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CHAPTER TEN fter thirty eight years, having attained a
degree of emotional
stability as a woman, but because I was a woman with a male body,
I still had not found a place in society. Hormones had mellowed
me,
I had developed a little understanding of what I was, but society
provided no place for transsexual women. At least, society
provided
no respectable place, and I refused to return to prostitution.
Life
rolled tediously on. Mary's tenuous acceptance of me was
unconvincing and our relationship was increasingly strained.
An example of that strain took place one Christmas Eve at my parents' house. We, my brother's family, Mom and Dad, and my family, were exchanging gifts and, as is traditional in my family, we opened them that evening. My parents had purchased Mary a pretty jewelry box and, for the first time, they had a feminine gift for me, a lovely white lace trimmed blouse. The thought, more than the gift, brought tears to my eyes. I cried easier now that I was on female hormones, but I would have cried without them. Oddly, when we left my folks' house Mary was fuming, but she refused to say what had set her off. In fact, until we arrived home, she wouldn't talk to me or the kids. She just stewed in her own juices, leaving the kids and I to wonder why. On Christmas Eve of all days, she was acting like the world had come to an end and doing her best to make the rest of us feel miserable as well. We had a small tree that year and, as soon as Mary roared in the door, at 7:30, she picked up the tree and hurled it across the room. At the top of her lungs, her face an ugly red mask, she screamed, ``Christmas is over! Take everything down. Get it out of my sight.'' Gene and Anton attempted to calm their mother by giving her the presents they had for her. Throwing them roughly on the floor and stomping on them, she grumbled, ``I don't want any presents. Christmas is over.'' I had bought a beautiful doll in a wedding dress for Mary's present. With black hair and brown eyes it looked a little bit like her. I had hoped it would flatter her. Grabbing up the package, ripping off the wrappings, she looked at the doll and spat venomously, ``I hate it!'' Tearing the head off, she threw it and the rest of the doll outside in the yard. Storming into her bedroom, she ordered, ``Stay away from me. All of you, just leave me alone.'' Three weary days of silence, three days of lightning, thunder, and storm clouds, three days of grinding stomach and nervous palpitations before she settled down enough to tell us what had upset her. It seemed my parents had offended her. They had dared to buy me a more feminine present than they bought her. That was it! Nothing more, nothing less. The kids were the most hurt by her behavior. They called her ``The Grinch that stole Christmas'' and each Christmas after that they made a point of reminding her that she had spoiled one Christmas. They hoped she wouldn't spoil another. Mary's father often had described her as the little girl in the poem:
He was so right! Living with Mary was like living with Dr. Jeckle and Mr. Hyde. If she was feeling happy and safe, then the kids and I could do no wrong. We were perfect, her meaning for living, everything in the world to her. She could be sweet, but at unpredictable times for unpredictable reasons she would go into rages where she hated us all. I suspected her monthly had something to do with it, but she wouldn't hear of that. Mary loved Larry, the man, of that I have no doubt, and I loved her. When two people love each other, I think they must first love each other as people. But love, real love, must be something more, something special, something that says, ``I know you and knowing you I love you because you're you.'' When I was trying to be a man, Mary was there for the man she wanted me be. When I lived as half man and half woman, Mary was there for the man, but feared the woman. When I came to accept myself as a woman, she ignored me. She retreated into loving me as a person, a fruitless compromise between what she wanted me to be and what I saw in myself. When I dressed as a woman, took care of the house, the cooking, the laundry, and the children, it infuriated her. I had the job she wanted, the job she felt was her birthright. With our differences separating us more each day, I waited, with little hope, for someone to rescue me, someone who could see the woman in me and whisk me away to a new life. It seemed an unlikely occurrence, but it was my fantasy. It kept me going. It was a small betrayal of Mary, thought crime, but our troubles seemed insoluble. On many occasions I had tried to confront her concerning them, but she made light of the issues I brought up. Had she not put up with me? Had she not tolerated all manner of bizarre behavior? Who was I to complain about anything she did? With such thoughts in her mind, the door was closed. Our problems were many, but the hardest to bear was that Mary couldn't love me as a woman, while I couldn't think of myself as a man. Mary and I couldn't give each other what we needed, except at great cost to one of us. One of us always had to give up something for the other to be happy. Either she had to give up the man she loved, or I had to give up my identity. It was an impossible situation. In her heart she loved a man, and in my heart I knew I wasn't a man. What I needed from her she couldn't give, what she needed from me, I couldn't be. Could I blame her? Hardly! Only an exceptionally sensitive person would have been abe to see that, in my heart, I was a woman. On the surface, many of the things I did seemed to belie that assertion. How could I be entirely a woman and yet, when the need was there, act masculine? Why, if I was as feminine as I maintained, would I act, at times, like a man? This was almost as confusing to me as it was to those around me. Mary was working at Good Samaritan Hospital in Phoenix when one of her coworkers, a huge black man, began sexually harassing her; slapping her behind, poking a finger in her ribs, and other unacceptable behavior. Over a number of weeks his behavior had grown steadily worse and finally, unable to make him desist, Mary brought her complaint to me. She might still have held her tongue, except he had caused her to slip and fall, injuring her ankle. When Mary came home that evening, tears of frustration streaming down her face, she blurted out the whole story. In the beginning, she informed me, it had been fun. He joked around a little, but he didn't do anything to hurt her and there was never any body contact. The attention had even been a little flattering. But he didn't stop there. The joking took a mean turn and he began poking her with his finger. She had tried to tell him that it wasn't funny anymore, that he was hurting her, but he laughed it off and refused to listen. Finally, Mary asked me if there was anything I could do. The next morning after Mary went to work, I dressed in a cowboy shirt, a pair of faded blue jeans, and a cowboy hat. Sauntering on down to the hospital cafeteria I asked around for the black dude, Paul by name, that had been `` . . . hassling with my woman.'' It created quite a flurry of activity, including whispers behind my back and wary eyes following