Thoughts on April 4, 2017

I don't usually blog, as I prefer to make YouTube videos.  An unknown lady, on Google, reminded me of things I thought as a child/teenager.  I'm also writing my autobiography, which this and many other stories about my life will be contained within.

I must've been around 8 years old when this happened.  I was playing hide-and-go-seek with other neighborhood children.  Myself and 2 little boys decided to hide in some very tall grass on a vacant lot behind my house.  The boys decided they would whip out their weenies and show them to me while we were hiding.  I had never seen a penis before; not only did I get to see one, but I saw two.  My first thought was, "Ewwwwww, those things look like fat worms!"  My second thought was, "Wait!  I don't look like that, where's mine?"  I looked down to my crotch area, looked at their exposed weenies, and knew something was wrong.  One of them asked me if I wanted to touch it, and of course, I declined.  How disgusting.  Instead, I got up and ran as fast as I could across the field, down a hill and up under the railroad tracks.  There was a large cement hollow pipe under the tracks.  I went inside, the two boys followed me and got in the pipe with me.

It wasn't long before they tried to put an arm around me.  They were pushing each other's arms off my shoulders, and I thought it was stupid.  I didn't like boys that way, I didn't like girls that way; I was just a child.  Nasty boys.  Neither of them said anything to me, I didn't say anything to them.  I tired of them fighting over me, so I pushed past one of them, climbed out of the pipe and ran home.  I don't think they played that game with me anymore; I don't remember.  Maybe it was because I could tell all the other children we played with that those two boys exposed themselves to me.  All I remember was my first feeling that something on my body was missing; it was all wrong.  I will skip over what happened when I turned 10 years old, because it's a long story with too many details.  We moved from that house into an exclusive white upper-class neighborhood; that's all I will say about the move.  At that age, it became obvious to me that the only way I would get the attention of white boys, was to act like a girl.  Before the teacher showed up, the boys would push girls into the closet in the classroom.  I could only guess what went on in there, but I was jealous of the attention they were giving to girls.  Those feelings confused me, because I really didn't want that kind of attention from boys; I just wanted positive attention from anybody at all, because it was like I landed in that neighborhood as an alien from outer-space.   I eventually won over boys with my athletic abilities and something else I began to do, that I won't mention in this blog.

By the time I was 11, I would look at the bodies of boys and imagine myself having muscular pectorals like them when I grew up.  I was a serious athlete; even back then.  You'll have to read my book to know why, but as time progressed, I did everything boys did to end up looking like that; including some light weight-lifting.  In grade-school, they had a teacher come in and explain sex-education to us.  They showed diagrams and pictures.  I paid no attention in that class, and it never occurred to me that the pictures & information they were giving us, was what I would become in the future.  At that age, most everybody just giggled and laughed at everything said & shown.  Again, I was clueless.  Sometime after the age of 12, and my entry into Junior High school, came my first shock of puberty.  Instead of pecs showing up, small boobs showed up instead.  My father noticed them and asked what were those raisins I had on my chest.  I was devastated, and he told me I needed a bra.  Oh no, my father didn't just call these things raisins; how embarrassing!  My mother took me shopping and bought me a training bra, which I hated.  My body had defied me.  I rarely wore the thing, and just wanted them to go away.

My next memory of puberty, was sitting on the bus that took us to school and listening to girls talk about their periods.  I was 13 then.  I remember thinking that I was glad that hadn't happened to me, and I hoped it never would.  It was the topic of conversation on that bus whenever I sat around girls, which I avoided like the plague.  I always tried to sit next to boys, because girl-talk was silly to me.  I never liked anything girlish; not clothes, not toys, not activities, nor talk.  One particular day, I was sitting by them, and thinking once again, I'm glad that hadn't happened to me.  I jumped off the bus, went into the house, and went to the bathroom by the back door.  After I did my thing, I happened to look into the toilet before I flushed.  Blood.  Oh, no way; this isn't happening to me!  I screamed.  My mama heard me, came to the door and asked me what was wrong.  I told her, "Mama, my period started and I want a sex change!"  That was met with silence; I don't even know where that came from.  I had never heard of such a thing.  It was 1970; I grew up in a mid-western town.  The only thing my mama could do was laugh, and I sat in that bathroom devastated & confused for over an hour crying.  My sister came to the door and asked if she could see.  See WHAT?  Go away, girl!  How many girls cried because their menstrual cycle had started?  Well, I did.  Why?  Because up to that point in time, I knew I was a BOY, and this was the final physical invalidation of puberty, that I did not have the body of one.

I continued to play sports like a fiend.  I was playing football with neighborhood boys down the street in someone's back yard, and I had not worn that damn bra.  I was a fast runner; they made me either a running-back or wide-receiver.  I was also on the track team, and girls couldn't beat me in that school or any school in that area.  I'd never raced against black girls.  Anyway, I got given the ball, and a boy that was at least 250 lbs. tackled me and landed right on top of me.  My button-down shirt popped wide open, and all the boys stopped dead in their tracks.  They were staring at me; I didn't even know my shirt had flown open.  They continued to gawk, I looked down, grabbed my shirt to close it and ran back to my house.  I didn't even stop to button my shirt.  Just as I had left that yard, I ran under a wooden deck and got stung by a bee or wasp ... on my back.  I cried all the way home.  Not only was I humiliated by my shirt flying open, but now my back was hurting from the sting.  To this day, I am afraid of bees, wasps, and hornets.  I see them before anybody else does, and am far away before others notice them (hahahaha).  I stopped playing football with those particular boys because I was so embarrassed at what happened that day.  The rest, you will have to read for yourself when I add another section to this blog, telling everyone the title of my book and where to find it.