As a child I shared a room with my younger brother. We were only a year apart in age and our room had two single beds. One for each of us. Down the hall and sharing a “Jack and Jill” bathroom with us were my two older brothers. The four of us were each a year apart. This was our arrangement when my parents still lived together. We were the youngest four of seven children. My older three siblings were 14, 12 and 10 years older than me. Two more brothers and a sister. My sister being the only girl, had her own room. I envied her having that room. I felt like she was a princess and I had been erroneously thrown in the wrong group. I was being housed in the barracks with the boys, but I was a girl too.
I used to sneak my mothers things from her room down the hall but the house was crowded and it was difficult. My mother and father were rarely home, but we had a nanny and of course there were my other six siblings. I feared being caught with my mother’s things because it had happened before and the consequences were terrible. My nanny was a young uneducated black woman from rural Georgia who didn’t much care for the four privileged white boys that were her charge. I knew very little of her background except the story of the scar she had on her face. Apparently she had misbehaved and her mother had taken a hot iron to her as a lesson. Her childhood had clearly been difficult and brutal so her firm hand with us probably seemed incredibly gentle. She was the one who showed my brothers how to taunt me and call me “girl” over and over again if I was caught with my mother’s things or any sign of makeup on me. She regularly referred to me as “sissy.”
I used to look for opportunities for time alone. An empty space so I could express my intense need to feel feminine. I was generally expected to play outside with my brothers, but soon found if I said I wanted to “stay in and draw” I would be allowed to separate from them. It was a little alone time. A little “girl” time. At first, I only drew pictures to get away so I could try on some of my mother’s things. I had begun hiding some under my mattress so I could be sure they were available. Later, I actually became fascinated with drawing and I realized as my skill improved I could create my own worlds on paper where my characters could be anyone or anything I wanted them to be.
As it turned out I began to need those alternative worlds. My mother contracted breast cancer very soon after I found my personal escape. She initially had one breast removed, then two. At the same time my father was having an affair with another woman and finally left us. My three older siblings were off to college and out of the house. We could no longer afford our nanny and she was let go. I remember watching her board a bus back to Georgia. We were supposed to be sad watching our nanny leave, but inside I was secretly cheering. I felt like my personal tormenter had been sent packing. Now it was just myself, my three brothers and my devastated mother. Our reality seemed suddenly bleak and hopeless. I hardly knew my mother, but she seemed so weak compared to our stocky powerful nanny.
We moved to a new town near my Aunt so she could help take care of us during my mother’s frequent stays in the hospital. My mother was being treated with the earliest forms of chemotherapy and radiation along with an enormous amount of narcotics to ease her pain. She spent most of her time in bed when she was home breathing oxygen fed from two five foot tall oxygen tanks which stood behind her bed. Of course, this didn’t keep her from smoking and drinking. My mother regularly passed out drinking straight bourbon with a lit cigarette in her hand while breathing pure oxygen.
When she was conscious I found that my mother was extremely sharp and had an acute mind for language and enjoyed history and biographies. I discovered that I enjoyed her company and I would often stay up late with her and watch Masterpiece Theater on television or listen to her stories of being a wealthy doctor’s wife going to fabulous places and wearing expensive clothes. She didn’t know how much I longed for that too. I listened to her stories and imagined myself wearing a beautiful gown and going to soirées in exotic places. My feminine feelings had only grown since we left our father’s house but the fear instilled by my former nanny had placed my feminine side securely underground. I still occasionally stole some of my mother’s things, but I had become much more adept at hiding any trace of them. I still shared a room with my younger brother and still struggled to find alone time for my female expression . Now I learned to bring things in the bathroom with me and lock the door after everyone had fallen asleep. If anyone knocked or more frequently pounded on the door, I would change clothes and flush the toilet. My brothers might be angry, but it was better than getting “caught.”