where I walked. Eventually, as I knew I would, I caught up to him. We met in the hallway just outside of the cafeteria. He attempted to step around me, but I maneuvered myself directly into his path. He was big, he was black, and I knew in a moment that this was Paul. Sauntering up close and personal, I dropped my eyelids to half mast, and in a stern voice, I grumbled, ``Man, hear you been giv'n my woman some shit?'' A sheepish look proved he knew damn well that he had been out of line. His eyes, flickering left and right, never meeting mine, showed his discomfort at being confronted. Good, he needed to be discomforted. ``Ah, yeah man. I'm sorry. Swear to God, I didn't know I was hurting her. Swear to God, mister.'' Pushing the point I sighed, a deep hard sigh through lips twisted in a semi-snarl. Any man would have been able to read that sigh. It was the frustrated sigh of a man who had been prepared to bash head, but, reluctantly, might be persuaded to listen to reason. ``Dammit, man,'' I exclaimed, letting my exasperation show, ``that's suppos'ta make everythin' all right? You're sorry! She's my woman, and you hurt her. Do you dig it?'' ``Swear to God, I'll never touch her again.'' he replied, his eyes still never meeting mine. ``All right,'' I said, still letting exasperation and anger show in my voice, ``I'll let it go this time. But I don't wanna have to come down here again. If I do, there ain't gonna be no jawin'. You understand me?'' ``Yes, sir, like I said, it won't happen again.'' He apologized, promising one last time that it would never happen again. I turned on my heel and strolled off. John Wayne had come to the rescue. Mary, glad that the harassment was over, was thrilled that her man, her hero, had protected her. How could she know that, to me, it had all seemed like a complicated game? Having picked the place, confronting a man who knew he was in the wrong, and by putting on a tough guy act, I knew from the onset that there wouldn't be a fight, but I had to go through the motions. True, I had to be prepared for the unexpected, ready to fight in the event I was wrong, but there was never a shred of doubt in my mind. I did what I could do, what I knew how to do. It was neither masculine, nor feminine.
Not long after, visiting another of my women friends, Joan Kahler, I had occasion to do the same thing again. Her next door neighbor, a married man, had been walking into her house and sexually harassing her. Joan, upon hearing the tale of my exploit at the hospital, asked if I could do the same thing for her. Joan, of course, knew I was transsexual but had rarely seen me dressed as a man. The next time I visited Joan I brought along a bundle of cowboy clothing and shortly after arriving I changed into them. Moments later, pounding on her neighbor's door like thunder come to earth, I puffed myself up ready to pull the same bluff again. It was absolutely hysterical. A runty shrimp of a man answered the door and beyond the door I could see his wife in the kitchen preparing their dinner. Two kids were watching television while laying on the living room floor. ``Yes, what can I do for you?'' asked the man, partially hidden behind the door. ``Hear tell you been giv'n my woman some deep shit?'' I began. Not very original, but what works, works. ``What do you mean? Who are you talking about?'' he asked self-consciously. Yep, what works, does indeed work. ``You got so many damn women you can't keep track? I'm talking about Joan, next door. She's my woman, man. Can you dig it?'' Snapping a guilty look at his wife, still distant in the kitchen, he quickly stepped outside and shut the door quietly behind him. ``Hey, I didn't know she had a guy. Gimme a break, fella. My wife's in the kitchen. I don't want her to hear.'' ``I don't give a fuck about you or your wife,'' I said as loudly as I could without screaming. ``I jus' wanna know if you're gonna let my woman alone? Otherwise we'll settle this right now.'' Doubling my fists, I grimaced. ``Yeah, yeah, I'll leave her alone. Christ, guy, you gotta know what it's like. I just figured her for another score. I didn't know she was taken,'' he answered, his eyes pleading for me to go away and not hassle him in front of his family. ``Yeah, 'spose I do. Okay, we'll drop it this time. But, I don't wanna have to come back here. If I do, we ain't gonna be doing no jawin','' I replied, then turning away, I sauntered back to Joan's house. I had to turn away. I had broken into a full grin and was scarcely able to contain my guffaws until Joan's door was safely secured behind me. ``Joan,'' I scolded, laughing so hard tears were running down my face, ``you didn't tell me he was a shrimp. You sent John Wayne to pick on Don Knotts. That was mean.'' Changing back to my regular clothes, a pretty red silk dress, and combing my hair out, I settled down with Joan for a long talk. Such incidents, after awhile, ceased causing me to doubt my femininity. They were simply something I could do for my friends. Sometimes, however, something uglier cropped up, real hostility. And, rare thought they were, they did undermine my sense of femininity. One afternoon, returning from a pleasant day of shopping, a day when no thought of the dichotomy of my nature had intruded, I was driving our VW van on the last block before arriving home. Wearing a pretty brown dress with orange flowers on it, I was anxious to get home and put my purchases away. Suddenly, as I drove past two men standing in their front yard, one yelled, ``Faggot!'' It struck me the wrong way. Fury assaulted my senses, and I was as close to blood rage as if I had been struck in the groin. Slamming on the brakes of the VW van, spinning it sideways and momentarily coming up on two wheels, I flung open the door and leaped out almost before the van settled back to the ground. Hunkering over like a gorilla in the forest, my hands doubled into fists, I screamed at the top of my lungs, ``You wanna' piece of me you sons-a-bitches? Come and get me. You can try me now or you can find me up the street. You,'' I bellowed pointing at first one man, ``and you,'' I went on pointing at the next man, ``and anyone else you want to get. One at a time or all together. I don't give a fuck. Anytime you wanna' a piece of this faggot, take your best shot.'' Subdued, unhappy at the scene in his front yard, and not having expected to be confronted, the man mumbled something about, ``I don't want nothing to do with you.'' ``Then keep your fucking mouth shut,'' I yelled, getting back in the van and, because it was on gravel, burning rubber as I drove away. I had been livid. My mind had been in another world when the asshole shouted his obscenity. Forcefully he had dragged me back to an ugly, brutal world, a world I had for a short time been able to forget existed. For all of that, while I can rationalize playing cowboy, protecting my friends, and putting on a tough guy act, I wasn't pretending this time. I was ready to fight and had they pushed me, I would have tried to kill them. It was hard to reconcile these feelings with my protestations of femininity. What I was feeling didn't seem very feminine. Not only had they ruined a perfect day, they had caused doubt, that evil monster, to raise its ugly head above the surface one more time.
