Women Are Like Rivers

July of 1982 -- Westwego, Louisiana

I was 33 years old in 1982. Looking feminine required more time and more effort. Perhaps, it even took a little more pressed powder.

Fortunately, a degree of wisdom followed the inevitable loss of innocence.

So while it was not as easy to look pretty, it was easier to carry myself in a way that better suggested being pretty.

My work at the construction facility went well. I was the ìtall black womanî and little beyond that was rarely ever mentioned. Iím not so attractive that none suspected that I might be transsexual. However, no one ever approached me about it, and that was the best a woman in my position could wish to achieve.

Still at 33 years old, I remained a single woman. This alone drew a certain amount of suspicion. ìDonít you feel your biological clock ticking?î women would ask me in the ladyís rest room. And I would tell them that I could not conceive. This, of course, was quite true.

There were many days when I would be approached by my supervisor, and I wondered if he was about to tell me that there was a ëdiscrepancyî concerning my social security number or employment history. It never happened, but I knew that if my womanhood was challenged, I would simply leave and allow them to conclude whatever they wished.

Legally, I had no defense. I would be charged with misrepresentation, and the charge would be valid because ìlegallyî I was still a man. So, the law was not on my side. I knew, however, that without my admission, an employer could not specify the reason for my discharge. This would allow me to pursue employment with another contractor within the area where I had the most experience. So, although a discharge would be a major inconvenience, my life would at least be repairable.

I knew that I was a woman, and Rebecca knew. She had never thought of me as anyone other than another female. Society was the problem. Stereotypes from the Middle Ages reined supreme in America. It was even prevalent among other transsexuals who insisted that the only means to achieve credibility as a woman was to have sex reassignment surgery (SRS).

I had a number of reasons for not having surgery. Good surgery by a well informed physician was expensive. It would easily have cost me $12,000 dollars back in 1982, and $12,000 dollars was considerably more difficult to come by than it is today. There was also the factor pertaining to the quality of surgery. No surgeon, even today, guarantees that the results will measure up to the patientís expectations. Back in 1982, the expectations were not nearly as high as they are today. Yet, even if the surgery was perfect and there were absolutely no complications, the new vagina would still not be the same as that of a genetic womanís vagina. The surgical vagina would be more prone to infections, lack depth, and was considerably more fragile. So, the question I asked myself was: did I have to exchange a satisfying sex life and a life as a woman, for surgery that was at best risky and could produce unreliable results?

ìBut how can you be a woman, if you have a penis?î transsexuals persistently asked. And I would tell them that my gender was determined by who I was, not how I was constructed. If you surgically added a penis to a genetic woman, she would in fact be a woman with a penis. The main point was that surgery could not change who I was as a woman. It could only change how I looked.

I had never challenged any transsexualís decision to have surgery. For many I thought it was a fruitless measure, but I never disputed their right to make that choice. Over the years, however, I had begun to strongly resent the number of transsexuals and so called androgynous transsexuals who had questioned my right to make a choice that differed from their own.

A very close friend of mine named Gerald Saunders had been transsexual. She knew she was a woman. There was no doubt about it. Yet, she married a woman and fathered three beautiful children. He pretended to be a man until the day he died. He was never happy, but continued to be a man because he felt it was the right thing to do. For him it was a matter of respecting his parents and his religious convictions.

However, whenever I mentioned Gerald to other transsexuals, they would heartlessly dismiss his transsexualness. ìOh, he must never have truly been transsexual,î theyíd say. ìIf he were a true transsexual, he could never have lived that way.î

I, however, will never forget the last day I visited him in the hospital. He asked that I make certain that he was buried with something pretty. And it was so sad. Here was a woman who had lived as a man her entire life, as a matter of principles. Could I dismiss her right to be buried with some form of dignity as a woman? I could not.

At the funeral, I slipped a pretty little broach into her jacket pocket. It was buried with her. And if there is a life after death, I know sheís happy in that life and that she has thanked me for being compassionate where others could show only disdain.

The moment induced an emotion I shall never forget. It increased my sense of humanity and my ability to be compassionate towards those who are different -- regardless of their differences.

American was a nation erected on the principle of tolerance. It deeply disturbed me that there were so many who advocated intolerance and spread their passion for intolerance to so many people.

I shared my thoughts with Rebecca, the woman I had come to love so dearly. She invited me to take a walk with her. And so, we walked for nearly a half mile. Our trek took us to a river far behind the apartment complex and not far from some swamp land. She and I sat along the banks of a river that was too wide to cross.

ì We are like that river,î she said. ìWomen are like rivers.î

How are women like a river?î I asked.

ìWe just are,î she answered. ìItís what we are. Weíre rivers.î

Rebecca saw the confusion in my eyes and then proceeded to elaborate.

ìWhen a man mimics a woman, when he cross dresses or whatever, he mimics the waves of a river. He mimics the flow, the way it moves. A river, however, has more elements than just its waves. Where the river is narrow, it flows faster. Where it is broader, it flows more slowly. Some areas of the river may be very shallow and other areas may be very deep. So a single river will have many different characteristics. Just like a woman. One woman -- but what gives her depth is the variety within her soul, the textures within her being, the many different currents to the ways she lives her life. She like a river can have many currents, so can a woman, Currents within currents. Currents above and below currents.î

It was clear to me. As I had aged the depth of my womanhood had grown and had aged too. I was no longer just a river that mimiced other rivers. I too possessed the many currents and patterns that are all a part of being a woman. And it felt good. It felt good to be a woman -- a real woman!

ìI understand you, Rebecca,î I told her, as we walked back to the apartment. ìI undeerstand every word that youíve said. I understand you perfectly.

"Ah, yes," she answered, happily. "You are a woman. You understand."

The End

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