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Tuesday, February 17, 2009

My grandmother created me

Yes, that sounds strange. It is strange even to me. She did this, she made me, she created me. And she doesn't even know it. How can she, it was so long ago. I hardly remember it. Does she? Maybe?

What's my earliest memory of dressing? Why, my earliest memory. What could I have been? Three? Four?

Why? Why would she have done that? I remember it, but never again. It wasn't a theme, a constant, through childhood. And I spent so much time there. But the memory is there. Burned. Deep.

Three or four. Dressed in nylons. Why? Did I find them? Was I playing with them? Did I try them on? Did she put them on me? If so, why? Why would she have done that? But she did. I'll never forget it.

Sitting in the bedroom with her. Wearing nylons. Watching her. Watching my heavyset grandmother in a girdle, stockings. A woman and a girl. Her and me. A woman and a sissy.

And thus, I was created. Whatever genetics made, life altered. Nature, whatever it was, was altered by nurture. Did I always have it? The "sissy" gene? Was it always there? Was it always to be a part of me?

I don't know. I can't know. But, at age three, it was turned on. No matter what was to happen, to follow, I'd never be without that feminine part of me.

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