impulsively asked Jan if she'd like me to read the cards. I had never told a fortune before, but, having counseled numerous girl friends during my high school career, I felt I had something to offer this sad lonely lady. Intuitively I sense that advise from a young male wouldn't help her. She'd never accept it in that mold. Now the cards were different, they were an acceptable source of wisdom. Reading them came easy, though I had no idea what meaning fortune tellers ascribed to each card. I didn't no need to know. They were merely a device cloaking my own thoughts with A necessary mantle of authority. The reading went well. Jan seemed cheered when I had finished. I had predicted a brighter future and a better life. It seemed sufficient. My reading made her smile. That was all I had expected, for the moment.

Shortly after the reading, Jan invited me to her home to meet her daughter, Carol, and her son, Kevin. Jan's daughter was a lovely girl, blond, blue-eyed and wearing a ponytail. She was the prototype from which every girl next door was fashioned. Jan, of course, was match making. In spite of the meddling Carol and I became good friends, often talking into the wee hours of morning. We gossiped, teased, laughed, enjoying each other's company. Our relationship, as with most girls and myself, one girlfriend to another, intimate, but not romantic.

Kevin, medium height, dark hair, and with electric brown eyes, was eccentric and brilliant, a musical genius of an odd sort. Discussions with him covered the esoteric and the sublime; forays into scientific speculation and, often as not, into abstract fantasy. With Kevin the difficulty was knowing when he was talking about reality and when he was in a dream world. He blended the two expertly.

I had been friends with Jan, Carol, and Kevin about two months, visiting almost every weekend, when they invited me to live with them. At the time I was living with my parents in Goodyear, although seeking work in Phoenix. Each day and each night I rode a bike along Van Buren street. Twenty five miles of potholes separated the two urban areas. The tires on my poor little Roadrunner, purchased at a Goodwill store, were rapidly being shredded by the poorly maintained road. Then too, red necks in pick up trucks were swerving close and laying on their horn. Living in Phoenix would make life better. Gratefully I accepted their kind offer.

Late night chats with Jan and Carol, card readings included, were frequent after I moved in. Those intimate nights were as beneficial to me as for them. Helping them deal with their worries was doing an excellent job helping me feel better concerning my own; not to mention the fortification of my femininity.

Unbeknownst to them, I was making secret forays into their wardrobes. Strangely, I felt perfectly comfortable trying on their skirts, blouses, and dresses, but I had my own lingerie. Wearing another woman's underwear, other than my mother's when I was growing up, seemed an unnecessary invasion of privacy.

With that said, Carol had one nightgown that was absolutely irresistible. Floor length, an ebony sheen to the silky material, lace ruffles at the wrists and bodice, and it was form fitted with an elastic waist. Carol rarely wore it, preferring cotton nightwear, and so, slipping on my own underthings and locked behind the bedroom door in the room they had graciously provided, I sometimes slept in that delicious nightgown. In the morning, of course, I would carefully launder it and return it to her dresser drawer.

After living with them about a month, Kevin came to me pleading for help. Some local boys, Mexican thugs, were looking for him and the word was they would be coming by in the early evening. Kevin asked me to stand with him and, if a fight broke out, to fight beside him. Agitated by the request, I said I'd think about it.

Agitated, hell! I was scared. I stewed the whole day. What to do? How could I refuse to help my friends, the people who were letting me live with them rent free? On the other hand I didn't want any part of a rumble. I was frustrated and scared. After mulling the problem over I decided on a desperate gamble. I informed Kevin I'd help him, but only if I could handle it my way, and alone. He wanted to know what I had in mind. I shrugged my shoulders and answered, ``Wait and see.'' The truth was I had a vague notion that if I met these guys alone I might be able to avoid a fight. A fantasy, perhaps, but I knew if Kevin went outside to meet them a fight was inevitable.

Evening arrived!