With Space Brothers a thing of my naive past, Gor and Theater in the Live long gone, witchcraft behind me, Hattie no longer in my life, and now hooking concluded, I withdrew from my many adventures to a more exclusive life with my family and friends. In the future my involvement with the world would be through more temperate means, such as Mensa. I joined Mensa, an organization requiring I.Q.s in the top 2% of the nation, as a man because I feared I might be refused if they knew I was transsexual. I qualified handily, my qualifying score more than sufficient for membership. It was an immense source of ego to belong to a group considered to be composed of gifted people, and if being a member of Mensa was good, then being a member of Intertel would be better. Intertel requires members to be in the top 1% of the IQ range. Wow! If I qualified for Intertel, what an ego boost that would be. Once again I qualified handily. If being a member of Intertel was good, then being a member of the Triple Nine Society would be better yet. The Triple Nine Society requires members to be in the top .1% of the IQ range. Once more I qualified, although not quite as handily. Holy Cow! How smart was I? The next group, Four Sigma, required an IQ in the top .01% range. Four Sigma had only thirty five members. I would never be one of them. I didn't qualify. Pshaw! Who cared? How much fun could I have in a club with only thirty five members, and those members spread out all over the nation? They were just a bunch of elitists anyway, and what can you really tell from an IQ test? Pshaw! (Grin! Just kidding!) During the next few years, often with the boys tagging along, I attended many Mensa events. It was amusing. Sometimes my kids embarrassed the bright lights of Mensa. Living with me, meeting my many friends from all walks of life, and having been brought up in an unusually liberal atmosphere, they weren't bashful about asking personal questions. Also they had a reasonable grasp of intuitive thinking, as well as deductive reasoning. They often knew more about a person than most people felt comfortable with them knowing. In the beginning, my teaching methods with my children were simple, such as marking the time it takes someone to go to the mailbox to determine whether mail has arrived or not. When the mail is there, it takes slightly longer for that person to return with it. Another exercise was letting them listen to voices on the telephone, or on a tape recorder, and from the sound of the voice they were to determine what the person looked like. Deeper voices suggest darker eyes and darker hair color, and lighter voices suggest lighter eyes and hair color. Weight, height, and other physical characteristics, including the manner of dress, can often be determined as well. Another lesson was listening for the weight of names and words. People will often say a fat person's name, or a large person's name, with more intensity than they say a thin person's name. Thus, DIANA, is a big woman, heavy, possibly fat, and, Diana, is a woman of more moderate proportions, possibly thin. Or even the manner in which a phrase or a word is pronounced can carry many undertones. We all do it, mostly recognizing it on a non-verbal level. If there is anything different in what I perceive, it is that I may perceive these things consciously a little more often than most people. Then I moved up the difficulty of the lessons a notch. One Christmas Eve the family wanted eggnog and intuitively I flashed that we wouldn't be able to obtain eggnog at the three stores closest to us. Further, we would be able to make our purchase at Garcia's Market, a store over a mile away. So confident was I of the accuracy of this flash that I decided to use it as an object lesson for the kids. Calling them together I reported on my intuitive flash and explained that, if I wasn't making this a demonstration, I would drive directly to Garcia's and pick up our eggnog. However, in order to prove my point, we would have to stop at each of the stores along the way. The closest store to us was a Chinese market, as was the second, and they had both run out of eggnog early in the day. Of course, it was only reasonable that Chinese markets might under stock egg nog. The third store was a Circle K, a convenience store. Larry and James ran inside while Gene and Anton waited in the car with me. They came running back, ``You were wrong, they have eggnog.'' Chagrined, I got out of the car and went in the store with them. Had I been wrong? Never before had I had a flash this strong and had it turn out wrong. Maybe I wasn't as clever as I thought I was. I wasn't, of course, none of us are, but that's beside the point. I was attempting to teach my kids an important lesson and I had blown it, or so it seemed. Money had been tight that Christmas. We had spent a lot. When I checked my wallet, it was bare. Except for a handful of change, I was flat busted. Counting my change it came up a dime short of the purchase price for a quart of eggnog. I didn't have enough money to buy the eggnog at Circle K. Would I do any better at Garcia's market? There was only one way to find out. Having went this far, we had to continue. I returned to the car with the boys and drove us to Garcia's Market. Eureka! Not only were we able to get eggnog there, but there was a sale on the stuff. We got a half gallon of eggnog for less than the price one quart would have been at Circle K. There was even a dime left over. ``You understand guys,'' I lectured, feeling the tension seep out of my body, ``intuition sorts out all the data available to your non-verbal mind, processes it, and then spits out an answer. Often you aren't aware of how the conclusion is reached until after the fact, if ever. It's not difficult to learn how to use intuition, the only difficult part is learning how to judge the precision of your intuitive leaps. Some intuitions have little or no chance of being correct, and others are a virtual certainty.''
