I was almost thirteen years old when, through a situation of circumstances, I had a fateful day in my life. I was home all alone for the day and had a series of house chores to do which included putting away some laundry. It had been awhile, actually several months, since I had worn anything feminine, and it was the farthest thing from my mind as the day started.

I was becoming a young man, though I can’t say I really knew what that was because being a boy sure had not been easy. But, if boys didn’t wear women’s things, well then, young men surely didn’t either.

Some of the laundry I had to put away belonged to my mother. My downfall was opening up that one dresser drawer and seeing those two brand new bras just lying there. I did try to just close the dresser drawer and walk away, but just looking at them wouldn’t be a problem. The bras just seemed so white, and so pretty, and felt so soft to the touch. The tags on them said they were size 36B. Satisfied, I closed the drawer and walked away.

I hadn’t, by then, worn a bra for over two years, maybe longer, and I swear it was like those bras were like magnets to me. I convinced myself that if I could put on one of the bras for just a minute that I could then walk away and never do it again. Wearing a bra before always meant that I had to tie the back of it in order to get it to fit me, but this time was different. As I put one of those brand new bras around my chest, I realized I could hook the bra, and it would fit me.

Months of purging went right out the window as I knew I could put on that bra just like a real girl. With straps in place, and the cups padded nicely, I marveled at seeing my new chest in the dresser mirror. I had no body hair yet because of my youth, and I knew that my chest, right then, was just like the chests of the girls who I knew at school when they wore their bras. I even knew that, supposedly, some of those girls padded their bras, just as I had, so I was not at all different than some of them. My hearing was very acute, and I used to overhear lots of conversation without really trying.

I was a goner, and knew I had to have more right then. Everything fell into place. I found a girdle and garter hooks. I found a pair of stockings. I found a slip that was also a perfect fit for my body, and even a dress, a sleeveless black dress, that fit except for being way too long. A needle and thread, and a very rough hemming solved that problem, though.

It seemed unbelievable to me that so many things were there, right then, just for me. Even by then, the bra I was wearing, I felt was my bra, and I just had to put the rest of my clothes on or feel like I was just going to explode inside me. I put on the girdle, and it felt good to me, though I had never worn a girdle before. Years before, I had been teased severely by some other boys for having "girls’ legs" when I wore shorts. I hadn’t worn a pair of shorts since that time.

As I sat on the edge of the bed, though, and put on my stockings I was glad I had "girls’ legs". It took awhile to figure out the garter hooks, and how to fasten them to the top of my stockings, but I learned. A look in the mirror proved that my chest, my hips, and then my legs looked and felt so very pretty to me, and I felt so good and happy about it.

My legs were just as pretty as any of the girls I knew, even prettier than some, and I was very glad my legs were also hairless. I knew young men got hair on their bodies and legs, but at least it wasn’t a problem then. I was becoming a girl with everything I put on, and loved it. For so many years, all I could wear were bits and pieces of clothing, from time to time. That day I knew I was going to be complete. I put on the slip and then the little black dress.

The dress contoured to my body as I zipped it up, and it felt good to see my body fill out that dress in what I had heard said was "all the right places". My hairless arms looked good in the sleeveless dress, so pretty, so feminine. My mind was racing to comprehend all that was happening to me, as I felt myself, and saw myself, changing from a boy to a girl, right before my eyes. A scary moment came as I sat on the edge of the bed again and let my stockinged feet slip into a pair of black 2" spike heels. I was sure they would be too big, but like everything else that day, it was as if those heels were made just for me.

Just like the other girls I knew, I learned to walk in my very first pair of heels that day, and I felt even more just like them. I put on a necklace and earrings, and then faced a really major drawback. My hair was way too short for a girl. I was so close to making that mirror image a complete girl, and I felt myself starting to cry because it hurt so much to not feel I was complete. But the magic of the day wasn’t over yet. I remembered something I had seen in the attic. Within minutes I was in front of the dresser mirror again.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and used a hairbrush to comb some of my hair down over my forehead to make bangs, and then added the black hat I had remembered, to my head. My boy’s hair disappeared. I started shaking all over as I sprayed some perfume on my wrists and neck, and it took a lot of concentration to add my final touch. I was still shaking as I stepped back from the dresser to see my full image in the dresser mirror. It may have all been in my mind, but there in the mirror was not just a girl, but a beautiful young woman looking back at me.