I opted for waiting outside in the dark. Jan, Carol, and Kevin waited inside in the living room. They were watching television. In the backyard were bricks, boards, odds and ends and a huge concrete cylinder. I amused myself, and relieved the tension by leaping on top the huge concrete cylinder, foot peddling it back and forth across the yard. What had prompted me to volunteer to meet these guys alone? I felt naked and vulnerable. Envisioning two or more carloads of thugs careening into the backyard I cringed, shivering involuntarily.

They arrived!

Screeching tires, skidding tires, an old beat up black jalopy whipped from the alley into the driveway. I leaped lightly from the concrete barrel onto the back porch, turning just in time to face four Mexicans climbing from their dilapidated old wreck. In my stomach a thundering herd of butterflies were doing the Mexican hat dance while singing ``La Cucharaca'' offkey. Two thugs had short lengths of chain wrapped around their fists and the other two were holding something unidentifiable, but I assumed lethal. I stood quietly, arms at my side, feet apart, and waited.

The spokesman for the group called out, ``We want Kevin!''

``Yeah, I heard. You want 'im? You gotta go through me,'' I replied with a bravado I didn't feel. This wasn't at all what I had in mind. My intent was to talk these guys out of a fight, not to provoke one.

``Hey man, there are four of us,'' shot back the spokesman, his voice deep with thick accent. A short chain swung back and forth between his hands.

Modulating my voice to hide my fear and anxiety I replied. ``Learned countin' in grade school.'' The words were coming out all wrong. Short, clipped, confrontational; my tongue was too tied by fear to let me say more. The eloquent speech I had envisioned in my fantasy wasn't to be found. I stood, practically speechless, wishing they would just go away.

They looked at me, puzzled, and then at each other. Then they went into a huddle and began talking together in excited whispers. A few seconds later the spokesman declared, ``We ain't got no beef with you, man. Tell Kevin we'll be back for him when you ain't around.''

``Yeah, sure, I'll tell him. Come back anytime. I live here now.'' I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I bluffed them. I hadn't intended to bluff them, but I had. Pure dumb luck! My sentences, clipped from fear, made me sound tough and the four thugs decided not to mess with me. When they climbed back in their old jalopy and peeled rubber I heaved a deep sigh. Bursting with pride, after all I had faced them down, I went in the house. My friends had been listening behind the door. Kevin had the biggest, widest, shit-eatingest grin on his face I had ever seen.

Grinning at me he said, ``You are one cool son-of-a-bitch. Thhhhaaaannnnkkkk YOU. Thank you, very, very much.''

Carol, looking at me in amazement, asked, ``What would you have done if they had rushed you?''

``You gotta be kidding? I'd have jumped inside and slammed the door in their face. My knees were knocking so hard I thought sure they'd hear them,'' I answered laughing in relief.

We all laughed.

After that Carol started calling me Superman. She claimed I acted like Clark Kent, Superman's alter ego, but like Lois Lane, she had discovered my secret. Now, she had a different look in her eyes when she looked at me. At first I didn't know what to make of it. Struggling to understand myself, believing I was a woman, and now someone thought I was Superman. Would she think I was Superman if she knew I wore her skirts and blouses? She didn't know my secret after all. In truth, she wasn't Lois Lane, and I sure as hell wasn't Superman.

After that, our relationship changed dramatically. No longer a confidante, no longer long hours gossiping, teasing, joking and staying up until the wee hours of morning. Now, the teasing had sexual subtleties, hints that advances wouldn't be unwelcome. Disturbing hints such as wondering out loud what it would feel like to have sperm of steel exploding inside her. I had lost an intimate friend because she had come to consider me boyfriend material. Even that would have been okay, if she had taken the initiative, but she expected me to make the moves. That I couldn't do. It wasn't in my nature to make the moves. Even Jan put pressure on me, telling me Carol was seriously interested in getting closer to me. She kept asking, ``What are you waiting for?''

I didn't do anything because I didn't have the foggiest notion what to do. What was I supposed to do? Jump her bones! I could cuddle great, was a champion kisser, but I didn't know how to take it any further. I did nothing.

