The Secret Garden

June of 1977 -- Long Island, New York

It was a day from the pages of a fairy tale. The sun wrapped each blade of grass with a luminescent glow. Robins, sparrows and finches sang, cheerfully. It was a weekday for us, but just any day for the scratchy sounds of the crows.

The herbal scent of the pasture moved seasoned with flowery fragrances of lavender, elderberry, and wild roses. On this day, Nature provided its personal aromotherapy -- one no man-made merchandiser could ever hope to match.

"It's so wonderful to be away from the noises," Marilyn commented while taking fruit, drinks, and sandwiches from the picnic basket. We watched her and agreed how comforting it was be away from the noise pollution that had become so much a part of our everyday lives. At any other time, it would not be possible to hear some form of artificial sound -- the hard drive of a computer, the motor of a printer, the hum of a stereo, the automobiles, telephones or televisions. No one was ever totally free from the noises -- not ever. Even at night, we would hear either the heater or the air conditioner, or the hum of an electric street light beyond a window. It was only here, in our secret garden, that every sound was natural, gentle and feminine. It was only here that music was not pushed along by the sound of a snare drum.

Debra wore a lavender baby doll dress that looked very feminine on her. I wore a sheer top that tied on the side. Its long skirt matched the floral print. Virginia wore a slinky knit dress. Its hem was high and the fabric was avocado colored.

We were all in our late twenties, had all graduated from college, and we each had a well-paying job. None of us earned as much as the men in our fields, but as women we were each doing better than average.

"I like your outfit, Roberta." Marilyn commented. "I especially like the top. It's very delicate, very feminine."

"Roberta always dresses nicely," Debra added.

"Why, thank you, ladies," I replied. "Those are very nice compliments. Not that either of you look the least bit shabby."

They both said, "Thanks," and giggled. Debra's laughter was genuine. I had known her for the three years since I graduated from college. Marilyn, however, was a much more recent acquaintance, and I could not tell from her behavior whether she was totally comfortable with my being transgendered, or if her kindness was merely a well-directed effort to be polite.

"Someone open the wine," Marilyn suggested.

"You open it," I replied. "You're probably the strongest."

"Why do you think I'm the strongest?" She asked, pretending to feel offended.

"I don't," I answered. "I just didn't want to be the one to open it."

Again, we all giggled like adolescents at their first slumber party as near-women.

"You don't think it's too early?" Debra asked.

"Listen, we've brought two bottles of wine," I replied, "it's not like we hadn't planned to get wasted." And, again, we giggled.

"Oh, that breeze feels so nice," Marilyn cooed.

I raised my arms over my head and exhaled all my anxiety. My breasts protruded and I noticed Marilyn staring at them, as if I had no right to them. Perhaps, my interpretation was more paranoia than reality. Again, I could not be certain. So, I evaded her eyes and pretended I had not noticed her stare.

That was our first picnic. It occurred nearly 20 years ago. I was only 27 years old and my face showed considerably more innocence.

Jimmy Carter was President of the United States. Rosalind was First Lady, and many of the young girls were trying to dress like the movie character Annie Hall. Few people had even heard of the word transgendered. I had heard it when I was 11 years old. I watched Virginia Prince on the Alan Burke talk show -- one of the first to be nationally syndicated. These were the early days of television when television producers exercised good taste and moral restraints. So to see a man with breasts and obvious cleavage was an astounding event.

Mr. Burke puffed on his huge cigar and asked Virginia if she was a woman. He asked if she had had a sex change operation. Virginia insisted that she was a man but that he had chosen to live as a woman. He was the first to use the word transgendered as a means of distinguishing himself from someone who would be called a transsexual. Today, transgendered is used in several different ways -- some more correct than others.

Virginia and I continue to be friends. We corresponded for several years. He mailed a photograph of himself to my post office box in Augusta. Even at 70 plus years of age, he makes for a striking woman.

Virginia's philosophy is more anatomically based than mine. He feels he can live as a woman and still be a man. I disagree, particularly if one takes female hormones as we both have done for most of our lives.

Female hormones do more than redistribute fat and decrease muscularity. They influence the emotional state of the individual and causes changes to the structure of the brain. A male to female transsexual might, under the influence of female hormones, become less aggressive, more emotive and intuitive -- more like a woman. Hormones combined with lifestyle obviously produces a marked change in an individual. He is no longer a man in the traditional sense -- certainly not in terms of gender, regardless of anatomical difference with those of a genetic female. Consequently, I say I am transgendered and female, because it is who I am in mind, heart and soul.

It would, however, have been unfair to expect Marilyn to understand that I was a woman. She accepted me as such mostly because I presented myself as a woman. In her heart of hearts, however, I knew that she believed me to be a male. Marilyn continues to represent a majority of people who fail to distinguish between sex and gender. Yet, even under present definitions, one can be a male and a woman. In other words, one's sex can be male while one's gender is decidedly female.

Regardless of our different philosophies, I wanted Marilyn to like me as a girl friend. I certainly wasn't trying to impress her as a male while I wore a sheer dress with a floral pattern.

"This is like an outdoor slumber party," Debra commented.

"This wine really has me feeling silly," Marilyn added.

"Don't blame it on the wine," I said, smiling to assure her that I was merely making a joke.

"Girl," she replied, "you ought to go all the way and have your operation. You make a good woman."

I didn't want to argue with her. I smiled but thought to myself that had I a dollar for each time someone had suggested I go "all the way" I would ever have to work another day in my life. Somehow the idea that the primary distinction between male and female is rooted in the genitals has embedded itself in every lay persona and even the academic community.

Is judging a human being on the basis of their genitalia really any different or morally correct than judging that individual on the basis of their bra size, the color of their skin, or any other physical attribute? Does a woman who has had a hysterectomy somehow become less a woman because she is no longer able to bear children? Does a castrated or impotent male become less a man because he can no longer father children?

In spite of all our technological advances, we continue to be very primitive in the way we access each other as human beings. Sociologists have proven that we reward people for being attractive. This naturally infers that we punish people for being less than attractive or what is perceived as beauty. An attractive woman holds an infant's attention longer than one who is less attractive. Yet, as the child matures, he or she seeks more important attributes in a parent. Somehow, between childhood and adulthood, many of us lose that wisdom, and again weigh physical attributes above an individual's capacity to love and nurture. I think that's very sad.

The End

Dear Reader,

I am a writer and like most writers I live for responses from Readers like you. Please take a few minutes to comment on "The Memoirs of a Trangsendered Lady." Contact me at RADANGLE@aol.com. Thank you.

Roberta Angela Dee @>~~>~>~~~~

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