Karens Story 7
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Karen's Romance - by: Norman O. Johnson
It was a cool, rainy September afternoon in Raleigh, North Carolina.
Thunder rumbled in the distance from slate-colored storm clouds. Rain
was falling steadily in the backyard, overthrowing the bird bath, as I
sat in the screened-in back porch sipping my herbal tea and reflecting
on the extraordinary turns my life had taken in the last year.
My name is Karen Lauterbach. I used to be named Kevin. You read that
right. I changed sex a little more than a year before this story
begins. Changing sex wasn't my idea. The Juvenile Court called it
"temporary feminization." The recently invented Unified Field
BioConcentrator had made it possible. My new body was two inches
shorter with B-cup sized breasts. Everything was perfect: hormone
balance, skin, voice, and skeleton. I even had a womb and ovaries.
At first, the prospect of being a girl horrified me, even though it was
only for the period of one year. I spent that year I was at Ida Cynthia
Watkins Girls' Reformatory. My story of that reform school year is
called 'Unusual Punishment'. It was now stored on the hard drive of the
PC in my bedroom, as I sat sipping my tea and thinking about my womanly
future.
I entered that reform school physically transformed, and came out of it
mentally transformed. Now, only two weeks after release, the thing I
most wanted in all the world was to be female for the rest of my life.
Now I wouldn't have to change back anyway. While I was in reform
school, a new Federal health regulation forbade anyone in America to
change sex using BioConcentrator therapy. Studies had shown that the
new women created by it had a higher risk of breast and ovarian cancer
than born females, and the new men had a higher risk of testicular and
prostate cancer than born males.
I was permanently female now, by government decree. Never mind the
government! This was what I wanted. I would take my chances with the
cancer.
Part One: Herbal Tea with Manga on the Side
My personal cell phone on the table beside me rang. As the rain
continued to fall, I chatted with my mother. My parents lived near
Charlotte while I was living with my older brother George and his wife
Shelly in Raleigh, the State Capitol, at the other end of North
Carolina. The family agreed to do this so I wouldn't have to go finish
my senior year back to my old high school, where everybody remembered
Kevin. Mom and Dad were planning to relocate to Raleigh soon, where
they had new jobs lined up, but their affairs in Charlotte, especially
my Dad's teaching contract, had to be wound up first.
Mom and I chatted small talk for a few minutes. We had grown much
closer now that Mom finally had a daughter. Then Mom changed the
subject.
"By the way, Karen, that suit against the FDA we've been expecting?
Well, they filed suit in Federal District Court in Washington this
morning. How much have you heard about it?" Mom was a lawyer. She knew
about these things.
"Nothing, Mom. I didn't watch the noon news today."
"The plaintiffs are the Attorney-Generals of eleven states, including
North Carolina," she explained. "All the states that use feminization
as a punishment."
"Interesting," I observed. I wanted to know where I fitted into this
big picture.
"The suit claims the FDA had violated the Eighth Amendment to the U.S.
Constitution by turning temporary feminization into a cruel and unusual
punishment. It's cruel, the suit contends, to force a lifetime of
womanhood on these juvenile offenders."
"It's a tough thing to face even for one year," I said, speaking from
bitter experience. "It made me crazy for the first few months. And then
there's my friend Noodle. He couldn't make it through one year."
"Noodle," she echoed. "Wasn't she the girl from your reform school who
killed herself?"
"Killed HIM-self, Mom. Noodle couldn't stand living as a girl, even
temporarily. He tried very hard, but it was too much, especially after
all that abuse, you know." The abuse came from the Principal of the
school and the security chief. Noodle had the respect of the girls,
because he fought for us when the gang truce at the school fell apart.
"They want an injunction to switch back to male all the temporary
girls sentenced by the juvenile courts of the states."
"If the temporary girls want it, of course," I put in.
"The attorney generals' suit doesn't mention letting the temporary
girls have any choice in the matter."
"Oh, no? What if I'm a legal adult when the court finally rules? I'll
be eighteen in a few months, you know."