The whole impact of the moment hit me then, very hard. Where three hours earlier had been a boy looking at a bra in the dresser, there was now me, as a woman. For years I had dreamed of that moment, and had dreaded it, too. I had dreamed of a time of putting all the bits and pieces of dressing up together, just to know how it would look and feel. But that time had scared me, too, because it was always there in my mind that I was a boy, and I was not supposed to have the thoughts and feelings I did inside me. Right then, I was facing that moment.

I had never expected to feel the physical, mental, and emotional sensations that I was experiencing. These were not the sensations of a boy, and I knew that very well. I had never felt as good, as real, and as complete, and I felt right then, in all my life, and surely never as a boy. I didn’t have a clue what was happening to me. Way back in my mind something told me I was doing something wrong, and that I should hate myself and be ashamed, because I was a boy. But I didn’t.

There was no boy in that bedroom, and I didn’t feel ashamed of that. Maybe later I would, I thought to myself. But that would be later. For whatever reason I had become real, just as real as the boy, and I needed to live and breathe just as he did. I went about the rest of my chores that day, feeling happy and good. But, as they say, all good things come to an end, and later that afternoon I knew I had to let Martin, the boy, return.

I saw him return as I wiped off my lipstick and began undressing and putting everything back where it belonged. I don’t know why it happened or how it happened, but that day I was born and the war between him and I began. It took twenty-five years for us to find peace with each other. And I can tell you that there were many times in those years of war that we both returned in our minds to that one day when he found a brand new bra in a dresser drawer, and it fit me.

Maybe it would all have happened anyway, at another time. We don’t know and never will. How could a bra start a war? Well, now you know. g

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According to Case’s Professor Reneé Sentilles., citing a Thomas LeClerc’s "Making Sex", there used to be only one sex and two genders. Females were viewed as imperfect males, rather than as a class distinct unto themselves. That there were differences in behavior of imperfect males was only natural, a function of their failed physiologies. Only during the so-called "Enlightenment" did we come to view things in a totally binary form, creating a wall of separation of between male and female and tattooing lists of permanent attributes to each class on the bodies of infants as they were born.

This fascinating revelation was part of her ongoing research into the origins of the term "tomboy", which Professor Sentilles has learned, originally meant both rowdy men and bawdy women. Only in recent times has tomboy come to mean a female acting in a "mannish" or "boyish" way. And while in years past, most women would be highly offended to be considered tomboys, most women today would have little trouble if that appellation were applied to them. But along with the relegation of tomboy to boyish girls, came another forced gender distinction: women as sexually passive. Back in the days when there was only one sex, women were viewed as sexual predators. They used their wiles to slake their lust by seducing men to their downfall, just as Eve did with Adam. This change coincided with a change in the ideal body chosen for painting from that of a pubescent male to a woman’s body. (I think this is a current thesis posed by arch-feminist provocateur Germaine Greer in "The Beautiful Boy"...but I’ve got catching up to do... now where did I leave my Cliff Notes?)

These concepts and more were just part of the discussion at an informal seminar on feminism and femininity held at Lake Erie College in Painesville, earlier this month. Curated by my friend from last year’s Cleveland International film festival, Lyz Bly, the art gallery is currently showing the works of two strongly feminist women artists, among other offerings. Some of the photographs of Sarah Curry were pictures of women friends in poses and with captions that commented on the struggle women have in defining their lives for themselves. Ms. Curry, calling herself a voyeur also used a downward looking viewfinder to take candid images of people as she explored the rockabilly culture around her. One thing she observed was that men look at women the way they look at cars.

Hadley K. Conner used vividly colored, near-realistic paintings with overlays to make similar comments. The overlays of plastic stood off from parts of the painting by about a foot and contained line drawings based on commercial art that views women as sex objects. The line art cast a shadow on the painting, forcing the observer to consider the imposition of sexual expectations on women. The overlays were also presented as being symbolic of veils worn by women at weddings, and in ancient times again at their funerals.

Ms. Prudic, another panel member and Art Professor at Lake Erie, discussed her current series of creations. Text is written on moldings (skins) made of her body. Starting from a concern about banned books and freedom of expression, Ms. Prudic received a deliberately offensive remark that after insulting gay women and African-American men asked, "NOW do you believe in free speech." She chose to render the offensive remark along with the less pointed commentary because of her commitment to free speech, but she also sensed and discussed the conflict that this was intended to and did create.