I also met One-Legged Johnny at Lamson Business College. Johnny was Jan's friend. He was tall, 6'2'', skinny, with a movie villain's narrow, pockmarked face. His reputation was as nasty as his appearance. Whether due to his missing leg or because he was plain ornery I didn't know, but he could be one hateful bastard. Leastwise, if the stories about him were true. I was used to a father who was a hateful bastard, so I liked him anyway. Johnny, however, hated me. He came from Texas and we were always ragging each other about our home states. He'd say things like, ``Texas is still paying sales tax for Pennsylvania.'' I'd quip in return, ``Texas is fish dung washed up from the Gulf of Mexico.'' I thought we were joking, good clean fun, and assumed he thought the same.

At the time I was a pacifist. For me, being a pacifist was an uneasy three way marriage; fear of getting hurt, fear of appearing a coward, and fear of hurting someone else. When I told Johnny I was a pacifist he called me a coward. I told him being a pacifist didn't mean I was a coward, it meant I didn't want to hurt anyone. He asked me what I'd do if he hit me in the face with the empty coke bottle sitting on the table. I replied, ``Nothing. I wouldn't do nothing.'' He picked up the bottle and ordered me to stand. I did and he said, ``You're not gonna move?''

I replied, ``No, not if this is what you really want to do.''

I was scared. But I looked directly into his eyes giving no hint of that fear. My intuition intimated that no one would hit another person without provocation and I was learning to rely on my intuition. As Johnny swung the bottle at my face I stared unflinchingly, expecting him to stop just before connecting. Swinging with all his might Johnny brought the bottle crashing down, stopping so close to my face that I could feel the coolness of the glass against my cheek.

``Damn you,'' he cursed, roughly tossing the bottle to the table. ``If you'd blinked I would've taken your damn head off.''

Although Johnny took our joking seriously, hated me passionately, I admired Johnny. I liked his determination to make something out of himself. His missing leg was something I scarcely noticed. One day when I was visiting Jan she expressed concern. Johnny had returned to Texas to face an undetermined criminal charge and she hadn't heard from him for some time. I asked her where he was in Texas and announced my intention to go help him. Jan, however, made me promise to wait a few days, assuring me that everything would probably iron itself out.

When Johnny returned Jan told him my intentions, and on his first day back in school he confronted me in the hall and demanded, ``What the hell's going on Lansberry? What's this about you coming to Texas to help me out? Is that true?''

``Sure, it's true. Jan said I should wait a few days. I'm glad to see everything turned out okay.''

``I thought you hated my guts?'' asked Johnny in a more subdued voice.

``Hell, Johnny. I've always liked you.''

``And Texas?''

``What's not to like about Texas?''

``I'll be damned!'' he said, an incredulous look on his face.

``What about all the bullshit?''

``Just bullshit, I figured we were just messing around.''

``Jesus, I didn't. I meant every damn word. I could've killed you.''

After that Johnny and I became stout friends. He trusted me as he had never trusted anyone. That's what he said and I believed him. It was One-legged-Johnny who was instrumental in getting me my first decent job, a NCR 3000 operator at the Valley National Bank. A NCR 3000 is a bookkeeping machine designed to do ledgers and statements on checks and deposits. When I was hired Emil Schuster, the supervisor, informed me I had an exceptional friend in Johnny. The only reason I had been hired was because Johnny wouldn't stop badgering him. I was grateful for Johnny's friendship.

Making 250 dollars a month, I was on top of the world. I rented an old adobe house, furnished it, and, with a loan from Dad, sent for Mary. Over the last two years Mary and I had exchanged a couple hundred letters, keeping our bond strong. Now, at last, we would be together again. Thanks to one-legged Johnny, the man who only a few weeks past had hated my guts.

My self doubt, the questions that constantly plagued me, ``What was I?'', ``Who was I?'', ``How could I be so intimate with women and not feel urges like a man?'' and ``Why could I carry myself like a man around men, but not feel like one?'' faded into the background. Mary was coming; the one woman in the whole world who had seduced me, romanced me. Now, everything was going to be all right.