"You have a point there, daughter." I felt warm deep inside every time
Mom called me that. "That brings us to the ACLU's friend-of-the-court
brief."
I sighed. "I don't like the ACLU, Mom. They're soft on criminals, and
they're anti-religious."
"They're on your side this time, Karen. They're claiming feminization,
even if temporary, is a cruel and unusual punishment."
"I can see that. It was certainly more than Noodle could handle, and
he was a tough guy."
"They also don't want any temporary female switched back to male
against her will. The transsexuals backing up the ACLU over this. They
want to live in bodies of their own choosing."
"God bless them, Mom. I'm one of them, you know, sort of."
"Yeah, so Shelly tells me," said Mom, chuckling somewhat nervously.
There was some anxiety in the family that even though I liked being a
girl now, I might become absolutely miserable about it in a few years.
I didn't fit the transsexual profile, because I didn't want to be a
girl when I was a little boy. At least, not that I could remember.
Shelly Lauterbach, my sister-in-law and personal confidante, who was
also a psychotherapist, knew this, but accepted my new identity. Her
theory, to oversimplify a bit, is that some people are more adaptable
than others.
Mon mentioned another legal angle, something about the Tenth Amendment
and the FDA not having jurisdiction over the criminal codes of the
states, but that part didn't strike me as particularly interesting.
"Well, you know, Mom, I'm sure the lawyers and wanna-be lawyers are
going to be chatting about this for months, but I'll tell you who's
really having a field day---the comedy writers. I saw Saturday Night
Live last night, and they had this tenth anniversary high school
reunion where nobody was the same sex as they used to be. It was kind
of uneven, but there were some good bits."
We returned to small talk, exchanged our I-love-you's, and the call was
over. My Mom is one of the best people I know, even though she and I
drive each other nuts some times. We had grown closer together once she
came to accept me as her daughter. She had never had one till now.
Mom and I had barely finished when my phone rang again. It was my
girlfriend from reform school Darla, who used to call herself Daria
sometimes, after some old cartoon character she was an obsessive fan
of. She lived with her mom about 40 miles away in the university town
of Chapel Hill. She had tentative plans to drive over and visit me this
weekend, but she would call first. This was her call.
"Karen?"
"This is Karen. Hi, Darla."
"I'll be there in an hour if it's okay with you."
"Cool. What do you want to do?"
"Just sit and talk." She was matter-of-fact.
"Cool. We can sip herbal tea and watch the rain from the back porch."
"Sounds like a plan. See you in an hour. Bye." I spent a few minutes
in front of a mirror, adjusting up my makeup and brushing my hair. I
applied a bright pink lipstick shade that complemented the pinkish
undertones in my skin. I put on a tee-shirt with a low-cut v-neck to
show off my cleavage a bit. I pulled off my jeans and put on a skirt
that stopped just above my knees, showing my clean-shaven legs.
In recent weeks, I had let my hair grow down almost to shoulder-length,
with bangs in the front. It was long enough now that its weight pulled
much of the curliness out of it. I had plucked my eyebrows to two fine
lines. When Darla and I had been lovers back in reform school, my style
was very butch. Since leaving Ida-Watkins a month earlier, Aunt Shelly
had taken me to the mall and treated me to a full makeover and a whole
new wardrobe. I hadn't sent her any recent pictures of myself. She was
in for a surprise.
Right on time, Darla Rothstein showed up on my front porch. When she
saw me, she snickered. "You pervert, you're in drag," she joked, using
her usual dead-pan voice. "Where's Nylon, my butch-dyke lover from the
good old days?" Nylon was my gang nickname at reform school. We kissed
on the mouth.
"Hey!" I said. "I'm not tasting any tobacco smoke in our kisses. I
guess you're officially a non-smoker now."
She folded her umbrella and stepped inside the house. I helped her
out of her raincoat. She was wearing her usual thick glasses, a baggy
sweater, blue jeans and big clunky punk-style boots. The boots were a
holdover from Reform School days. We were allowed to dress any way we
liked on weekends, and Darla liked to dress up like Daria, an animated
cartoon character from the Nineties (I think) who had become something
of a cult classic. She even got people at the "school" to call her
Daria, but before our sentences expired, she asked me to call her Darla
from now on.