Life settled into a rhythm for a while until my mother began having regular heart attacks. We would often find her seizing or unconscious and have to dial 911. My mother would leave in an ambulance and my Aunt or a friend or later, my older sister or brother would come watch us. I found myself checking on my mother regularly during this time and staying up with her much more often. She shared more and more about her marriage to my father and how much she loved feeling him inside her. I began to imagine having that experience too. I found myself longing for breasts and a man to squeeze them as I approached puberty.
My drawing continued to develop and one of my favorite subjects to draw were women. Many were the fantasy girl I longed to be. I incorporated them into comics with strong male super heroes so that my brothers wouldn’t think that’s all I cared about drawing. I was getting very good and I found myself easily lost in my imaginary world. My drawings began to cover every flat surface in the bedroom creating piles of paper around the room. My younger brother hated it and my brothers began calling me “the nutty professor” because I was thin, wore glasses and liked to sit at my desk drawing all day.
Inevitably the day came when my mother left in an ambulance but didn’t come home. I was 14 and my younger brother 13. Far too young to be orphaned, but after anticipating our mother’s death for so long we were oddly resigned when it finally happened. We only knew now that our older sister would be our new guardian. She now only 26. Our father had left the country years earlier with his new wife and family and we never heard from him after that.
My sister instituted new rules and took over my mother’s room. We were out of money so we all were expected to find jobs. The oldest moved in with another brother who had become a stone mason and began working for him. The younger three of us found work at the same restaurant. We worked four six-hour shifts a week and sometimes five bussing tables in a local Mexican restaurant. We began making money and earning tips. Our sister provided a place to live, but we were largely expected to feed and clothe ourselves.
My escape time dwindled to almost zero between school and work. I did find I liked having money and enjoyed shopping for clothes at a local thrift store. If my brothers weren’t around I would wander through the women’s section and run my hands through the long dresses and dream of trying them on. I used to imagine someone catching me when I did this, and was extremely scared that a woman would notice how much I enjoyed it. I feared being caught and called “girl” or “sissy” again, so I only indulged in this when the women’s section was relatively empty. In my heart I longed for the courage to take one of the beautiful silky gowns to the register and buy one. Then take it home and try it on.
By the time I was seventeen I had gone through puberty and had become tall, lean and because I surfed I was tanned and blond. Girls began to take notice. I was extremely shy and still preferred my cartoon girls to the real thing. Women scared and fascinated me. I imagined being them and wearing some of their cute outfits or a bikini on the beach. I was now sneaking my sister’s things and trying them on in the mirror. I had grown my hair down to my shoulders and imagined I looked pretty good in some of my sisters outfits. I had my own room at home now since my older brother had moved out and it was easier to find space for my femme side, but it was still tricky. During all this time I hadn’t told a soul about my inner experience. It had all been tucked away and kept very secret even as my need to express it grew.
Then she took notice of me. Sally. We had Art class together. She was dark and feminine, exotic and beautiful. She took the seat next to me in class. I thought it was a coincidence, but it turned out to be more than that. I had been selected. I took me years to understand why, but I realized that I was soft and unthreatening. She never liked men and I was as soft and gentle as a woman.
We began dating and things moved quickly. She began working in the same restaurant as my brothers and I. Neither of us had any real parental guidance. Sally came from an abusive background and had learned to take care of herself. We decided to get our own place and move in together. We spent our senior year of High School sharing a single bed in a two hundred square foot studio. It was tiny but it felt like the first time I could breathe. No more boys to get in my space. Just a woman who filled it with pretty women’s things. She had a gentle feminine boyfriend. No man forcing himself on her. We were both in heaven.
I eventually told Sally about my feminine side. She wasn’t the least bit shocked. She took me shopping and I bought my own women’s clothes for the very first time. She showed me how to do my makeup and a number of other things I had longed to learn. We had a wonderful time opening up to each other about our lives and shared stories we’d never told a soul. For the first time in my life there was space for all of me.