The night before Mary was to arrive Carol asked if we could talk. We were in the living room at her mom's house so I suggested we go outside where we could be alone. With my father's assistance I had purchased a car, an older model Dodge, and I asked Carol if she wanted to take a drive. She said she preferred to sit in the car and talk.

``What's this all about, Carol?'' I asked, once we were settled comfortably in the front seat.

Carol, looking intently into my eyes, came directly to the point, ``Why didn't you ever hit on me?''

The question, surprised me, flustered me, but I managed to regain my composure sufficiently to give her an honest answer. ``Carol,'' I answered, ``it wasn't that I didn't want to hit on you. You're intelligent, caring, and a beautiful young woman. But I've never been able to put the moves on anyone. It's not my nature.''

``What about Mary, the woman who's coming to marry you?'' she asked.

``It's been good between us. Mary took the initiative from the beginning. All I had to do was respond. That comes easy,'' I replied.

``Will you kiss me goodbye?'' she asked expectantly.

For one long moment we kissed. We kissed `Hello,', `Goodbye,' and for all the kisses that might have been, all the pregnant potentials never to see fruition. We kissed tenderly, holding each other in a shameless embrace. When we separated I noticed a tear in Carol's eyes.

Carol whispered, ``It would have been good, huh?''

I nodded, and responded, ``It would have been good.''

I reflected on the impassable walls that would have had to be broached before it could have been good. One kiss and the promise it offered wouldn't have torn one brick from such a wall. Carol could never have dealt with the feelings contained within my breast. This was no fault in her. I didn't understand them either. I wondered if I would ever understand them.

``Good luck, Larry.'' she said, climbing from the car. ``Have a good life.''

``You too Carol. Thank you, for being my friend.''

``Thank you, for today.''

And so we parted company. Tears for what might have been rolled freely down my cheeks as I drove away. ``Oh Carol, my dear sweet friend. I wish you happiness.''

June 20th, 1959, Mary arrived, looking fresh and lovely in a blue satin and lace cocktail dress. Her hair was short and curly, bouncing as she walked down the ramp from the plane. She looked great. Throwing decorum to the wind we ran toward each other, met, embraced, kissed, and tried to make up for the long absence in a single moment. Here was a woman that knew how to put the moves on me. A woman to die for, a woman to live for.

We made love that same day, in the bedroom of the small adobe apartment. For once it was my idea. Mary was reluctant, wanting to wait until after the marriage ceremony, but I was insistent. I had to know if I could still make love to her. My experiences with other women had been intimate, close, sometimes involving embraces and french kisses, but my best erection was a languid half-mast salute that shamed me to reveal. So, I never did. I didn't want to get married only to discover that I couldn't pleasure her. She had a right to know if I had become impotent.

We made love three times that afternoon without difficulty. We could have done more if my parents had not been expecting us. A great weight had been lifted from my mind and as we drove to my parents house we sang songs. We were back together again. It was as if we had never been apart.

Mary was to stay at my parents home for the next few days, until after the marriage. Although she didn't show it, I could sense Mary was one scared puppy. How not? Scarcely twenty years old, having lived a sheltered life with her parents, and now to fly across the country all alone, to get married, to start a new life; how could she not be frightened? Of course she was scared, she was terrified. I was nineteen, had been living on my own, had relatives and friends close at hand, and I was terrified. We were taking a big step early in our lives.

Ours was a quiet wedding at a Lutheran church on Litchfield Road just down the street from my parent's house. My parents, my brother, Uncle Clyde and Aunt Melva, and a couple of my parents' friends attended the ceremony. It wouldn't have mattered to us, a thousand people, or none; we were lost in the confirmation of our love, a love so long delayed. Prior to the ceremony promised each other to silently vow, ``for all eternity'' when the preacher pronounced ``until death do you part.'' At the appropriate time, acknowledged by two slight smiles, we did so, sealing our souls for all time, or so we believed.