"Yes, I'm off the nicotine. In the long run, the health risks aren't
worth the few years of politically incorrect coolness it confers."
"What's that you're carrying?" I asked. "Looks like an artist's
portfolio."
"Yeah, but it's not my own work. As you know, I'm a words person, not
an images person."
I figured it was something Darla's artist friend Alice Bertinelli had
drawn. Alice was an art student at Chapel Hill, where Darla lived. I
suspected I might lose Darla to Alice, who had the advantage of living
closer to her.
A few minutes later, Darla and I were sipping our tea and watching
the rain fall from the screened-in back porch. "So what's in the
portfolio?" I asked.
"They are pictures of you, actually. I showed one of my artist friends
the last photo I had of you, and explained your Hebrew names to her,
and showed her how to write the letters. She drew two pictures of you,
suitable for framing." She opened the portfolio and put it on the table
between us. Opening it, she pulled out a picture, a manga-style cartoon
drawing of me in a dimly-lit room lighting up my face with a
flashlight. I was drawn with my short butch haircut. Three Hebrew
letters, very large and drawn correctly, took up the upper-right
corner. Below them, written smaller, was the interpretation: "Keren,
Beam of Light."<
"Hey, that's really cool. I like that."
"It's my gift to you," said Darla, smiling. "Hannukah came early this
year."
"I'm gonna frame this. Thanks, Darla. This is a very thoughtful gift."
"Here's the other one, your Hebrew middle name." It was entitled,
"Khavah, The Life-Giver." The name was somehow mangled to Eve in the
Greek version of the Torah, which is where the Gentiles get their name
for the Bible's first woman. It was a mostly conventional artistic
rendering of Eve's temptation. I am standing tastefully nude under a
tree of ripe apples, holding a ripe one, deep in thought, as if
considering whether or not to break the commandment. The original
element is the treatment of the serpent, which is shown with its body
wound around me, caressing me, and its tiny head nuzzling my cheek.
Once again, I was wearing that short butch haircut from
Darla's old photos of me. "That's really good, Darla. I like it even better than the first one. The snake in this picture is so erotic!" "Are you afraid of snakes?" asked Darla. "No, I learned all about them when I was a kid: which ones are poisonous, which aren't, how to pick them up. I learned all that when I was a, um, Boy Scout." Darla grinned. "YOU were a Boy Scout?" she said, feigning surprise. "Oh, yes, I forgot. Back in your Penis Period." "I don't like to think much about my male past," I said quickly. "I'm not proud of him." I took a deep breath before continuing. "Kevin was an asshole." "You're running as far away from him as you can, with your skirts and makeup and painted fingernails and long hair. You know I like you better in butch mode, but for what it's worth, I think you look very pretty." She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Thanks, Darla." "I was always the distant, invulnerable one," said Darla. "The one who never got close to anybody so she wouldn't get hurt. One of the things I liked about you at the start was, I couldn't possibly be hurt like you've been hurt. You've had your whole life taken away from you, yet for some reason, you were persevering. I was attracted to your strength, Karen." I couldn't think of anything to say, so I said, "Thanks." "It took me a few months to realize you didn't want to be a man," she continued. "Deep inside you, Karen was always struggling to get out. She was the real you all along. At the Girls' School, you finally started paying attention. That was why you were persevering. You love being female." "I do love it, more and more, as time goes by." "It's the only explanation that makes sense. You were as transsexual as Christine Jorgensen or Renee Richards. You just denied it more vigorously than they ever did." "You know, I've come to agree with you on that. It's been more than a year, but I don't feel the slightest nostalgia for back when I was, um, him." I noticed the pictures were unsigned. "Who drew these?" I asked her. "One of my artist friends at Chapel Hill." I assumed Darla must have other artist friends besides this Alice. It made sense. "Whoever it is, he must be very into Japanese comics." None of Alice's work that I had seen up till now was in manga style. "Yes, Roger calls the style manga, which is the original Japanese word for it." So the artist was a guy named Roger. Darla's artist friend Alice didn't do manga anyway, judging from the samples Darla had shown me on previous visits. "Somebody ought to do a comic book of our reform school adventures," I said, laughing. Darla grinned. She was the type who grinned when any other girl would laugh. "That's not a bad idea, actually." She took a long sip on her tea, and looked away at the pouring rain. Time passed. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty. The silence felt awkward somehow. "What's wrong, Darla?" "I'm glad you like the pictures, but there's some bad news coming up." I bit my lip. I knew what it was. "Karen, I'm sorry to have to say this, but I have to stop seeing you." I sighed. "So the relationship is over, huh, Darla?" "Yes, it is. I don't want to hurt you, but Alice and I have gotten very close. I won't cheat on you. I may be a cynic, but I have my principles." "I understand, Darla. It's gonna hurt a little bit, but I was expecting something like this. Aunt Shelly warned me long-distance relationships usually don't last. Besides, I knew you were getting real close to Alice because you were constantly talking about her."< "I think you'd enjoy meeting Alice," said Darla cautiously. "I think I would, too, Darla, but not right away. I need to get over losing you to her, ya know what I'm saying?" "You're right. Maybe in a few months." "Maybe," said Darla, taking a long pull on her mug of herbal tea. Tears were welling up in my eyes. "Darla," I said, "I think you better leave right now, before I start begging you to keep me." I sniffed, and wiped my eyes on my knuckles. "Fair enough," said Darla. She set down her unfinished mug of tea on the table with a thump, and got up. "I'll give you a call in, like, two or three months," she said. "That'll be good." We hugged for the last time. She planted a sisterly kiss on my cheek. I kissed her cheek. I gave her back her raincoat and umbrella, and opened the door. Darla Rothstein walked out of my life. I saw her off on the front porch. Then I returned to the screened-in back porch and watched the rain fall some more. Darla and I had learned a lot from our relationship, such as how to love a person. She had given me that. For different reasons, neither of us had known how till now. Losing a lover wasn't any easier for me than for anyone else, but at least it didn't come as a surprise. My kidneys were hard at work on all that herbal tea. I went to the bathroom, lowered my panties, hiked up my skirt, and sat. This reminded me of my first peeing as a girl. While hiking up my reform school uniform skirt and lowering myself onto the toilet seat, I had cursed the Juvenile Court for stealing my penis. Another much older memory followed. It seemed to spring out of nowhere, a memory of a small boy caught by his oldest brother playing with Mom's clothes and trying to put them on. I was that little boy. The big brother was my oldest brother George, whose house I was now living in. Big brothers being what they are, he played a parent's role, scolding me and spanking me and telling me that I was a boy and I was going to grow up to be a man like Dad. That was why I shouldn't be allowed to play with Mom's clothes. That was why I should be ashamed of myself for wanting to dress like a girl. I cried and ran into the living room. There I sat on the floor by the picture window overlooking the back yard. Where had that memory come from? Oh, yes, the rainstorm. In that long-buried memory, just like today, the sky was full of gray clouds. Rain was pouring. For the first time in many years, I remembered watching the rain fall through my tears. I remembered thinking it was a bad thing for me to be a boy. I wanted to be a girl, and grow up to be a lady like Mom. I must have been four or five years old, because we moved out of the house with the picture window when I was five. Age four to five is when a child develops a stable gender identity; that is, "I am a boy and I will grow up to be a man," or "I am a girl and I will grow to be a woman." Or, in the case of a transsexual, "I am a boy but I want to be a girl." So, the mystery of my life was solved. I was a transsexual after all. But because I feared the narrow-minds of the outside world, I buried this knowledge under thick layers of denial. Finally it was down there so deep, I no longer realized what I really wanted. "Temporary punitive feminization" broke through all those layers of denial, and uncovered the girl who I truly was. The horror and revulsion I had felt on my first day was the noise of my layers of denial bursting apart. Now my past life and my current condition finally made sense. I wiped myself, got off the pot, and went back to watch the rain some more. When Darla and I felt like talking again, I would suggest she become a psychotherapist like my brother's wife Shelly. Darla understood me better than anyone, even myself. I framed the two pictures. When I got them back from the framing shop a week later, I realized why they were unsigned. "Roger" didn't exist. Alice had drawn them! For a couple of minutes, I wanted to smash the frames, tear the pictures into tiny little pieces, and throw them in Darla's face for lying to me. But my temper cooled, when I realized three things. Destroying the pictures wouldn't get me Darla back, and it wouldn't hurt Alice any, and most important of all, they were nice pictures. They reflected well on me, and made a very sweet parting gift. The pictures are hanging beside me on the wall as I type these words. Keren, Beam of Light. Khavah, the Life-Giver. TO BE CONTINUED Copyright (c) 2002, by Norman O. Johnson (normnoj@h...). With the author's written permission, the above copyrighted material may be archived, copied, transmitted, and redistributed, provided that it remains in its original form with all warnings, copyright, author credit, and other information intact. It may NOT be distributed for profit or sold for profit, except by the author, Norman O. Johnson.
