Born-Again Woman
by Judy Osborne

Sometimes I imagine the scenario of my birth. In that reconstruction, I popped out of the womb displaying five fingers on each hand, two eyes and a nose in the right places, and nothing else missing or much out of place except a penis where girl babies aren't supposed to have one. After a bit of cleanup, a nurse wrapped my little body in a blue blanket and lugged me off to the nursery. Without even a flicker of consideration, the doc stepped to a desk in the corner and checked "boy" in the record of my birth.

Out in the waiting room, my scenario has my father joyfully celebrating the new addition to his family and prayerfully thanking his god for the tremendous boost toward immortality my arrival brought him. My older sister's birth might not have elevated him all that much.

While bringing joy to my father, the doctor's unfortunate choice burdened me with a lot of nonsensical rules, a jumbled mess of legalities, moral directives, toys I could and couldn't play with, "boy" instead of "girl" hobbies, ways of walking and talking, clothes and colors I could wear, characteristics of my friendships, schools I could go to, people I could love and marry and people I couldn't, my future status and earning ability, my role in religion, and on and on and on. The doctor never even considered whether or not he was giving me the right set of rules. Assuming the kindest will in the world, he had no way to look into my little mind and heart and know the intensity of my need to be a girl, nor consider the obstacles which the stroke of his pen would scatter in my path to integrity.

It didn't take me long to realize that the Calvinistic god of my childhood held no fond place in his heart for sissy little boys. The rigid rules of gender, and scary prohibitions against violating them, were etched deeply in my very first memories. Seldom dared I challenge the edges of my little corridor of righteousness, at least not when anybody else was watching. I pretended a good-little-prissy script of boyness, pushing back against the hated gender boundaries just enough to test them but not so much as to cause my world to crash.

My father (I'll call him "Mr. O") took seriously his role as the Calvinist god's pipeline into my soul. In that harsh religion, all the goodness and bounty of life and afterlife depends on being selected among the "chosen." Mr. O, deacon of his church and a moral pillar in our town, poured endless energy into demonstrating that he and his "son" were among god's favorites. Nothing a person could do in life could get you chosen -- you were or you weren't, and that was that! Still, being "chosen" among the ubiquitous forces of evil was manifested by an exemplary life lived according to a set of rules which I quickly recognized as my boundaries. A father's position among the chosen depended on his entire family displaying non-stop righteousness. A boy showing girl tendencies would gum up the works, call a family's piety into doubt; perhaps even lead to a questioning of the patriarch's favor in the eyes of the Calvinist god. I took the coward's path, saving my feminine excursions for moments when I was alone.

I learned many things as a boy. The god of my childhood demanded "proper" behavior rather than stressing inherent goodness. Definitely homophobic, the god frowned on all physical expressions of love except those needed to conceive more Calvinists. The god of the chosen looked down on Jews and Poles, Italians and the Irish, but was OK with "colored people" as long as they followed the plan and knew their places. The Calvinist god seemed content with exploiting people for private gain so long as the exploited hadn't achieved certifiable standing among the chosen.

The misogyny of that Calvinistic god felt especially awesome to me. Good women had to live with an incredible rigidity of gender behavior, a soul-diminishing subjugation extending into all aspects of their lives. Patriarchal power rolled again and again over my mother and sister.

Mr. O labored without rest to create me in his image, commanding me first and foremost to "be a man," words pronounced with such fervor that I imagined exclamation points dancing in the air. A sermon was ready at any cue. With infinite repetition he seeded my brain with images of god the father, of male primacy in church and society, of men's responsibility to love and honor women and provide for them and take care of them and correct their course if they strayed; to control and dominate them in a loving and responsible way. He drilled me with the catechism of the "chosen;" saw me as key member of the club destined to thrive among the power elite.

No matter how many times he preached my power and superiority, though, the femininity hidden deeply inside me tripped him up; blocked his path into my soul. By word and deed he drilled me with women's inferiority and need for male "direction." His righteous vision never stuck. I understood that his vision would oppress me even more hideously.

It didn't take long for me to find my way into my sister's closet and begin exploring my image, my femininity, how I would look and feel as a girl. By age seven my talents seemed good enough to share with the world. Dressed up one day in my sister's "new look" skirt and peasant blouse, a babushka tied over my regulation hair, I strolled up the main street of my little Massachusetts village in an air of studied nonchalance. I might not have looked as perfect a girl as I imagined, but I did get away with it.

