I miss me some Elora....

Caught in a Landslide

I cannot say I grew up insisting I was a girl. For that surely meant a world of hurt. I couldn't tell you what defined girl, and what defined boy. I knew I was me and that it was not right with how I needed and wanted to present myself.

From my earliest recollections I wanted to breakthrough this bubble, this invisible barrier I was trapped behind. Yet to ask for help meant exposure. Exposure meant discipline. Discipline meant a thick leather belt.

So, I did the only thing I knew. I "pimped out my crib" my cocoon, the bubble I lived in. I could see out, yet no one, absolutely no one got in. I found behaviors and activities that were socially acceptable for boys and that I enjoyed. Usually this meant solitary activities. Riding my bike, drawing, watching TV(escapism), yet sometimes playing with GI Joe, and building forts(a lot of role playing activities). I surely had my "male" version of Barbie. Instead of pink, I was rolling in blue or olive drab.

I remember the first time I knew I was different from my brothers or my friends. It was when I put on a Peter Pan collared blouse and a tartan school girls jumper. It that moment, the world felt right, the buzzing stopped and I felt I belonged. I could not tell you why. I can say, I chased that feeling at lengths. Through other things too. Jobs, girlfriends, cars, booze.





I had always wanted to grow my hair long. At one point in 1973 it was as long and many young men hair is today that is to say, longer than many. However, my parents would have it cut short by the time I started turning 9 or 10.