Sunday Journal: Curt and Melanie learn how to be girls

By MELANIE HUBBARD
© St. Petersburg Times
published February 10, 2002

A feminine voice explains over the phone that her name is Pepper, she lives nearby, and she just wants to let us know that her friend Curt, who will be staying with us at our guest house, is a trans. As in, not only cross-dressing, but cross-gender, making the change. Curt's from another town, a professional, and he wants to try his wings, to come out as a girl, here, with us. We're straights, but we're friendly and not above Virginia Woolf's androgynous ideal. I'm excited; this will be our first trans.

Pepper and "Priscilla" are at the door, and as they enter I think, Priscilla is not passing. She is tall and lunky, a fullback in tights and powder. And that wig. It's a really ratty blond bob. Why go for the "woman of a certain age" look? She's middle-aged, but she could be my grandmother. Pepper, though, is passing really well. She's petite and dressed in jeans and ornate boots; she'll do as a girl. Thai men, I think to myself, are the best at crossing -- hairless, fine-featured, slight. As I show them the house and explain breakfast times and things to do, private shower and upstairs porch, I watch: Pepper is a woman.

Curt comes to breakfast as a man; he says he might try Priscilla later, might go out. Our year-old daughter is enthralled with visitors of any sort. She hugs and kisses his knees, eats bits of banana and grapefruit from his hand and runs around in a state of beatitude.

The next morning, Priscilla comes to breakfast and gets the same treatment. She's truly touched. Most people think babies can "see," like dogs, a person's true nature, which is good, which is love. My husband and I wonder if our daughter can tell. We wonder, giggling in the kitchen, if our day-in, day-out Colombian Catholic babysitter can tell.

Priscilla's in a black tea dress, coiffed, made up, hosed and heeled. I wander by, compliment her -- she's really looking sharp. She's flipping through a shoe catalog as she waits for Pepper to come and pick her up. I'm in my usual slouchy attire: loose pants, T-shirt, chunky leather sandals, no makeup, hairy legs, unadorned hair. She holds the catalog out, pointing to some strappy white sandals, and says, "Every woman needs a pair of these for spring." I think, it is very strange to be told by a man what "every woman" needs. But I also think, hmmmm.

I remember the exact day I decided to be a girl. I was 12, standing by the mailbox in front of my house, and it seemed, finally, that I had no alternative. My best friend, a neighbor boy, had kicked me off the basketball court and out of his life because I was a girl. I could no longer pass as a boy, even an honorary one. But I would not pretend I didn't know the answers in pre-algebra. I would not coquette, would not cooperate. What was I to do with my assertiveness, physicality, strength and intelligence?

We all go horseback riding. Hints of spring are in the air, and buds are flaming in the trees. One of our companions on the ride is, as far as I can tell, a lesbian, a sweet butch. I like that she thinks I'm cute. Priscilla's not passing in her jeans and wig, and Pepper is terrified, it turns out, of horses. Halfway through the ride we've paused at a gully, and Pepper is helpless, limp in the saddle, a girly-girl. "Help!" she says, "I've lost my thingy!" My new friend says, "Thingy?!" I say to her, "Femme." It occurs to me I'm probably the hardest butch out here.

Curt has had a wonderful time; it's clear he never dreamed he'd find acceptance among a straight family. We've taken him, as Priscilla, to lunch, discussed his work and ideas, begun to be friends. Back in his town, he writes a lovely note and sends us $70 worth of books. I read the one about the transsexual economics professor. The author's now a woman, and I identify with her struggle. But why, I ask myself and her, would anyone want to be a woman?

Weeks later I've got a crush on a priest (a man in a dress?), and I'm buying flirty dresses at bargain prices. (The things my husband puts up with.) I go shoe shopping, and a pair of sandals hits my eye: thong, "Dolphin" blue, a 1-inch blue heel. Wedge of sky, of light. Just the thing to go with that swingy new shift. I go to church each week in full drag feeling like a sexy thing, and I see men glancing my way. Attention, baby. I'm passing pretty well.

- Melanie Hubbard is a freelance writer.

© St. Petersburg Times. All rights reserved.