Darla's old photos of me. "That's really good, Darla. I like it even better than the first one. The snake in this picture is so erotic!" "Are you afraid of snakes?" asked Darla. "No, I learned all about them when I was a kid: which ones are poisonous, which aren't, how to pick them up. I learned all that when I was a, um, Boy Scout." Darla grinned. "YOU were a Boy Scout?" she said, feigning surprise. "Oh, yes, I forgot. Back in your Penis Period." "I don't like to think much about my male past," I said quickly. "I'm not proud of him." I took a deep breath before continuing. "Kevin was an asshole." "You're running as far away from him as you can, with your skirts and makeup and painted fingernails and long hair. You know I like you better in butch mode, but for what it's worth, I think you look very pretty." She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Thanks, Darla." "I was always the distant, invulnerable one," said Darla. "The one who never got close to anybody so she wouldn't get hurt. One of the things I liked about you at the start was, I couldn't possibly be hurt like you've been hurt. You've had your whole life taken away from you, yet for some reason, you were persevering. I was attracted to your strength, Karen." I couldn't think of anything to say, so I said, "Thanks." "It took me a few months to realize you didn't want to be a man," she continued. "Deep inside you, Karen was always struggling to get out. She was the real you all along. At the Girls' School, you finally started paying attention. That was why you were persevering. You love being female." "I do love it, more and more, as time goes by." "It's the only explanation that makes sense. You were as transsexual as Christine Jorgensen or Renee Richards. You just denied it more vigorously than they ever did." "You know, I've come to agree with you on that. It's been more than a year, but I don't feel the slightest nostalgia for back when I was, um, him." I noticed the pictures were unsigned. "Who drew these?" I asked her. "One of my artist friends at Chapel Hill." I assumed Darla must have other artist friends besides this Alice. It made sense. "Whoever it is, he must be very into Japanese comics." None of Alice's work that I had seen up till now was in manga style. "Yes, Roger calls the style manga, which is the original Japanese word for it." So the artist was a guy named Roger. Darla's artist friend Alice didn't do manga anyway, judging from the samples Darla had shown me on previous visits. "Somebody ought to do a comic book of our reform school adventures," I said, laughing. Darla grinned. She was the type who grinned when any other girl would laugh. "That's not a bad idea, actually." She took a long sip on her tea, and looked away at the pouring rain. Time passed. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty. The silence felt awkward somehow. "What's wrong, Darla?" "I'm glad you like the pictures, but there's some bad news coming up." I bit my lip. I knew what it was. "Karen, I'm sorry to have to say this, but I have to stop seeing you." I sighed. "So the relationship is over, huh, Darla?" "Yes, it is. I don't want to hurt you, but Alice and I have gotten very close. I won't cheat on you. I may be a cynic, but I have my principles." "I understand, Darla. It's gonna hurt a little bit, but I was expecting something like this. Aunt Shelly warned me long-distance relationships usually don't last. Besides, I knew you were getting real close to Alice because you were constantly talking about her."< "I think you'd enjoy meeting Alice," said Darla cautiously. "I think I would, too, Darla, but not right away. I need to get over losing you to her, ya know what I'm saying?" "You're right. Maybe in a few months." "Maybe," said Darla, taking a long pull on her mug of herbal tea. Tears were welling up in my eyes. "Darla," I said, "I think you better leave right now, before I start begging you to keep me." I sniffed, and wiped my eyes on my knuckles. "Fair enough," said Darla. She set down her unfinished mug of tea on the table with a thump, and got up. "I'll give you a call in, like, two or three months," she said. "That'll be good." We hugged for the last time. She