Chapter 1: "Genderfree"

The man behind the counter at the homeless shelter repeated his question to me: "I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but which section? Male or female? It's really hard to tell with all that dirt on your face." I stepped back from the counter, but a good look at the rest of me was not likely to be of much help, either. I was about five feet tall, had red hair and freckles, had a very slight build, and had a flat chest. I thought I was male, but I wasn't sure. Taking a look between the legs hadn't helped me, either: I didn't remember which sets of "equipment" went with which sex. The feeling was bizarre. I didn't know who I was, how old I was, or even which sex I was. I asked a question, "Do the showers have dividers for a bit of privacy?" In many homeless shelters, there were no dividers. To my relief, he said "Yes, there are dividers." I told him, "Male."

I put what few belongings I had into a locker and walked over to the shower room. It was rather crowded, and I did not want to expose myself to anyone. I walked into the shower and undressed there. I hung my clothes on a hook at the back of the shower stall. It felt wonderful to wash away weeks of grit and grime. I had been afraid to shower at other homeless shelters because of the lack of dividers in the shower stalls. I did not want anyone to see me. When I finished and put my clothes back on – they were still filthy – I hesitated to leave the stall. I knew what was coming. I stepped out and was immediately greeted with a wolf whistle. "Hey, little darlin', ain't you in the wrong section?" I looked up and fixed the whistler with a look of death. He immediately backed up and apologized. "Whoa! I'm sorry. Damn, I thought you were a chick."

This homeless shelter had some washing machines and dryers that did not require coins. I took the few clothes I had – all men's clothing – and threw them into the washing machine. I decided to stay with my clothes because I did not want to risk losing the few clothes that I had. When my few clothes had finished drying, I went into a closet to change and came right back to wash the filthy clothes that I had been wearing. Who knew when I would get a chance to wash my clothes again? I looked forward to sleeping in clean clothes that night. It had been a very long time.

The next morning I went job hunting which was required to keep my bunk bed and locker. I knew there was no point to looking for a "good" job and so walked into the first mom-and-pop pizza parlour I encountered while walking. There weren't many of those left. The corporate chains had killed most of them off. I had worked in pizza parlours before and thought that this might be one place in which I had some chance of getting hired. The application had that same annoying question that all job applications had: sex? I hesitated for a moment and then checked "male." I wanted to work back in the kitchen as a cook and most pizza parlour cooks were male. It would have been tempting to check "female" if I had wanted to work as a table server, but I knew I didn't have a good enough memory for that. Of course, much of the information in the application was made-up because I didn't remember. For example, I wrote down "Tracy Smith" as my name. When I came to the work history section, I filled it out but left blank the addresses of all the pizza parlours I had worked at – there were quite a few – with the explanation of "now closed." For the most part, it was the truth. The collapse of the middle class in the U.S. had lessened the demand for pizza. I went up to the manager, "Pop" no doubt, and asked if I could give a demonstration of what I knew. Would he let me make a pizza from start to finish? He thought this was unusual, but readily agreed. I made the same type of vegetarian pizza that I had made in so many other mom-and-pop pizza parlours and cooked it flawlessly. "Pop" took a taste and said, "You're hired if you want the cook's job. Unfortunately it doesn't pay any more than minimum wage. The corporate chains have driven standards down through the floor. To compete on price, we have to do this. I do sincerely apologize and will understand if you refuse the job." I accepted the job and told him that having a job would assure me of the right to keep a bunk at the homeless shelter down the road. He winced when I told him that. There was guilt all over his face. He gave me a schedule in which my first day was Monday of next week. I had a few days before I started.

Next I went into a "free store" run by a Catholic charity and picked out some old used clothes. I picked out two pants and two shirts. There were no types of underwear or socks available. Those you had to buy. I walked by a rack which had a dark blue dress that was pleated and looked like it came down to just below the knees. Something in me really wanted that dress. No one was looking and I snatched it and stuffed it in my bag. I knew I would have fun trying to explain the dress to the clerk who inspected all bags at the front door and wrote down what was taken. There was no cost, but I still had to "check out."

The young woman at the front of the store dumped the contents of my bag on the counter and started to write in an inventory book. She raised an eyebrow when she saw the dress mixed in with the two shirts and two pants. She looked me over very closely and said, "You're the most ambiguous-looking person I've ever seen. I honestly believe that you could fool everyone if you wore that dress. I hope you're not a prostitute." I told her that I had just gotten a job at the mom-and-pop pizza parlour down the road. There was no need to mention the name; all the other pizza parlours in the area were corporate-owned. She seemed genuinely relieved to hear that I had a job and told me that she ate there herself sometimes. "Perhaps you'll make a pizza for me someday," she said.

I returned to the homeless shelter and informed the desk clerk that I had found a job at the mom-and-pop pizza parlour down the road. The clerk seemed quite surprised: "It's not often that one of our residents manages to find a job. Living in a homeless shelter is usually considered a disqualification from employment." The "wolf" who had whistled at me in the shower room saw me as I headed for a closet to try on some of my treasures. Before I could say no, he had peeked into my bag and had seen the dress. He looked again into the bag and then at me in surprised confusion. "Are you a transvestite?" I suddenly realized that the "wolf" was a college graduate. He looked at me in confusion and then said, "I know I should be ashamed of myself for asking, but I'd really like to see you in that dress." I smirked and asked him if he was gay. He flushed and said, "Definitely not! I'm just not really convinced that you're a guy. I've got some doubts." I did want to try on the dress – Lord help me! -- and told him to wait outside the closet. I quickly switched into the dress and put my pants and shirt into the bag. I opened the door and let him in. I was not the least bit scared that he might attack me because I had successfully fended off numerous attacks before. I was much stronger than I looked. He looked at me and said, "Damn! You must be a chick. You're too pretty to be a guy!" I couldn't help laughing at that and cocked my head to one side and said, "Why thank you! How very sweet of you!" Then I realized what I was doing and had a sudden attack of panic: "This was a bad idea. Get out. I need to change back before somebody sees me wearing this dress." He eyed me ever more suspiciously but backed out of the closet as I asked.

