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When I boarded the plane that would take me back to the East Coast, back to the angry family and the patient university I had fled via Greyhound bus weeks earlier, I carried the knowledge that I was a lesbian.No single thing I had ever learned about myself could feel as important, carry such weight, or offer such healing.She listened and learned, and gave me similar lessons in her anatomy.And then, one night in bed, she whispered playfully in my ear: "Boy, Jude, you sure are weird." Exactly.I grew into a rough-and-tumble tomboy, a precocious, insecure, tree-climbing, dress-hating show-off with a Prince Valiant haircut and razor-sharp wit who was constantly being called "little boy" and "young man." I never gave a thought to what went through my mother's heart and mind every time this happened, this common misperception-that-wasn't. Did she watch my entire childhood, every developmental milestone, every triumph, every tear, through a darkening lens of gender?I imagine memories of me, all those special Kodak moments, all captured in my mother's mind in eerie photonegative.Not even the almighty gene provided any clear answers, since it was discovered that I was a mosaic, with some cells in my body having the XY genotype and others having XO. Consciously, deliberately "raising me female"—it's like consciously, deliberately breathing.So they took me home, named me Judy, and did whatever it was they did, whatever it was they knew how.
In retrospect, it seems odd that a tomboy should have been so removed from her body.I began to experience myself as a sort of sexual Frankenstein's monster. I was incredibly inhibited about my body, the scars, the mysterious medical condition and history that I—the patient! The differences between our bodies were staggering.Too numb and shaken to even be embarrassed or shy, I showed her what worked, how much pressure to use, what to touch, what not to touch.Women, on the other hand, would notice immediately the dreadful gulf between normal and me and run the other way. In the days before Prozac and HMOs, recovery from a suicide attempt meant three months in a community mental health center, time I used to resign myself to a meaningless life with a man I couldn't love.
Once released, I continued to take my self-loathing to therapy, bedding down with (and eventually marrying) the next guy to come along.
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