One of the best examples I was ever able to demonstrate occurred one night at a meeting of the Center for Advanced Psychic Research. I had seen their advertisement in the paper and decided it was a perfect opportunity to show Gene and Anton how these hucksters gulled the naive. Larry and James, away from home with their own interests, weren't able to come with us. The events of the night would cooperate with me beyond my wildest expectations. Upon entering the meeting room people had already started taking their seats. Choosing to sit in the back, the boys and I sat down in our seats. As we settled down I noticed two posters tacked to the wall, face forward. ``Those posters on the wall will be tests.'' I told them. ``We know!'' replied Gene. ``Do you know what's on them?'' I asked. ``No! Do you?'' ``Not yet, but pay attention. The speaker will give us clues. Then we'll see.'' It wasn't long before the speaker came out. She had long wavy blonde hair, was about twenty eight years old, and was thin, and pretty in an elfish sort of way. After a brief introduction she initiated a series of tests to discover if any of the audience could demonstrate extra sensory perception. The first test was to determine what was on the posters. ``As you can see,'' she continued, ``there are two posters facing the wall. One picture is a scene, an unusual scene, something special. The other picture is of a plant. Please write your answer on the piece of paper provided and when you are done pass them forward.'' After passing out pencils and small tablets, she waited patiently while the audience wrote down their answers and returned the papers. Motioning for the boys to go into a huddle with me, I said, ``The scene is probably of Atlantis, or Lemuria, some ancient and mythological city. There will be trees, pathways, towers, and strange flying vehicles that look like UFO's. The plant scene will be a big red rose. The rose will be on the right because people in this country generally do everything from left to right. I'll explain the rest of my reasoning later.'' I turned in my paper. Both answers were correct. That was a pleasant surprise. I had expected to guess the rose, but getting the scene right had been a little more tenuous. The reasoning was elementary. The most common plant for anyone to pick is a flower, and the most common flower to select is a rose. In this case, I had two chances of being right. The woman, either unconsciously or deliberately, had made this choice when selecting her pictures. If she made the choice unconsciously then she selected a rose much as the majority of people would have selected a rose. If her choice was deliberate, then she selected a rose knowing that it was the most likely for someone in the audience to guess. As for the second picture, I intuited that people programmed into the occult mind set were likely to think of a scene of some past utopia as an unusual scene, and once again the woman, unconsciously or deliberately, made this choice as well. Our hostess, in my opinion, wanting to impress the audience, deliberately selected the most ``guessable'' items she could find. Oddly, as it turned out, I was the only one to guess the pictures correctly. Our hostess's disappointment was apparent, and her body language bespoke of someone foiled in the execution of a scheme, lending further credence to my suspicion of deliberate machination. As the night progressed, and more experiments with ``ESP'' were conducted, I made myself conspicuous with correct answers. Having the foresight to bring my thumbwriter (a tiny pencil hooked under my thumbnail), I was able to write answers surreptitiously, after they were revealed. It's a handy gimmick! Particularly so if you want to demonstrate extra sensory perception. For one of her tests, a mnemonic memory technique allowed me to memorize twenty one items in less than 60 seconds. She gave the audience some song and dance about the ability to memorize being linked with ESP. Now I was certain. She was a knowledgeable and deliberate fraud. However, other than myself, the rest of the audience had done rather poorly, again disappointing our hostess. A magnet sewed in my sleeve behind the cuff button permitted me to spin a compass needle, while blowing softly and surreptitiously let me scoot toothpicks across a table top. Clear examples of my incredible mind power! Shades of Uri Geller! The spinning compass and rolling toothpicks were a couple of effects I demonstrated after the speaker, impressed with my accuracy, asked if I had any other supernormal mental abilities. I replied in the affirmative. ``Have you been studying a long time?'' asked the speaker. ``All of my life.'' I answered truthfully. ``I have some little ability myself,'' she went on, her eyes pleading for a sign of validation from me. ``But I'm not in your class.'' ``Not many people can do the things I can do.'' I answered, assuming dominance of the situation. ``What brought you here tonight?'' she asked. ``I wanted to demonstrate higher levels of awareness to my sons. Thanks to you, I have accomplished my objective.'' ``Tonight wasn't that good of a night. Except for you, no one was picking up what I was trying to send. I had hoped for a better response,'' she replied, relaxing a little after my apparent compliment. ``Usually I obtain better results.'' ``Do you!'' I retorted, feigning a distracted annoyance with her. ``Come on boys, it's time to leave. There's nothing for us here!'' I said portentously, gazing deeply into her eyes and observing her flushed embarrassment with sardonic pleasure. Before she could respond we were out the door and away. ``You were rude to her,'' admonished Gene. ``Yeah I was, she's a phoney. These demonstrations are a sham and she knew I knew it.'' ``But aren't you a phoney too?'' questioned Gene. ``Of course, all this nonsense is pure baloney. The difference is that I'm not bilking innocent people out of their money. I'm educating my sons.'' Inwardly I smiled. My sons even questioned me. When we returned home I was full of myself and kept Mary up half the night bragging about how well the lesson had gone, and how proud I was of the boys. Upon reflection there was something that bothered me. How did I sense these things? Was it innate, a facet of my intelligence, as I believed? Or had I learned it? It was certainly true that I had a high anxiety level and this translated into a need to know what people thought about me, particularly so when I was dressed as a woman. Did people see a woman, or a man dressed as a woman? What did my friends think about me? What were their secret thoughts? I needed to know the answers to such questions. On the one hand, I watched and listened for every subtle nuance, trying to pick up what other people were thinking, and yet, on the other hand, I can't remember a time when I couldn't pick up on what people were thinking and feeling. As my Aunt Kathleen had observed, I had to know the business.