planted a sisterly kiss on my cheek. I kissed her cheek. I gave her back her raincoat and umbrella, and opened the door. Darla Rothstein walked out of my life. I saw her off on the front porch. Then I returned to the screened-in back porch and watched the rain fall some more. Darla and I had learned a lot from our relationship, such as how to love a person. She had given me that. For different reasons, neither of us had known how till now. Losing a lover wasn't any easier for me than for anyone else, but at least it didn't come as a surprise. My kidneys were hard at work on all that herbal tea. I went to the bathroom, lowered my panties, hiked up my skirt, and sat. This reminded me of my first peeing as a girl. While hiking up my reform school uniform skirt and lowering myself onto the toilet seat, I had cursed the Juvenile Court for stealing my penis. Another much older memory followed. It seemed to spring out of nowhere, a memory of a small boy caught by his oldest brother playing with Mom's clothes and trying to put them on. I was that little boy. The big brother was my oldest brother George, whose house I was now living in. Big brothers being what they are, he played a parent's role, scolding me and spanking me and telling me that I was a boy and I was going to grow up to be a man like Dad. That was why I shouldn't be allowed to play with Mom's clothes. That was why I should be ashamed of myself for wanting to dress like a girl. I cried and ran into the living room. There I sat on the floor by the picture window overlooking the back yard. Where had that memory come from? Oh, yes, the rainstorm. In that long-buried memory, just like today, the sky was full of gray clouds. Rain was pouring. For the first time in many years, I remembered watching the rain fall through my tears. I remembered thinking it was a bad thing for me to be a boy. I wanted to be a girl, and grow up to be a lady like Mom. I must have been four or five years old, because we moved out of the house with the picture window when I was five. Age four to five is when a child develops a stable gender identity; that is, "I am a boy and I will grow up to be a man," or "I am a girl and I will grow to be a woman." Or, in the case of a transsexual, "I am a boy but I want to be a girl." So, the mystery of my life was solved. I was a transsexual after all. But because I feared the narrow-minds of the outside world, I buried this knowledge under thick layers of denial. Finally it was down there so deep, I no longer realized what I really wanted. "Temporary punitive feminization" broke through all those layers of denial, and uncovered the girl who I truly was. The horror and revulsion I had felt on my first day was the noise of my layers of denial bursting apart. Now my past life and my current condition finally made sense. I wiped myself, got off the pot, and went back to watch the rain some more. When Darla and I felt like talking again, I would suggest she become a psychotherapist like my brother's wife Shelly. Darla understood me better than anyone, even myself. I framed the two pictures. When I got them back from the framing shop a week later, I realized why they were unsigned. "Roger" didn't exist. Alice had drawn them! For a couple of minutes, I wanted to smash the frames, tear the pictures into tiny little pieces, and throw them in Darla's face for lying to me. But my temper cooled, when I realized three things. Destroying the pictures wouldn't get me Darla back, and it wouldn't hurt Alice any, and most important of all, they were nice pictures. They reflected well on me, and made a very sweet parting gift. The pictures are hanging beside me on the wall as I type these words. Keren, Beam of Light. Khavah, the Life-Giver. TO BE CONTINUED Copyright (c) 2002, by Norman O. Johnson (normnoj@h...). With the author's written permission, the above copyrighted material may be archived, copied, transmitted, and redistributed, provided that it remains in its original form with all warnings, copyright, author credit, and other information intact. It may NOT be distributed for profit or sold for profit, except by the author, Norman O. Johnson.
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