Originally appeared in Transgender Tapestry #99, Fall 2002.

by Debra A. Johnson

When I was 15, my stepmother told me I would never be the man my father was. I spent the next 37 years trying to prove her wrong. After so many years of practicing manhood, how do you persuade others you really are a woman?
You have to start by persuading yourself. It was years before I began to listen. Then, when I finally told my oldest daughter, the wise one, she informed me: ?You?re not a woman, Dad!?

Like many transsexual women, I had a problem on my hands. Some of us take to womanhood naturally. We look pretty, our voices are sweet, our gestures are flowing. You can tell: there?s a woman in front of you.

But for many of us, testosterone and socialization have done their damage. For people like us, the journey to womanhood can be painful, But, along my journey, I learned that the God that wanted to put me into skirts was a humorist. Next to my wanting to act out the woman I believed I was was another fervent desire: not to be ridiculed or beaten up while walking down the streets of my blue-collar town. Learning how to apply makeup was not just an expressive moment? it was, to some extent, a protective disguise.

Here, I made some headway. I had a video on applying foundation and makeup. I had invested six months and a couple hundred dollars in foundations and blushers and lipsticks. I might have looked a bit patchy, and I?m sure my lipstick didn?t always match the rest of my face. So, when Anne, a neighbor I had hoped would develop into a potential girlfriend, stopped by to ask if I wanted some tips on presentation, I looked forward to lunch and her advice. After eating, we set aside our plates, ?First,? she said, as she turned to face me, ?I need to know what you?re aiming for: the theatrical or the realistic??

I was stung! I stammered that I thought I was going for the realistic. ? Then,? and she let me have it, ?Ditch the foundation and the wig!?

I tumbled away from our rendezvous with hollow thanks! I had heard from others that if you were successful, people should be able to sense without even looking that you were a woman? that you should be able to pass, if you had to, even in a burlap bag. I wondered if this is what Anne meant. Amidst my heartache, I was left with a new thought: to be a woman, I had to be natural! It was one of the best pieces of advice I could have been given.

At first, I felt naked without wig or protective cover. But it was pleasant to see the confusion I could cause, even without them.

?Can I help you over here, ma?am?? a teller would call out as I entered the bank? only to change pronouns on closer view. Boy baggers worried they had embarrassed me. So, as I picked up my bags, I graciously overlooked their shift in pronouns, as if their mistakes were entirely natural under the circumstances? which, of course, they were.

People were remarkably adaptable.

A postal clerk whose eyes grew wider as I came closer became completely normal when I politely asked for a roll of first class stamps. A rote request brought forth a rote response? and that was enough to bring us down to earth.

Some encounters were tinged with fear. When I walked up to the Sears automotive counter to order a battery, the clerk, a beefy man with hairy arms stood with his back to me, leaning over a desk. As he heard my voice and turned, he said: ?I?ll be with you in a moment, ma?am.? This was the response I was hoping for? yet I was seized by a sudden fear: What if I couldn?t carry it off? Those arms and hands could put me out for a while! The fear! Was I deceiving him, or myself? God must have snickered the afternoon I drove to work, hoping to sneak up the stairs to my office in blue pumps. My Tempo died in the middle of 75th Street and 22nd Avenue, one of the busiest intersections in my town and kitty-corner from the clinic at which my spouse worked.

I froze, but I had to get out of the car. The policeman standing by The Spot, a local drive-in, would be noticing the problem Tempo and me. With shoes pulsing like K-Mart bluelights, I walked over to him like a drunk trying hard to walk a straight line. I told him I would call a tow truck from the clinic. He nodded and pulled his car behind mine. But no one at the clinic had ever seen me in female attire before? let alone in blue pumps.

I strode in. The receptionist dialed the number, and I slid into a waiting-room chair and bowed my head, bracing for the questions to come. They never came; but when I looked up, I met the eyes of the pastor from the Lutheran college at which I used to teach. I don?t recall our conversation. Perhaps he was feeling gracious, perhaps he was blind, perhaps? and this was the thought I took with me? perhaps he didn?t give a damn!

Little by little, confidence grew, sometimes without effort? like the weekend I had to go to the hardware store for paint. Tired of putting myself together, I headed out in jeans and sweatshirt, fully prepared to be a boy for the few minutes it would take to find paint and get it shaken and paid for. The clerks addressed me with female pronouns. I was treated as a woman while wearing sloppy male attire!

Not everything went well. To celebrate the fifth anniversary of my business, I took my spouse and youngest daughter to the Deerpath Inn, a charming place serving legendary breakfasts in an upscale Chicago suburb. The prospect of a really excellent meal far from the eyes of her friends overcame my youngest daughter?s reluctance to be seen with me. She got into the car, resigning herself to my dress and stockings.

All was well at our table on the glassed-in veranda off the dining-room. My family had filled their plates for the first round. The waiters were attentive, and my daughter looked happy. Now I, too, could leave for the buffet. At the table, two small boys stood, watching the cook slice into the ham. The oldest decided on a Belgian waffle and took a serving spoon and heaped the whipped cream on top. His little brother saw a shortcut and dipped his hand into the mound of whipped cream. He was about to dip again when I turned to him and said rather sharply: ?Don?t do that!? He took a step back and considered me for a moment. Then he started jumping up and down.

?You?re not a girl! You?re not a girl! You?re just a boy with long hair!? he yelled several times excitedly. And away he skipped to share his discovery. Since anything I could say in my tenor voice would only confirm his and the public?s opinion, I went silently about the business of choosing my food and returned to my table? only to see the little boy storming around the corner, pointing me out to the father he had dragged along. ?There he is,? the little boy shouted gleefully for everyone to hear: ?That?s not a girl, that?s not a girl. That?s just a boy with long hair!? My daughter slid down her chair, her worst fears confirmed. It was hard to tell who was more embarrassed, the boys? father, or me. He quickly dragged off his son. If the other diners at the tables around had noticed, they didn?t show it; the waiters continued attentive, and it seemed the disturbance would be no more than local. Thanks to good manners all around, breakfast continued without further incident? although I did offer to wait outside in the car until breakfast was done. My daughter has more than reconciled herself to my change. She feels comfortable inviting home her boy and girl friends. The funny moments when I tripped up over physical issues have diminished, but the human comedy continues.

There is the issue of mental and spiritual development for us to slip up on. The amount of mental equipment that may require rewiring during transition can be enormous. A transgendered woman of sporadic acquaintance who is drop-dead gorgeous and has a lovely ringing woman?s voice used to snap pictures of her girlfriends in sexy poses and publish them on her website, like any red-blooded American male.

A number of transgendered women writers, including Jan Morris, Deirdre McCloskey, and Aleshia Brevard direct us to tackling tougher issues? not just what sort of a woman do I want to look like, but what sort of woman do I want to be? What is a ?real? woman or man, anyway? Better yet, what is it that makes me real to others? Does it have to do with gender, or is it more broadly human, having to do with developing a capacity to love in addition to being loved?

On that ultimate human journey, there will be many more comic slip-ups for most of us before we learn how to pass.