The relationship between my sons and myself was not exclusively cerebral, far from it. We played tennis, joined a fencing club, roller skated, went camping, ice skated, bowled, rode bicycles, went swimming and even went horseback riding. We had picnics, went to movies, art museums, libraries, played video games, parlor games, and invented our own games. We played ping pong, darts, horseshoes, and on and on. We played and we talked, sharing our thoughts, our feelings, and our laughter. If any one memory stands out from our times together, it's the laughter. But not all was laughter for my children. In Peoria Union High School Larry and James were good students, eager to learn, enthusiastic, and well-behaved. But there were problems, problems caused by thick-headed narrow-minded teachers unable to appreciate the reason that prompted Larry and James to refuse to say the Pledge of Allegiance. Their reasoning was clear enough, they felt their word was sacred and didn't want to swear their allegiance until they knew more about our country. Not to mention that both boys were atheists and it would have been a lie for them to swear an oath containing a reference to a god. During his sophomore year Larry requested to be excused from saying the pledge. Larry's teacher acceded and asked Larry to wait outside while the rest of the class pledged their allegiance. While he was outside she instructed the class to teach Larry a lesson. She ``suggested'', if everyone worked together, they should harass him. This was to be instructive, a demonstration of the power of the majority, and was supposed to teach this upstart that one lone individual can't stand against the majority. At lunch Larry bought himself a box of popcorn. He had no more than paid for it when one of his classmates stole it, and started flinging it around the school yard. Other classmates pulled his school books out of his hands and hid them. Grabbing his homework, some of them shredded it. In the process of all this, his shirt was torn and one of his shoes came off and someone threw it on the school roof. Three boys tried to pull his trousers off but, kicking and hitting, he managed to keep them on. When Larry returned to class his teacher wanted to know if he had learned a lesson. He answered, ``I learned people aren't allowed to think for themselves.'' The teacher said, ``The concept of majority rule is that the will of the majority must be followed by all.'' ``That doesn't make it right.'' retorted Larry, ``Yes, it does. That's what majority rule means,'' responded the teacher. ``Might doesn't make right,'' retorted Larry. ``It means the majority can force you to do what they want, even when they're wrong.'' When I learned of what had happened, I wrote a scathing letter to the woman, threatening to contact the principal and the school board. I condemned her action as irresponsible. When Larry returned from school the next day he had a letter explaining that her class had reacted with far more vigor than she had anticipated. She offered her apology. Her apology couldn't undo what she had set into motion. However, the other kids, now primed, were ever ready to harass Larry at every opportunity. The following year, Larry's junior year, his gym coach took offense at his refusal to say the Pledge, and announced to the class, ``In my day if some commie kid didn't say the Pledge we would have broken both his legs. Now I ain't telling you guys to break anyone's legs, just that that's what we would have done.'' This pronouncement was taken to heart by a number of the students. Name calling, hit and run slugging, and threats of more violence kept Larry in a state of perpetual fear. There were other problems too, more serious problems; drugs, booze, rumbles, and knife fights. The ``freaks'' were always pressuring uncommitted kids to take drugs, and the ``cowboys'' were trying to recruit members for their ``booze and broads'' gang. Both factions were continually seeking new blood for their armies. In any event, when James was a Junior in high school, he came to me with a report from the Marines. He had taken their entrance test and made a perfect score; all questions answered and none missed. James wanted to join the service and the Marines had offered to accept him if he passed his G.E.D. Reluctantly I signed the permission form for him to take his high school equivalency test. He passed with ease and the gears began to turn. During processing the Marines discovered he was only a Junior and their rules, at that time, didn't allow them to take in recruits until they were seniors. The Navy jumped in with both feet. If the Marines didn't want James, they did. James signed with the Navy. Larry, a senior in high school, within weeks of his brother's enlistment came to me with enlistment papers for the Air Force. Having given my permission to James I could hardly deny permission to Larry. There were good reasons why the boys were anxious to begin their own lives. Peoria High School had gang wars between factions affectionately known as The Freaks and The Cowboys. The Freaks were into drugs and partying and The Cowboys were into boozing, cruising, and bruising. Both sides were into beating each other up, and anyone who hadn't yet committed to one group or the other was the natural prey of both groups. Larry and James were small, unusually intelligent children, and they had a hyperactive, trouble making brother. Not to take lightly that their father was an openly transsexual woman. Consequently, they were natural targets for the ``normal'' boys at Peoria High, normal boys who were blasting their enfeebled minds out with booze or drugs, fucking willing girls and raping the unwilling, stabbing one another, shooting one another, and all the other ``normal'' activities of healthy energetic ``normal'' young men. If that wasn't enough, both my boys were bored with high school. The curriculum was geared to the lowest common denominator, which at Peoria High was low indeed. There wasn't any challenge for either of them. Understanding why they wanted to go to the service, I signed the papers.