I worked the family's schedules ceaselessly to isolate moments for excursions into girlhood, tracking where everyone would be during those cherished periods. Allowing a tiny margin of safety, I put everything back into closets and drawers exactly as my compulsively neat sister had placed them there. Close calls came scarily often but only once did I get busted. Mr. O willingly let me draw him into a state of denial that one time.

Socially-endorsed opportunities to express my girlhood came along a few times. I manipulated my way into them shamelessly. I sang in a sweet soprano voice before puberty challenged my dreams of growing up a girl. After lots of scheming, I gained permission to join the girls in the church choir. Every Sunday I showed up cute as I could make myself in my little white choir smock, doing my absolute best to become one with them. Minstrel shows were the vogue then, extravaganzas in which whites, with charcoal smeared all over their faces and a wide band of lipstick, caricatured black people, told offensive jokes, sang down-home songs; acted like clowns. It's an art form which disappeared long ago, thank goodness, but I wasn't above taking advantage of a chance to play "Madame Knowitalski" in a minstrel show skit. Wrapped in a shapeless skirt and a huge fitted top, a pillow serving as my bosom, I joyfully reeled off clairvoyant answers to a bunch of planted questions. They couldn't get the outfit off me afterwards.

Though fun like that sometimes came my way, it was a lonely life. Nowhere did I fit in, not with girls, not with boys, not even with other outcasts. Never did I know the blessing of living an open and honest life, never did I share the whole of me with a friend, never did I feel anything but shame and remorse about the secret person hidden inside my being, never did I allow myself the release of spontaneous joy for fear of revealing my reality, and never did I realize that a fatal evil like mine existed in any other person. Mr. O's preaching, and my own instincts, anchored my femininity under very deep cover.

Those instincts proved wise beyond my years. Much later I learned how gender-variant kids like me got sent to "hospitals." Mr. O never discovered my secret. If he had, I'm pretty sure that man of god, that upright deacon of his church, would have found a way legally, and even morally according to conventional norms, to cause my brain to be altered in a permanent and damaging way; perhaps to do me even greater harm.

That was the Christianity of my childhood, seared into my brain the way a child gets branded with too much of anything very young. It was not without a lot of difficulty, but as I grew into my teens I found a way not to be Christian any longer. I never went back. I'm very frightened of Christianity.

Attracted everlastingly to girls and women, I wanted to become a woman, bed women, love a woman; face the world forever as a woman. The taboo combination of desires left me endlessly confused. I didn't trust anyone enough to risk revealing who I was. Could I be a "homo," the term of the era which evolved later into "gay"? The definition didn't seem to fit. I didn't know about lesbians. If I had, the news that I wasn't the only woman to love other women would have confused me even more. Was anyone else so weird, so confused, so evil, as me?

I left Mr. O's house in my middle teens and didn't look back, deciding to make myself into a man; do "guy" stuff. I dare-deviled with crazy stunts, pounded beers with the guys until I got blitzed, learned to talk batting averages, smoked a pack or two every day, slept around, hitchhiked all over the Northeast instead of going to college classes, flunked out, joined the Navy and did more of the same around the world, married and divorced twice, fathered four kids, built a career in television broadcasting, and moved to the West Coast to start over. None of these flounderings brought relief for long. Gratefully, they consumed a lot of my sad, hurtful, ungiving life.

For one whole day, sheltered under a gnarled old madrona tree on a bluff looking out to the Straits of San Juan de Fuca, I sat considering my existence. A tidal current raged under a suspension bridge nearby on its way to the Pacific. Over and over again, and with intense clarity, I examined and experienced the hurt I had inflicted on myself and on others; the scores of dishonesties and betrayals which lay scattered about the years spent denying my womanhood. I felt damaged almost beyond repair by society's contempt of that most elemental need in me, and by my lifelong terror at the notion of challenging that contempt. When the day was done, I knew I had to become real.

A psychiatrist, the first person ever to learn my secret, reacted well. After a bit of research he came up with the name a transgender pioneer named Virginia Prince, who, not long before, had founded a club or "sorority" for people like me. I made contact and discovered a tiny community, people to talk with; people who understood. For many years thereafter I lived two lives, leaving broadcasting to open a restaurant as a man; helping to build a brand new community for transgender people as a woman.

Marrying a third time was not in my plan, but I did just that. As we fell in love and talked about our lives together, I told Sally everything I knew about the woman in me. We worked it out. Sally, a flight attendant, didn't want to meet the "other" woman. On her weekly excursions to other parts of the world it was OK that I had such a life and a role in our growing community. With laudable patience she drilled me with fashion tips, color coordinating, accessorizing, how to put outfits together. She lent me an occasional dress or two for special events and trips. Nine years after we were married she came home from a flight to meet the Judy in me at last. I was thrilled and cooked a special dinner. She laughed that I walked a woman's walk. We had a sweet evening.