In the discussion one of the artists also said, "high heels and liquid eye-liner were invented by men, but... I like high heels and liquid eye-liner." This comment was recognized as articulating the problem faced by third generation feminists- in one sense having their cake and eating it too. The notion that women are people too, and have may have dreams of fulfillment beyond, outside or instead of wifedom and motherhood and are entitled to pursue these as a basic human right is to the present generation of young women established, at least in the west. Equal pay for the same job, if not equal pay for equivalent work is also regarded as an established principle. At the same time, the idea that feminism requires giving up heels and eye-liner seems to strike these women as similar to Emma Goldman’s statement: "If I can't dance, I don't want to be a part of your revolution!"

So where do eye-liner and high heels fit into this? In part that’s why I attended the seminar. One of the largest areas that crossdressers stumble over time and again is "what do I wear and what does it mean?" Which of course means individual wrestling with the question of what does it mean to express the fabled "feminine side" or "inner woman."

There is one stream of feminist discourse that decries the choices crossdressers make. By dressing like their mothers (the Tri-Ess stereotype of a conservative man in a conservative dress as exemplified by the pictures alleged to be ex-Tri-Ess treasurer Samantha Walls) or as whores, crossdressers are men engaged in a ritual reinforcement of immoral cultural impositions on women. When coupled with complaints by some of the less aware CDs that women don’t know how to be feminine anymore, this radical analysis has a lot of sense to it. Those were the kinds of things forming questions for me attending this event.

I can’t claim to have found any answers that can be passed on to anyone else. I had some fascinating conversations with women afterwards, and was invited to a gallery opening which that I was unable to attend. I was also invited to contribute to "Cool Cleveland," as I happened to be sitting next to a woman who is an editor for the on-line journal. For the moment I have declined, in part because I think some of the things I think and believe are critical of aspects of the behavior and thinking of members of the so-called transgender community. I’d prefer my remarks to be stimulus for discussion inside the community rather than outside. g

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By Diane Frank

The second part of this is a lead article in which a Houston transgender activist chooses to confirm (truthfully or not) all elements of the story when asked by a reporter. One of the supposed rules of Tri-Ess meetings, gender conventions, etc., and a real rule within Alpha Omega is the one about confidentiality. We don’t "out" people. If we make friends and come to know personal information, we do not share it. But this particular transgender activist did. What does this tell us about trusting people in meetings or conventions? What does this suggest about the agendas and trustworthiness of activists? I’m sure we all know that there are activists who believe everyone should be out. Can you trust them not to "out" you when it gets their name in the paper?

In the newest aftershock, we learn that Walls not only has worn a dress but has also appeared as "Samantha Walls" with a Houston-based club of other men who like to dress up. This was three years ago, not 15 or 20, and Samantha has publicly posted Web messages as recently as May 15.

In this quote from the Dallas-Fort Worth Star-Telegram’s columnist Bud Kennedy are revealed a number of things that are not fun. I’ll bet that the person in question didn’t think that the web messages were public at all. But, after all, what is private on the web? Your every e-mail can be tracked back to you with a routine subpoena. So-called ‘private’ chat groups or list-serves can have moles in them. Anyone can record a chat session, and unlike recording a phone conversation, they have no legal obligation to inform you that it’s being recorded.

On the other hand, they might all be quaking in their six-inch heels that this will "out" more of them, expose the whole Texas cross-dressed heterosexual conservative "normal" good ol’boys club to public scrutiny. They might figure that they’ll do Sam more harm than good speaking up as an organization. They could figure that they really can’t do anything because of confidentiality rules. They could have issued a statement saying that due to confidentiality rules they can’t comment about people’s identities, and then use the attention to educate. No evidence of that. Better just keep quiet, the way they always do. No right answers for that group here, only a succession of bad choices or worse ones. g

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April is the month to pay your annual dues:

$36 Single

$48 Couple

So far there have been very few hits on this, tending to confirm my darker suspicions about what people are really hoping to find when they visit our site.

If you have been trying to use the audio features and can't get them to work, please click on the little green dots with the white figure in the center.  That's what get's things to play. NOT an interface I would have designed...but so it goes.

Diane