With Larry and James gone from the nest, and because of my continued angina, I worried about how Mary would manage once I was gone. With all of our differences, I loved her still, and when I died she wouldn't have anything to call her own. I decided to investigate the possibility of getting a mobile home, something that would be a tangible asset and something we could pay off in short order. Shopping around I found a three bedroom mobile home with an extension in excellent condition. It would be perfect for our needs. I knew where to go when I needed financial help; Dad. Dad growled every time Greg or I requested to borrow money, and the more we needed the more he'd growl, but this time Dad surprised me. He didn't growl, and he didn't loan me the money for a down. He bought the mobile home outright and only asked for 100 dollars a month for payments. While standing in the middle of the living room of the trailer, Dad and I all by ourselves, talked over the finances and the reasons for his generous offer. ``I don't understand, Dad.'' I remarked, dumfounded, but appreciative. ``I ain't got a whole lot a time left,'' he blustered in his deep bass voice, ``and I'd like to see you settled before I go. Your brother owes me eight thousand dollars, six thousand more than you do. I'd like to even things up.'' When I was first married Dad had always helped my family out. Over time we accumulated a debt of a couple thousand dollars. I'd pay on it when I was able, but would borrow it back almost as quickly. My indebtedness stayed close to a couple thousand dollars. It was like having my own interest free loan company, with a pay when you're able clause. My father, a frugal man, was a generous father. Although, I didn't always accept his help. When I was thirty, he wanted to lend me the down payment for a house. I was tempted, but after thinking it over I turned him down. I appreciated everything he'd done for me, but I needed to learn to do for myself. I loved him far too much to keep taking from him. ``I'm sorry, Dad, but I can't learn to handle my own affairs if you do for me all the time,'' I advised, hoping he might feel pride in me, and while I believe he was proud, my refusal brought an odd look to his face. His brow furrowed, his eyes widened, he pursed his lips, and then he shoved his hands in his pockets. ``Okay!'' he said, looking like a small boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. ``I was only trying to help.'' So that was it, my good hearted father felt guilty. After all the help he had given me, he was blaming himself for my inability to handle money. It was true, I hadn't made much headway in learning to handle money, but I tried not to overburden Dad with my financial problems. ``I appreciate the loan, Dad,'' I said. ``Just take care of it, that's all I ask.'' he said, matter- of-factly. ``I will, and I'll try to get you paid off sooner if I can.'' ``I wish your brother would pay something on what he owes. Greg makes twice what you and Mary do and he hasn't paid me a damn dime.'' His brow furrowed and a pained look came into his eyes. ``Damn it, it ain't the money. It's the principle of the thing.'' ``Shit, Dad,'' I cursed. Around Dad you had to curse a little, or he didn't think you were serious. ``You know he loves you, and he's young for Chris' sake. Look how long it took me to learn what damn little I know.'' Ah, this was man talk, the only language Dad understood. There, standing in that trailer that would soon be mine, while I was wearing a dress, my father and I talked man talk. Bizarre! It felt awkward on my tongue, uncomfortable, but, over the years, I had learned it was the most effective manner to talk with my father. Dad shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, hunched up his shoulders, tilted his head sideways, and humphed in resignation, ``I su'pose!'' I was proud of my father, he had grown a lot over the years. Once upon a time he hated blacks, then, when he was sick and had to recuperate in Memorial Hospital, predominantly staffed by blacks, he turned completely around. "I got better care there than in some other hospitals I been in." he often repeated. Because of me, he turned around on gays and transsexuals too. One day at work Dad passed by a couple of the guys taking a break. They were discussing gays and one of them was heard to say, "Someone ought to line 'em all up and machine gun the lot of 'em." Dad whipped around and dressed him down, "You ignorant bastard, you need to get yourself some book learnin'. They're people just like you and me. I don't wanta hear talk like that around me." There was, of course, no reply. No one challenged my Dad when he was angry, no one in their right mind.
Many people had been a part of my life. Some of them more memorable than others. Kim, a female\man, approached me one night at a Lesbian bar. He had observed that I was transsexual and initially sought me out for more information on the subject. We exchanged phone numbers and rapidly became good friends. I recommended Kim to my doctor and, after Kim was on male hormones, we exchanged information on the physical and emotional effects the opposing hormones were having on us. Kim, a quiet man, became very protective of me and my family.
Habitually I met new people by picking up distressed strangers. Chief, a paraplegic self-proclaimed Chief of some Indian nation, was often seen being pushed around the streets of Phoenix by a young brave. Chief wore buckskin trousers, and rarely was seen wearing a shirt. His long black hair was braided in a single strand that hung down his back and he wore an eagle feather tucked in a brightly colored scarf tied around his head. Sporting arm bands with Indian markings and wearing beaded Indian necklaces, he seemed a larger than life character; conspicuous, familiar, and curious. One hot summer day, I stopped and offered him and his caretaker a ride. It was the beginning of a long and interesting friendship.
Gene, another friend, was a quadriplegic. Although if he wore a tight pair of leather gloves, he had some limited use of his hands. I met Gene through a mutual friend and, like with the Chief and me, we struck up a friendship. I even stayed with Gene one weekend. He had a cabin home in a beautiful part of Sedona, the land Zane Grey called God's Country. Upon arriving we talked for awhile, then I made supper and helped him eat. Later, I prepared him for bed. Once he was settled and in bed he asked me to make love to him. His injury had left him paralyzed from the neck down and without any feeling. I wondered how he could make love and so I asked him. He reminded me that sex is largely in the mind and that he felt aroused just having a woman in bed with him.
Teresa, an alleged hermaphrodite and compulsive liar, entered my life by way of Vonna. She was one of the most conflictual transsexuals I ever met. She claimed to be a doctor and had even acquired a medical bag and instruments to substantiate her claim. When she discovered I liked to fence, she alleged she had been a women's fencing champion in Germany and claimed to speak fluent German. Her skill with a blade was nonexistent, something of a cross between what one sees in a Mouseketeer cartoon and the charge of a wild Rhino. Beating her was neither challenge nor entertaining. As for her German, I knew approximately six words in German and she knew none of the six. One night, late in the evening, Teresa called me in a raspy voice and said, ``Goodbye, and thanks for everything you've done.'' Then she hung up. It had to be a fake suicide, I thought, but what if it wasn't? I called the cops, told them what happened, and said I'd meet them at Teresa's house. They arrived a little after I did. We all pounded on her door, but there was no answer. Her car was in the drive, so she was home, but the officers said they couldn't break her door down without a warrant. I ended up kicking it open. We found her with an almost empty body of sleeping pills beside her. Recovering in the mental ward of the hospital, Teresa was very angry at me and wanted to know why I hadn't let her die. She didn't remember calling me and was threatening to sue me for kicking her door in. I assured her that I had fixed the door and her house was secure. I also directed, that the next time she decided to commit suicide, she should call someone else.
Alex, an insurance salesman and male/woman had been traumatized by societal attitudes and, on business trips, wore and peed in sanitary napkins to simulate a monthly period. She made a good income, was putting both a daughter and a son through college, and neither they nor her wife knew that Alex was transsexual. Had they known, I wonder if they would have been sympathetic with the pain she had endured to provide them with the life they enjoyed. I doubted it!
Herbert, Hazel we called him, was a wizened elderly transvestite who wrote hymns for the Seventh Day Adventist Church. He was a delight. Some seventy six years old and he had never wore any feminine clothes except for skirts. But those he wore in front of his friends and relatives, having years ago concocted a story about super sensitive skin that chaffed when he wore pants. He was a clever old fox. I fixed him up for the first time in his life in a dress and wig. He made the cutest little old lady you ever saw, with huge dimples on a face that never ceased to smile.