Gradually, one-by-one, the narrow boundaries of my childhood slipped away from my stern and unforgiving conscience. By the time ten years had elapsed from that day on the cliff, Mr. O's dictates had lost much of their energy to mess with my mind. I grew more human, more real, more accepting of myself and others. Over time I shared my true self with people I was close to, including the feminine part.

In one stunning moment, and without the slightest warning, I was "born again." The bolt struck during a transgender gathering in Provincetown, Massachusetts. I had volunteered to help with a "Town and Gown Supper," an event which brought townies together with sequined folks like me for good food and conversation. A waitress that evening, I flitted about serving food and picking up dishes, trading barbs and wit with the townsfolk, having more fun than I'd realized a person could have -- joyful and carefree in my reality at last. The time must have been right, the preparation done, for in a single heartbeat I knew I had become a woman.

Up to that moment, the woman named Judy Osborne was a created persona, someone I was learning how to be -- an alter ego enabling me to appear and interact with others as a woman. The sense of it is much like affecting an accent and adopting strange local customs out of a desire to merge into an unfamiliar culture. In that single instant I became a woman instead, a woman worthy of all the respect and consideration accorded to any other decent human being.

The staggering revelation collapsed me into a blubbering mess of no use to anyone. For days afterward I remained in that state, waking friends in the middle of the night to talk; sobbing at the slightest cue. Some of my tears reflected sadness for years lost, to be sure, but most flowed in response to the overwhelming joy of finding my reality at last. A friend did my horoscope to that exact moment and place, my woman's birthday, October 19. Strangely enough, it fits the woman I have become but not the man I tried so ruinously to be.

During the next ten years and more, my path wound through endless twists and turns which obscured its ending. Gradually a destination began to gather form through the tops of distant trees. I tried not to look. Unimaginable loss waited there, I knew. Eventually, though, after sixteen years of operating my restaurant and nineteen years of marriage, I closed my restaurant and moved to another home. Soon thereafter, all that was left of the man in me drifted away.

Nice little things started happening. I love smiles and warm reactions just like everybody else. My endless womanhood brought joy that showed. People responded. My new life became a wonder of happy moments and shared love of humankind.

I walked into the Caffe Appassionato one day and ordered a non-fat, double-tall, mocha, whip (well I DO live in Seattle!). The barista opened with the weather (and it was a beautiful day, one of those rarities in my town), moved on to how much he liked my smile, and capped it off with a breezy "have a nice day." No big deal, but a lift to a slightly-scared new transsexual exploring the whole world in survival mode.

I called American Airlines to claim a free ticket. A problem with the transaction was that my account had a different name and gender than I did. After working on the reservation for a while, the moment of denouement arrived. I told the man on the phone that I was a transsexual, so could he please change the name on the account and make out the ticket in my Judy name? He shot back, "ahhhh-uuuhhhhhh ...... I gotta putcha on hold." Back in five minutes, he said very gently, "Ms. Osborne, don't you worry now -- everything will be fine, but I gotta putcha on hold again." This time there was music on the line. In another five he came back and said he had for me a nice seat by the window in first class all the way to Hartford and back (not for nothing -- it cost me miles, but I wanted it). He told me warmly to have a wonderful trip and wished me luck.

People began giving me things. A doctor checked my infected ear, excusing himself for a moment to copy and give me an article about transgender people written by a transgender physician I know and like. My favorite art-glass shop gave me a pair of earrings the first time I went in as the real me, and big hugs every time thereafter. A three-year-old gave me some of her candy while I was chatting with her mom.

While switching all kinds of mundane parts of my life, I let my dentist and his assistant know that I would be coming in the next time as a woman. After the word "transsexual" was mentioned, the two didn't hear anything I was saying for about forty-five seconds. I just kept talking to cover the gap. Soon they began coping again. The bill came to my Judy name with a thanks-for-sharing-and-we-like-you card.

I sent a four-page letter to twenty-six families of relatives and friends. My family is rural, conservative, and, of course, New England Calvinistic in varying degrees. I promised to visit each once more as a man to explain my changes in a more personal way, answer questions, encourage each to remain in my life, or perhaps to say good-bye if we must. Twenty responded to this first try, eighteen in positive ways. Seven told me not to bother coming back as a guy -- they wanted to meet Judy!

