The Masculization of Feminity

September of 1996 -- Augusta, Georgia

I received an electronic letter (e-mail) from an individual who had meticulously examined everything I had ever written. "Your work is flawed," the individual suggested, "I don't know how you can get away with what you write in this post-modern age." The letter was signed, "The Rhonda."

The letter included an invitation for us to meet the next evening at the Cafe de Tu, located on Central Avenue in Augusta. It's a fairly popular meeting place for professors teaching at Paine College -- a predominately African-American school located in the heart of Augusta.

I replied affirmatively, and suggested that we meet at 6:00 PM. A few hours later, I checked my e-mail. There was a letter from "The Rhonda." It simply stated, "I'll be there."

When I arrived, I instinctively looked for a man. The writer's name, Rhonda, seemed masculine enough, and the harsh aggressive tone of the letter had suggested a male. However, the only individual seated alone was a short, somewhat stocky cross dresser. I walked over, introduced myself and said, "I am supposed to meet someone here who goes by the name of Rhonda."

"Yes! Yes!" the cross dresser repeated with some degree of elation, "I am she."

As I moved to assume a seat at the table, I tried to think of something to say. I would avoid commenting on the cross dresser's appearance -- the old fashioned and flashy dress, but in any event, before I could say anything, Rhonda spoke.

"I teach as a woman, you know?"

"Well, you're certainly dressed as a woman," I replied. "I had no idea that you were an instructor as well."

"A professor," Rhonda announced quickly and with a detectable measure of pride. "I'm a full professor. I teach psychology. And I have a particular interest in transgressive behavior, partly because I'm transgendered."

I didn't know what to say. I had thought Rhonda was a cross dresser. Now she was telling me that she was in reality a non-operative transsexual.

I could, of course, sympathize with her on many different levels. Still, it was to a degree quite humorous that this individual was teaching, of all subjects, psychology. Talk about sublime irony.

"Your signature is somewhat interesting," I commented, "You end your e-mail with "The Rhonda," as though you are the only individual who carries that name."

"No, the name is common enough," she replied, "but I am the only Rhonda who is truly Rhonda. Get it?"

I laughed very briefly. Somewhat uneased by her manner of dress, I immediately decided it would be best that I stay clear of any topic that involved either her name or appearance.

A waiter came to our table. Looking at me, he asked, "Ma'm would you care to order anything?" And I replied, saying, "A vodka martini, please." He then looked at Rhonda, and with an inquiring tone, said, "And you?" It was obvious that the waiter wanted to avoid any reference to Rhonda's sex or gender. However, if the waiter had any suspicions, Rhonda's voice removed any doubt. It was distinctively masculine.

"A glass of port," she responded, speaking softly so as to appear more feminine. Though the quietness could barely mask the maleness.

At that point, I wanted to ask how her students responded to her teaching psychology, but I suppressed the desire rather quickly.

"Are you familiar with queer studies?" she asked.

"No, but I imagine it would involve homosexuals," I replied.

"Not just gays," she answered with unsettling excitement, "transsexuals, and transgendered people too. It's really a study of all sorts of transgressive behavior."

"So, you're saying that you're transgressive because you've completed sex reassignment surgery."

"Oh, no," she replied as though surprised, "I thought I had explained that I have no intentions of having surgery. I'm anatomically male but my gender is female."

"That's a bit confusing," I asserted.

"No. It's not confusing at all," she answered. "Sex is the body. Gender is the mind. You mustn't get the two confused."

"I'm not confused at all," I replied, "but if your gender is female and you're living as a female, then what are you transgressing."

"It's more that my behavior is transgressive because I'm anatomically male."

Yes, but you're also anatomically female, at least in part," I added. "You at least appear to have female breasts."

"Well, I should have said genetically female," Rhonda suggested as a means of correcting her earlier statement.

So, then," I asked, "are you saying that sex is a function of genetics, and gender is a function of the mind? Are you saying you are genetically male but mentally female?"

"Well, yes, in a sense," Rhonda answered. "But you have to remember that I'm a scholar. And as a scholar, I perceive gender at a much higher level than you would perceive it. I perceive gender in a more intellectually sophisticated realm of consciousness."

I wanted to tell Mr./Ms. Rhonda Whatever that, as far as I was concerned, he/she was of an indeterminable gender. However, with considerable effort, I again managed to suppress the desire. I didn't want Rhonda to think that my emotions had clouded my ability to be rational and logical. Nor did I want The Rhonda to think that I was in any way anti-homosexual, anti-transsexual, or anti-anything.

Without a doubt, however, she was a difficult person to like. She was pretentious and pompous, and offered little in the way of meaningful discussion. She rambled on for nearly a half hour about post-modern intellects -- mostly European of course, and how the only way to achieve enlightened thought was to rid the mind of all emotional and sentimental pretenses.

I couldn't help but wonder how humankind had even managed to survive so many thousands of years, in so far as our thinking had been so imprecise, immature, and ineffective. How fortunate we are to live in the same century with persons like The Rhonda, and to be able to experience scholars so linguistically precise that they can simply dismiss any thought that conflicts with their own.

I listened for a full half hour, and then said, "So, you're a woman. Correct?"

"Absolutely!" the Rhonda answered, much as I had suspected she would answer. I knew that beneath the rhetorical tautologies and pseudo-intellectual dribble there was an unfulfilled human being who desperately needed to be acknowledged as a woman.

"So, are you dating anyone?" I asked, consciously mustering as much genuine interest as I could manage. If I had been an actor, and my performance filmed, I would certainly have been nominated for an Academy Award.

Oh, yes!" Rhonda responded, instantly -- her eyes illuminating as though a cool breeze had found its way beneath her floral dress. "I'm dating this wonderful British gent -- a scholar, of course, much like myself. His name is Terry."

"That doesn't surprise me," I responded, quickly resuming a forced interest in her affairs."

"Well, he was quite a surprise to me!" she replied and then giggled like a school girl. "He likes to give me the big one. He does!"

"I bet he does," I answered with an innocent smile. "But I'm sure a woman like yourself can well harbor his manliness."

Rhonda giggled noticeably loud. The bizarre sound attracted the waiter. He came over to see if anything was wrong, but I explained that it was just the peculiar way The Rhonda laughed.

"I understand," the waiter replied. He otherwise displayed little concern, and soon walked away.

"I don't get out much," Rhonda confessed. "I'm a writer, really. I have a cleverness with words. It's very subtle but if you're as well read as I, you can appreciate the touch of humor I give to my scholarly prose."

"Sort of like prose with a purpose," I suggested, but I could tell she didn't appreciate my making light of her prose.

Rhonda began explaining what she felt were the weaknesses in my approach to gender. I listened, politely. However, I could not help but wonder if all her transgressive rationale would not result in a world where gender would have no texture or essence. In Rhonda's world the dramatic and subtle differences between male and female, or adult and child, would be synthesized into some homogeneous concoction that was as bland as Rhonda.

"Terry and I believe that queer children should be mentored by queer adults," Rhonda announced.

"You seem very fond of the word 'queer'," I replied.

"Well, it's because it includes both transgressive and non-transgressive behavior," she answered.

"What about untransgressive behavior?" I inquired.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind."

It was definitely one of the strangest evenings I'm able to recall. Rhonda disappeared shortly after our encounter. I felt fortunate never to hear from her again.

The End

I am a writer and like most writers I live for the feedback from Readers like you. Please take a few minutes to comment on ìThe Memoirs of a Trangsendered Lady.î I can be reached at RADANGLE@aol.com. Thank you.

Roberta Angela Dee
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