There was Carlene, a 6'5'' male/woman who gave up a career as an aero space engineer and moved to Mexico to become a sculptor, and there was Harley, a male\woman who created colored charcoal masterpieces of nude women. Whenever she felt the urge to dress as a woman she went to a bar, got stinko drunk, and then picked a fight. She was small, curly haired, and made an adorable woman. Harriet, was a successful lawyer and a transvestite who never wanted his wife or children to know of his secret. They never did find out, until the day they found him, dressed in women's clothes, laying dead on his bedroom floor. He was drunk and it had precipitated a heart attack.
Al (Ellen), was a jewish male\woman who had the illusion she was beautiful. In point of fact, she was more than a bit on the homely side. We had been friends, off and on, for many years, until one day when she came visiting and asked my advice. Lonely, she wanted to know how to find someone to love. Honesty, in this situation, was a mistake. I informed her that men usually were seeking attractive women, preferably younger women, and that she didn't fit either picture. However, since women don't rely as much on appearances, I suggested that finding another woman might be the best way for her to find a life partner. A few days later I received a scalding letter scolding me for daring to force my advice on her. I wrote her back, reminding her that she had solicited my opinion, informing her that if she hadn't wanted an honest opinion she should have asked someone else. I haven't seen or heard from her since.
Some other friends I made were Sandy, Carolyn, and Chris. Sandy was a typical truck driving, rifle toting, beer drinking red neck cowboy and Carolyn was his wife. We initially met them when we were living in an apartment complex. They took a shine to me and for a year or so I was baby sitting Christopher for them. I had a standing invitation to their Saturday night beer bashes. One night I took them up on it. There I was, in the middle of a bunch of drunken cowboys who were telling queer jokes, and generally making fun of anyone that wasn't a beer drinking cowboy. When I reminded them that they would have called me names and made fun of me just a few months ago, they just laughed it off. ``Shoot darlin', you're one of us and you ain't no faggot. If'n all faggots were like you we'd get along with 'em jus' fine.'' quipped Sandy, the others nodding agreement while shoving yet another beer into my hand.
Then I met the Nazzaros, a story that needs more than a thumb- nail sketch. Marie, Veronica, Michael, and Joseph would become like a second family to me. I loved them dearly and always shall. When I first saw Marie she was the apartment manager of the apartment complex that we had moved into shortly after moving back from Los Angeles. Marie was living with a man called Gregory, a short squat womanizing Sicilian who had tried on more than one occasion to put the moves on both Mary and myself. When Marie finally had enough of him and threw him out of the house, I congratulated her and told her of the times the old goat had made passes. From there our friendship and the friendship between her family and mine, blossomed. Marie reminded me a great deal of my Aunt Kathleen; Italian, had to know all the business, left-handed, and a deep intuitive perception of the human condition. Marie had five children. Bobbie and Anna Marie, the oldest of her children lived in New York with their father. Joseph, Michael, and Veronica, the youngest of her children, were with Marie. Of all her children, Marie was most concerned over Veronica. There was also a granddaughter, Vicki, the daughter of Joseph and Maria, who she loved and fretted over. I had known and been friends with Marie and her family for three years or so, telling her fortune, caring about her children, my children playing with her children, when it was discovered Vicki had leukemia. Marie knew I was Wiccan and believed, as many of my friends believed, that I had certain magical powers. Myself, I didn't believe in such things, on one level, but on another level, casting spells over life and death had seemed to work on more than one occasion. Shortly after she had married married, my cousin Weezy, the little girl I baby sat for and told stories to in Clearfield, was diagnosed with leukemia. Frightened, feeling life had cheated her, she ran away to Los Angeles and signed herself into a clinic there. Letters to her mother informed the family that her doctors had given up hope; she only had weeks to live. On June 14th, a full moon rising in the midnight sky, I entered the house of my high priestess. Tears filled my eyes at the thought of my cousin teetering on the brink of death and I appealed to Diana, the Moon Goddess to help me in the work to come. Then, in the circle, as I weaved my spell, I felt the rush of energy in my body. As I finished my rhythmic chanting, swishing and swaying, I turned, tears rolling down my face and dropping on my bare breasts, to find my people weeping with me. It was then I, jaded non-theist, heard the most beautiful voice I have ever heard and it said, ``Be at peace. She shall live.'' Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, a time passed and then Weezy wrote her mother with wonderful news. On the morning of June 15th, a new doctor had started her on an experimental medication and it had worked. Weezy was in remission.
Another time I called upon this primeval part of myself, a part that I have difficulty in believing exists, was when my father had his first heart attack. Any heart attack is dangerous. When Dad had his, Dr. Kirschner, our family physician, informed us that there wasn't much chance. Dad would most likely pass away sometime during the night. Slipping into my father's room, fearing I was looking at him for the last time, I reached out to touch his toes. He wasn't awake and my touch didn't seem to disturb him. Then I did a strange thing, I willed my life force into his body. With every ounce of strength that was in me, I willed my father to live. A few minutes later, when I left the room to return to my family waiting outside the room, I nearly collapsed into my brother's arms, and I said, ``It's all right. He's going to live.'' Somehow, I knew what I was saying was true.
Marie knew of these stories from my life, and there had been other times as well. She also knew that I felt these things were nothing more than my method of dealing with my feeling of helplessness. Still, what could it hurt to do something for Vicki? So, on one dark and moonlit night, when all of my family were asleep, I crept out into the living room and cast a circle. If these things worked at all, I reasoned, it would only be through strong emotions. In each case, where I had been moved to magic, I had been moved to tears, and so that night I let the reality of this beautiful little girl enter my heart, and I wept and sang, swayed and sweated, supplicated the Goddess, and demanded the magic come forth. A few days later, Vicki was in remission. Did my magic work? Who knows! It didn't hurt, and, while we waited to learn if the miracles of modern medicine would save her, it gave us all hope. Perhaps that is enough, perhaps the faith and belief of loved ones helps the healing process. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, I don't know. I don't really care. I am not so smug, so arrogant in my non-belief, that I deny those parts of myself that I don't fully understand. I simply say, I don't know and do the best I can.