The reception was at my parent's house. Politely we remained long enough to cut the cake, stuff the traditional piece in each other's mouths, and to open the presents. Uncle Clyde gave us an amusing gift. A bedroom wall plague that read, ONCE A KING ALWAYS A KING, BUT ONCE A NIGHT'S ENOUGH. Everyone laughed and laughed again when I informed him, ``If you think that's true you don't know Mary.'' Thanking everyone for their gifts, blushing and grinning, we made our escape. Impatience finally had the better of us.

The first few months of marriage was everything I had hoped. We were in the honeymoon phase, mush and gush, and lots of love making. Except for when I went to work we were inseparable. However, in spite of our happiness, almost imperceptibly, the threads of our marriage had already started to unravel. It would take twenty eight years for the last thread to fray and separate, but that day would come. It was inevitable, a result of imperfections we would discover in our perceptions. Perceptions that neither of us had reason to believe would ever grieve us. Perceptions that neither of us were capable of changing.

Until we married Mary had never seen me fully dressed as a woman. Actually, she had never seen me dressed in anything feminine, although she had bought feminine presents for me; panties, half-slips, and night gowns. In her mind my femininity was play acting, a game, an unreal fantasy. The full realization of what it could mean in our marriage didn't occur until the first night I did dress up for her.

Carefully I donned my most flattering outfit. Not my sexiest outfit, but my most conservative one. I wore panty hose to flatter my legs, a white blouse with a cute lace dickey, a black, slightly flared skirt, and plain black flats. My wig was shoulder length and the color of my natural hair, an ash blonde. I applied my makeup guardedly, not too much. Overdone makeup gives one a garish and hard appearance. A final check in the bedroom mirror calmed my jitters before entering the living room where Mary was waiting.

Eyes widening, head tilted at a slight angle, lips slightly pursed, Mary remarked matter-of-factly, ``You do look like a woman.'' A flicker of reproach was in her demeanor, not enough to confront openly but enough for me to raise an eyebrow. I smiled and asked if she wanted to go for a drive.

Over the next few months we shared many feminine interludes. Mary and I became acquainted through long drives, evening walks, drive-in movies, and evenings at home. The freedom in those early months seemed to bring us closer together. During this time it seemed Mary understood and enjoyed having a husband who was also a girlfriend. On some occasions Mary would put on a pair of pants and a shirt and pretend to be a man. When she made love to me, it was heavenly. However, when Mary discovered she was pregnant, things began to change. Any masculinity she had professed was repudiated. It had all been a childish game and would have to be put away. My femininity too was denounced and I was told to put it away.

``Mary, I can't put it away. This isn't a game to me,'' I reproached her one night while we were out for a drive.

``All right,'' she replied in exasperation, ``but you can't let anyone see you dressed as a woman. I won't have our baby exposed to such foolishness. It's not natural.''

There it was, the snake in Eden. Once again I was something unacceptable, a thing to be hidden away, an abomination before man and God, and now in front of a baby.

``Okay,'' I said, ``if what I do is unnatural, then I should do something about it.''

Mary agreed, ``Yes, find a way to stop it. It's sick!'' As I had started to suspect, my dearly beloved wife had reservations. She was neither as accepting or as responsive to my femininity as she had let on. Did it threaten her? Might she have a reason to feel threatened? Maybe she was right about the baby too, maybe I could harm our baby. Resolved to admit myself to the State Mental Hospital, nervously, I called and made an appointment. I was terrified. Twenty years old, naive, and I believed myself the only person in the world with my problem. Would they tell me I was insane? Would they lock me up and throw the key away? Would they laugh at me? Would they consider me an abomination, want nothing to do with me? This was, after all, the insane asylum. I had no idea what to expect once inside the large, looming iron gates at the entrance. A chill ran down my spine as I walked across the grounds toward the building where I had my appointment. ``Which of the people who were smiling at me were inmates? That woman, what was her name, the ax murderer? Lizzy Borden! She was here. What if I ran into her?'' I resisted an urge to turn around and run. Shaking the feeling off, I carried on.

