The Mirror

By Roberta Angela Dee

The look may cause fear. It might cause the adrenaline to flow, our hearts to pound faster as we anticipate the consequences of being exposed. Still, no matter how often it happens, the desire to be out is even stronger, as is the desire to be looked upon and accepted as a woman.

No one who has ventured out -- whether they are transgendered, transsexual or a cross dresser -- can say they have not shared this experience with me. It is the experience that bonds us whether we are African-American, Caucasian, Hispanic, Asian, or Native American. We know the look and the fear.

Of course, we all learn through experience and by making mistakes. So, the more often we venture out of the closet, the more comfortable we become.

I was 28 years old, and had been accepted as Roberta Angela Dee for only three years. But already I was earning an income as a woman, maintaining a household, shopping, socializing and gossiping along with other women -- all as a woman myself. I had eliminated, by this time, all traces and remembrances of my former self. As far as I was concerned, I was not a man, nor had I ever been a woman. I was a girl, a woman -- a female person, struggling like every other woman, to make it in a man's world.

And Roberta Angela Dee was a good girl. She played by the rules that govern every decent woman. For example, she would never date a girl friend's lover or a girl friend's former lover, never sleep with a married man, never go out immodestly or improperly, and never place a dollar value on the value of her femininity.

I learned very early on that if I wanted to be respected as a woman, and if I wanted to truly experience the joys of being a woman, I would need to play by the rules. Exceptions were not an option.

Being tall and thin, I knew how to dress to take advantage of my fragile yet feminine frame. I wore flimsy silk skirts. They were short and easily moved by the slightest breeze. And I wore elegant body shirts that caressed my newly formed breasts and announced to onlookers that I was indeed a very feminine creature.

During a night out at "Papa Joe's" -- a famous tavern in the French Quarter, New Orleans, I met a salesman from Nebraska. He was tall, distinguished, well dressed and he offered to buy me a drink, if I would sit at his table.

I glanced down for signs of a wedding ring -- either the ring itself or an indication that one had been worn. But there was no sign.

We chatted and within 15 minutes of conversation, I was thoroughly impressed with his demeanor, his wit, his intelligence and good manners. But I wondered if he knew I was transgendered.

When I felt comfortable enough to raise the question, I asked if he knew the difference between being transgendered and being transsexual.

"A transsexual is an individual who wants to have a sex change to be what they feel they are inside. And a transgendered person simply lives the way they feel inside, but never has the surgery."

"Close enough," I answered. And then, after pausing only a few seconds, I added, "And I'm transgendered."

He replied, "And I'm bisexual, so it doesn't matter. All I know is that you seem to be a very nice lady, and I'm very attracted to you."

Then, at that precise moment, I experienced what every woman experiences when the right man responds to her, and she feels herself responding to him as well. I could say it is magic, but that wouldn't explain it. I could call it arousal, but that would cheapen it. In reality, it is a beautiful surge in emotional femininity, a rise in the desire to shower a man with the very essence of your womanhood, to have him appreciate the love, and to return the love in kind.

I do not pretend to speak for all women, nor even most women, nor even those of us who are transgendered. But I believe all of us -- whether transgendered, transsexual, or woman-born women -- know this joy. And just as our fears bond us, our desire to be loved bonds us. It's something the feminists and Patricia Ireland, president of the National Organization of Women (NOW), could never understand.

The truth of the matter is that Patricia Ireland, nor can anyone else explain why she was born bisexual anymore than I can explain why I was born transgendered. Fate is blind.

"There's a discotheque on the roof of the hotel where I'm staying," he said. "Do you like to dance?"

"I love to dance," I told him -- with all the happiness of a little girl who had just been offered a piece of candy from her daddy. "Let's dance!"

And I left with this man who made me happy to be a woman, happy to feel protected in the midst of his strength and power.

When we reached the hotel, he got out of the car and opened the door for me. He then helped me out of the car. "What a wonderful man he is," I thought to myself. And I strutted into the hotel as though I were a princess being escorted by her handsome prince -- home from a victorious battle. And already I knew I could do anything for him, anything to please him.

While we were in the elevator, he pulled me near to him and kissed me. Then he began kissing my neck and earlobe. At first my eyes were closed. But when I opened them I saw, reflected in the mirror that covered the elevator door, a very happy woman -- whether transgendered or whatever. All I saw and all I knew I could be was a very happy woman.

I do not write to convince you one way or the other. This is simply my story for you to judge however it pleases you.