After I came out of the closet, the wolf motioned me to a vacated corridor. "You're a chick. No guy could have given a performance that convincing. What's going on?" I told him that I had lost my memory and not only didn't know who I was or how old I was, I didn't even know which sex I was. He looked incredulous. "All you have to do is look between your legs if nothing else is convincing," he said. I told him that I didn't even remember which sets of "equipment" went with which sex. "Damn! You are screwed up. Maybe it would be a good idea to get a doctor to look at you. Better yet, a psychologist. If you go to the front counter, they might be able to arrange a physical examination for you which would solve this mystery."

I did as he suggested and went to the front counter to ask for a physical examination. I gave as the reason that I had not had a physical exam in years. I was given an appointment at a city clinic for tomorrow without any questions. The city clinic was a 1.5-mile walk away. There were no buses. There hadn't been any buses for years.

I went in the rest room and waited for a stall to open as I usually did. A guy at one of the wall urinals questioned me: "I've never seen you use one of the stand-ups. You know a couple of us are suspicious that you're a girl." What could I say? I said nothing and waited for a stall to open. The guy at the urinal zipped up and then grabbed my arm. Big mistake. My foot came up lightning quick and caught him square between the legs. While he was sprawled on the floor, I ran out. I went up the stairs two floors and found a bathroom at the end of the hallway next to an office. I made a point of it never to use the main bathrooms again.

The next day I walked the one and a half miles to the clinic for my physical exam and was greeted with a clipboard and seven or eight sheets of paperwork. Right up at the top again was that annoying question: sex? I checked "male" mainly to delay the fuss. I would find out soon enough. As in the pizza parlour, much of the information I gave was made-up. Once again I gave my name as "Tracy Smith". It took me a half hour of scribbling to fill out all the paperwork, and I wondered if anyone would ever look at it after I completed it. After I handed the nurse the paperwork, she motioned for me to follow her to a room. After a wait that seemed an eternity, a doctor walked in. A woman doctor. For some inexplicable reason, I felt relieved at this. I thought I was male, but my doubts were increasing. First she had me strip to my underwear – I was wearing male underwear, of course – and did the usual tests. Then finally came that moment where I had to pull my underwear down. The doctor caught one glimpse and backed away in horror. Then she walked up again to me and asked, "May I look closer? You have a most unusual characteristic." I said "Okay," and she took a closer look. "You appear to be a fully functional hermaphrodite. If you are fully functional, you will be an almost unique case. I don't know for sure." I asked her, "Are you telling me that I'm both male and female at the same time?" "Yes," she said. "The reason your appearance seems to be so ambiguous – I noticed that at first glance at you and I'm sure everyone else does, too – is that your body appears to be in a state of indecision. The removal of one set of sex organs would solve the problem of which sex you are. I need to make an appointment with a specialist for you. You are such a unique case that I'm sure that the necessary operation would be done without charge. You need not worry about cost."

I mentioned that I had no transportation and no money. She said not to worry. "Someone will be sent to pick you up. You are currently living at a homeless shelter?" "Yes," I said, and gave the address. She arranged an appointment for me with a specialist for the next day and arranged a taxi for me. I was a bit unused to getting special treatment.

The next day the specialist gave me an explanation of my choices and what would happen with each choice. Of course the first choice was "Do nothing." This was, of course, the safest choice, but it was definitely not my choice. The second choice was to have the female organs removed. The third choice was to have the male organs removed. The specialist told me that I needed to think about it for awhile, but I told her that I had already made up my mind. "I was afraid of that," she said. "The right choice for you might be the one that you initially think of as the least attractive possibility. Once the operation has been done, there is no going back. The question is what do you want to be?"

"Female," I said.

"Pardon, did I hear you correctly?"

"Female," I said. "I want to be female."

The doctor looked shocked for a moment, and then smiled. "That was the choice that I was going to recommend to you. The quickness of your decision made me think you had chosen the opposite. Would you care to explain the reasons for your choice?"

"The way I think... The way I feel... I'm an emotional and sensitive person. I thought I was male and I always felt that nature must have made a mistake. Now I feel like I am getting a second chance at life. As if nature were correcting its initial mistake. When the operation is done, I want you there to make sure they know what I want. I don't want them cutting out the wrong set of organs. You understand me, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," she said. "I promise I'll be there in the operating room. I'll make sure that you get what you want without any tragic mix-ups. You are sure, aren't you?"

"Absolutely," I said.

The doctor kept her word and was there when the operation was done. When I was back in the recovery ward, she came to see me. She had brought a hand mirror and some make-up. "I'm not really interested in that stuff," I said.

"It's just eyeliner and mascara," she said. "Let me show you how to use it."

"Okay," I said. The doctor proceeded to give me my first lesson in make-up. I slept more soundly that night than I could remember ever sleeping before.

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End of Chapter 1