It was anticlimactic when I did get to see the doctor. He was polite, considerate and informed me I was an Eonist. Then he dismissed me with a cursory statement, ``Your coming here voluntarily shows you're emotionally healthy. If I had time the only thing I could do would be to help you understand that what you do is natural for some men, but I don't have time. We have sick people here, people with extreme mental abnormalities. We don't have the staff to help everyone who walks through the door. My advice is to learn to live with yourself. Everything will work out fine.''

When I left the hospital I rushed to the library to look up Eonist. I found only one reference. The Chevalier d'Eon, a long time ago in France, had dealt in espionage and intrigue dressed as a woman. Apparently d'Eon, who lived primarily as a woman was a successful and much decorated hero of France. When the Chevalier retired, with the gratitude of the Royal Court, she was commissioned to live out the remainder of her life as Madame d'Eon, with the full rights and privileges of her station. I envied her more than words can say.

I felt better knowing that I wasn't the only person in the world with my problem, but it didn't solve the problem. Next I went to a private psychiatrist. Thirty dollars for a 55 minute hour and I was only making 250 dollars a month. The doctor assured me that he could effect a cure. It would take two or three years, but it was guaranteed. However, to effect this cure I must follow his instructions to the letter. First, I had to give up reading science fiction, fencing, poetry, and art. These things, according to the doctor, had feminine connotations. Accordingly, I needed to return to a simpler, more manly, way of life. To begin I was to dig holes in Mother Earth. Every day I was supposed to spend two hours digging holes, and then two hours more filling them up again. His reasoning was that digging holes would take my mind off dressing as a woman. When I asked how long before I could return to the activities I enjoyed, he replied, ``Never!'' The changes in my behavior had to be permanent. His final admonitions were that I should never miss my weekly session, missing a single week could set my progress back, and most important of all, I must never neglect a payment. ``If it's a hardship on you to make the payments, that will speed your recovery,'' he proclaimed.

I was feeling better already.

In one session he had cured me of needing his help. ``Maybe I'm crazy,'' I scolded him, ``But I'm not that crazy.'' I left his office and never returned. Nor did I pay him for the session. I wasn't as crazy as the old bastard thought. Years later I would read an article in the newspaper reporting that he had been disbarred. Why wasn't I surprised?

I still hadn't given up. If I couldn't get help from professionals, I'd treat myself. I began soaking up psychology books, searching for answers. What choice did I have? I couldn't afford a psychiatrist, even if I could find one that wasn't loose in his own belfry, and the State Hospital had turned me down. My only recourse was self-help. I reasoned that, while it might not be as effective as professional help, it would be better than nothing.

I purchased a used bicycle at Goodwill and a battery operated tape recorder. It was a little thing with tiny take up reels. The size didn't matter. I would use it one night and record over it the following night. An hour or two each night, it varied, I conversed with my tape recorder turned therapist. Along darkened back streets, down alleyways, and through vacant lots, I pedaled and talked, talked and pedaled. Some nights I screamed, shrieking as I pedaled. Some nights I cried so much I could scarcely see. Through a veil of tears, street lamps would glitter like bright stars, almost blinding in their intensity.

I am reluctant to recall those bitter memories. It would be easier to gloss over them, a brief mention and no more. Then it wouldn't be necessary to relive those shattering days. But this was a turning point in my life, perhaps the single most significant turning point. It was during these rides that I looked directly at the burning bush, facing the depths of self-loathing that had been kindled; the attitude of an ignorant society. How easy it would have been to end my pain, a quick turn of the handle bars and the bicycle would careen across the road and smash into an oncoming car. The thought didn't frighten me. It was comforting to know such an option existed.