Veronica was fourteen when Marie asked me for a special favor. She knew I had a legitimate driver's license as a female, and she asked me if I could help her get Veronica a license showing her age as twenty one. Veronica was a particularly stunning girl, hopeful of being a model one day, but in the meantime a number of local night clubs were having Michael Jackson dance alike contests and Veronica needed an adult ID to enter. Agreeing, I requested Veronica's birth certificate, but the white print on black paper of New York birth certificates, proved difficult to forge. The Nazzaro's were Catholic, so I requested to see her baptismal certificate. It was much easier to alter. I taught Marie how to make a phoney baptismal certificate and then Veronica used that to get a driver's license from the State of Arizona. One that showed her to be legally twenty one years of age. It wasn't long before I regretted giving them my assistance. Veronica danced at the bars, and she succeeded in becoming popular, but it also started her on a wild ride through the next few years of her life. Wild boy friends, drinking, carousing, dropping out of school, and eventually ending up with a black womanizing fiance who gave her a baby and then left her. A number of years would pass before Veronica was back on an even keel. Although it ended well, there was no credit to the Snoop Sisters, which was the nickname given to Marie and me. Finally, Veronica put herself through cosmetology school and is a successful young woman in a business she enjoys. I'm very proud of her. As Veronica was going through all her woes, Michael, nearing his high school graduation, met a girl by the name of Jody. When I first met Jody, the Nazzaro family and I were all sitting around the kitchen table. Marie was holding court and I, of course, was the grand vizier. Marie wanted the business on Jody, was she good enough for her Michael. Jody, meanwhile, unbeknownst to all of us, was testing the abilities of the grand vizier. Often I had told people that I could detect a pregnant woman by the twinkle in her eye, and Jody asked if she was pregnant. Her eyes were glowing like two stars, not to mention it was an odd question to ask, and so I said, yes. Flustered she denied it vociferously, and although the intensity of the denial alerted me, I didn't make an issue of it. Later, we would all learn that Jody had indeed been pregnant, but it wasn't Michael's baby and, having just met Michael, she hadn't told him as yet. Understandably, she was keeping it a secret. However, Jody no longer doubted that I could detect a pregnant woman. Eventually, when she finally did break the news to Michael, he took it with equanimity. Her fears that he would reject the baby and her had been unfounded. Later, they married, and he legally adopted the little girl. One of the most startling incidents in my long association with the Nazzaro family took place on the occasion of a blow up between Michael and Jody. Marie and I were sitting in the kitchen and I was sipping a glass of Amaretto De Sarano, an excellent Italian Liquor that Marie provided. It was in these little courtesies that I gained my sense of place in their life. We each had our own way of showing one another our appreciation and our love. In any event, Michael and Jody were having a royal explosion. It seemed Michael had smiled at, and stopped to talk with, an old flame while Jody and he were shopping at MetroCenter, the largest mall in Phoenix. Jody was an extremely jealous woman, and became very angry. Michael, also red with rage, screamed that he was leaving, and Jody, screamed that if he left it was over. She said, she would go back to her folks and the marriage was off. When Michael ran to his car and climbed in Marie looked at me quietly sipping my drink, and said, ``Dahleen, do something. Don't just sit there. Michael's leaving! Jody and Michael are breaking up.'' More than a little in my cups, I smiled languorously and replied, ``Don't worry about it. Michael isn't going anywhere.'' So saying, I snapped my fingers in the air. Remember I don't believe in ESP and all such nonsense; except when I'm drinking. But, I was drinking, and because I was drinking strange things do seem to happen. I almost remember my thought process; Michael, a bright young man, wouldn't want to leave without resolving the argument. Having used the "I'm leaving" ploy during the fight, Michael went to his car; then not really wanting to leave and not wanting to lose face, he pretended it wouldn't start. Either that, or snapping my finger kept his engine from turning over, and I don't believe that, dear reader, anymore than you do. Three times Michael tried to turn his engine over, and three times I smiled at Marie's appeal to do something, snapped my fingers and told her the car wouldn't start. On the third attempt I got up from the table, sauntered slowly out to the living room and then asked Jody to come with me. We went to where Michael was sitting in his car. I asked Michael to get out and come talk. There on the sidewalk, with a few words, I pointed out that their argument was silly. I asked each in turn if they loved each other. Out loud, for each other to hear, they assured me that they did. Informing Jody that her jealousy was out of line, and Michael that he should be more understanding, I told them to kiss and makeup. Which they did. The incident was over, I returned to my drink. Returning to the kitchen Marie asked, ``How did you do that?'' Still fuzzy from all the booze, I thought she meant, how did I get Michael and Jody to stop fighting. Marie said, ``No, how did you get his car to stop working? You know he keeps his car running good.'' Feeling happy I laughed. ``It was a snap.'' I replied snapping my fingers one last time. Just as I did, Michael started his car and Jody and he drove off. Looking quizzically at Marie, I shrugged my shoulders, and sipped a little more Amaretto. Over the years our two families grew close. Her children were almost as dear to me as my own, and her children and my children were like brothers and sisters. Michael even helped Gene find employment at Domino's Pizza, risking his own job in the process. Even Mary got into the act, helping them do their income tax. Joseph, the lone doubter, used to tease us, me in particular, by announcing my arrival facetiously, ``Dahleen's here! Hello Dahleen!'' He was a good hearted man, and I recognized that his teasing was evidence of the discomfort he felt around me. However, after I had worked for Vicki and she recovered, even that stopped.
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