The series of legal hoops through which I jumped turned out the kindest of all. My friend lore (the small "l" is intentional) went with me to court to change my name. lore had long been a friend, one of a group of lesbians I hang out with, but now he was becoming a man. We helped each other in various ways as we took our trips in opposite directions together. He had done his name-change and was showing me the ropes, giving me support. The courtroom was crowded. Dressed in a skirt and a tank top on the warm August day, I felt slightly abashed and nervous when the judge called out my original name summoning me to the bench. lore told me later about the simultaneous gasp - I was too focused on the judge to hear it. Unfazed, the judge swore me in, bestowed my new legal name on me, congratulated me warmly, and wished me well in my new life.

Clutching all my paperwork, I headed out to the Driver's License Bureau to get a license with a photo that looks like me, my new name, and a treasured "F" as my reconstituted sex. The computer balked at the "F." While supervisors were coaxing it to be nice to me, the lady at the counter and I slipped into a conversation. After sharing a couple of stories about prejudice, she asked my size and said she had some clothes which were too small for her but might look nice on me. I left the Bureau that day with the driver's license of my dreams and a sweet new friend. The following day I went back to pick up three lovely new outfits.

Amazement and delight began flooding my emotions whenever other women brought me genuinely into their women's conversations, conversations characterized by continuous affirmations bounced back and forth with eyes, words, expressions, gestures, touch, sounds, nods, and so on, and an almost complete lack of one-upsmanship. How could I possibly have lived so long without knowing the nurturing spirit of these magic and affirming rituals?

My transition into womanhood was not without losses and cruelties, but the good outweighed the bad in many lovely ways. Friendships and new opportunities cascaded into my feminine being even as former activities and the company of old friends and family disappeared. I was not a good predictor of who would stay and who would leave. A slight majority of those who had cared for me earlier stayed in my life, a few more returning each year since. The pain which my transition inflicted on my son and older daughter, who live in other parts of the world, hasn't receded enough yet for them to rejoin my life. Perhaps it never will, but I can't stop hoping. Of my two younger daughters, both living here in my city, one went on loving me easily while the other needed time to mourn her lost dad. After eight months she found a unique way to bring our history and my womanhood into common perspective, thinking of me as "my dad Judy" and introducing me to her friends as such. I don't mind.

Sally and I renewed our friendship and love and decided to stay married, although we've gone on living separately. We have a remarkable friendship and marriage, not uncommon among transgender people.

Four years ago I began committing a lot of time and effort to an activist group called Soulforce. The religious connotation frightened me, but the cause is imbedded deep in my soul. The leader, Mel White, was a prominent right-wing clergyman, writer, and film producer while he still believed his religion's claim that a person could conquer being gay.

Soulforce confronts the intolerant Christianity of my childhood using the nonviolent methods of Mohandas Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Even today, young people growing up imprinted by oppressive faiths get hurt terribly when they begin to see in themselves the nonconforming gender identities and sexual orientations which are demonized by their religions. Such extreme violence to the spirit of a vulnerable people simply has to stop, and Soulforce is working to end it.

Gandhi's principles of nonviolence propose just two goals -- the first is "spiritual renewal," the second "the transformation of society." We haven't reached our second goal yet, although amazing things are happening. We do realize a profound spiritual renewal by standing up for ourselves in a committed quest for justice. That renewal of spirit is spreading to others as they join our activities and find inspiration in what we do.

Soulforce isn't strictly a Christian organization. Based on principles created and applied successfully by an Indian Hindu and a black Christian minister, Soulforce's membership includes Buddhists, Jews, Unitarians, New Thought folks, and a few whose intense faith is focused on a better future or one's power to cure injustice. There's no pressure, no proselytizing.

Still, I've been discovering that Jesus was a good guy who preferred outcasts to the establishment figures of his day. He never said a word against lesbians, gays, bisexuals or transgender people for being who we must be. In fact, He confronted the centers of religious power which oppressed outcasts. I'll never go back to the religion of my youth, a religion taking the Christ's name but not his path, but perhaps, one day, I'll get over my fears and find I can shadow Jesus as He truly walked in life.

A short while after I settled happily and gratefully into my woman's life, I went back to my still small Massachusetts village on a final pilgrimage. Starting out from the brick house of my childhood, still solid after its three hundred years, I strolled up the main street in proud womanhood. I felt strangely as one with my foolish and brave little self as she had walked the identical path so long ago, a babushka tied over her head. For a moment or two, I imagined even that my presence there that day had given support many years earlier to her will to survive.

2003 by Judy Osborne. All rights reserved.

Back to Stories

© Copyright 2003 Rainbow Communications.. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
If you have any questions or comments about the way this site functions, E-mail us.
This site is optimized for Internet Explorer 6.0