My self-analysis started innocently enough. I asked and tried to answer general questions about life, philosophy, psychology, society, compassion, happiness, responsibility. Anything to keep the questions from getting to personal issues. Recognizing the subterfuge, the questions quickly became personal, then became accusations, and finally became moral judgments. At first, I bought into the condemnation of a society that separates men and women into two alien species that by happenstance need one another; a society that holds up these two warring factions as the perfect examples of what human beings must be. I bought into the maledictions hurled by confused people who condemned people such as myself. I bought into them in a big way.

``You're scum. Worthless scum,'' I cried out in anger directed at myself. Pedaling and wailing at my tape recorder, I cried out again, ``God Almighty says you're scum. Your parents think people like you are scum. Even your wife wants to hide you away. Ha, you married her thinking she was the best you could do, knowing her shortcomings and even she looks down on you. You're a veritable prize. You can't get a job and when someone helps you get a job, you don't keep it. People sense what you are and hate you for it. Can you blame them? Hell, you don't like yourself, why would anyone else like you?''

This wasn't self-pity. It was self-loathing. I despised myself. I knew that the people I loved, people I cared about, would have despised me had they known me. Also I despised myself because my wife, who did know about me, gave me to believe that she despised me. All the harder to bear because I had little enough respect for her. It's hard to respect someone who doesn't appear to have any respect for herself.

Over and over the condemnations echoed in my mind. With each repetition a part of me was lost. ``Worthless queer! Deviant! Pervert,'' the choir grew louder. ``Were they right? Yes, they were right. All the ugly screaming faces, they were right.'' My thoughts filled with an immense crowd, a faceless throng, all taunting me, chanting over and over, ``Abomination! Abomination! Abomination!.''

``Why me? If I was evil why did I exist? If there was a God, why did he create me? I didn't ask to be an abomination and I sure as hell didn't choose it. On the other hand, if there was no God, what was I? One slip of the wheel and I'd weave in front of the on-coming semi. I could end the chanting.'' I envisioned nothingness. It was comforting. I had to suffer the denigration only so long as I was able.

``Why me? What made me? Why was I inclined to womanly things?'' Nothing in my environment had made me, nothing in my family. Nothing in how I was raised explained my existence. But here I was! Peculiar! I was intelligent enough, my mind constantly weaving a tapestry of thought in intricate patterns.

I thought about the people in my life. I cared about their struggles, their triumphs, their failures. I loved my family. I loved people, genuinely. I cared about animals and other living things. I cared about life. ``What is ultimately important in life,'' I reasoned, ``is to be a good person. Being good embellishes the life of others and my own. Did my feeling like a woman hurt the cause of life? No! Did wearing woman's clothing detract from life? No! What I felt and did wasn't harmful, it was a celebration of life. It was joyous to give free reign to my feelings.''

From deep down in some primal cavity came my answer, ``I'm not an abomination!'' After six months of torment I faced that malicious chanting choir and I screamed my defiance. ``You are the abominations.'' At last the voices were silenced. Oh, people would still cry out, but I would no longer listen. I was a human being, no worse than any other. Society didn't understand the why of me, I didn't understand the why of me, but I wasn't evil. I was a damn decent person. I embraced myself. It was like coming home. Then I cried for joy, a healing wash rolled down my cheeks. I had been to the bowels of hell and I had returned. Now I knew myself, my thoughts were good thoughts, my feelings good feelings. Society was lacking, not me. I released myself from the self-loathing, self-hatred, and self-deprecation that had been instilled in me. I became a new-born creature, young and shaky on my feet, but a survivor.

I went to Mary with what I had learned, boldly informing her that I refused to lie to our children, however many we might have. ``Damn it, Mary, I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm a good person. I don't give a damn what other people think. Someone has to have some backbone. What kind of example would it be to hide something like this from our kids? What good would it do? Someday it would come out. What would they think then? What could we tell them? What could I tell them?''

I was prepared to deal with an ignorant society, but I demanded more from my family. I expected them to know that I wouldn't by choice set myself in opposition to them, or to willfully do anything that would cause them harm. I expected them to know my heart, even as I now knew it.