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Portland
A sweet story of two transsexuals, one of whom is pregnant
By Melissa Tawn
CHAPTER 1. ME
The day I had my sexual reassignment surgery it rained. It also rained
the day before and the day after. That was no big deal. Portland,
Oregon, is one of the rainiest cities in the United States and 1993 was
considered a particularly wet year. The natives like to joke that if
the sun ever shines in Oregon, you don't tan ? you rust. I believe
them. Anyway, on a very wet day I took the final step into my
transition. I was now as close to being all-woman as I could get, at
least until somebody perfects womb transplants.
The operation took place on a Thursday, which at least provided a happy
end to a week which started out as dismal as the weather. I was
informed by email that the departmental tenure committee had turned down
my application for tenure. The reason given was the number of my
publications (admittedly pretty small) and the significance (admittedly
pretty minor) of those which had appeared, as well as the (admittedly
lukewarm) evaluations which I had received from my students. No tenure
-- no contract extension! My employment with the university would
terminate at the end of next month. A formal letter would be in the
mail within a few days.
I had rather expected this, and so was not overly shocked. At least I
was still employed by them when I underwent surgery, so the medical
insurance plan could not back out of paying my bills. Bye-bye academia.
I could, of course, try to get a job teaching at some community college
or other lesser institution of purportedly-higher learning, but I first
I would have to change all of my diplomas and other documents to match
my new female identity. Was the hassle worth it? I doubted it.
So I stayed in Portland and looked for another job. That was 13 years
ago, and I am still here. I am married now, and the mother of two
beautiful girls. (No, I didn't have a womb implant; I solved the ts-
motherhood problem by marrying a wonderful man whom I had known almost
from the beginning of my stay in Portland and who became a widower when
wife was killed in an unfortunate traffic accident, leaving him to take
care of two babies under two years old whom he was totally unable to
care for by himself. After ten years of marriage, we still grow more in
love with each other every day.) I threw myself into the motherhood
thing, serving on the board of the Peony Place Child Care Cooperative
when the girls were enrolled there and later doing a stint as vice-
president of the Meriwether Lewis Elementary School PTA when the girls
moved on to there.
I am a mommy then, but I was never pregnant. I tried to live this part
of a woman's existence vicariously by finding a job as a saleslady in a
branch of the Mommy-To-Be store for expectant mothers. This was about
two years after my operation, and after I had tried several other jobs
which either bored me to tears or which turned out to be unsuited to my
personality or to my spending habits. I have been there ever since, and
have risen to the post of branch manager. The executives of the chain
are very happy with me, and wanted to have me take over the management
of a larger store in Denver, but by then I was married and so I opted to
stay in Portland, which I have grown to love ? rainy weather included.
CHAPTER 2. KAREN
As one would expect, the vast majority of people who come into my store
are young women in the early or middle stages of pregnancy. Sometimes
they are accompanied by their husband or boyfriend. On occasion I get
mothers, or even fathers, looking for a gift for a pregnant daughter. A
few times I have even had children coming in wanting to buy something
for their mother who told them that they were about to have yet another
brother or sister. In these cases as a rule, the mother was usually an
old customer of mine, so her size and preferences were on file on my
computer.
One day, however, about half an hour before closing time, I had a most
unusual customer. He was obviously a boy, though he was dressed in what
seemed like girls' jeans and a t-shirt sporting the name of a local rock
band, as well as very gender-ambiguous sandals. He had long blond hair,
well combed, but no makeup or nail polish. Silver rings adorned three
of his fingers. He wasn't carrying a purse, but had a small pastel-
colored backpack, more likely to be worn by a girl than a boy. He
started looking at some of the dresses, keeping his eyes down so as not
to make eye-contact with me. Of course, I knew what was going on. I
had been there myself, when I was his age. Somehow, I needed to make
contact with him.
He had taken a red-and-white checked dress off of the rack and was
looking at it with a vacant stare as I came over to him. "That is a
very nice dress, it fits your coloration," I said as I approached him.
"Would you care to try it on?" He looked at me like he was about to
drop the dress and run. "Don't be scared, it is quite all right," I
reassured him. "It is unlikely that any more customers will be coming
in at this hour." I pointed out where the changing booths were. "Go
ahead; I am sure you will be very pretty in it." As he slowly went to
one of the booths, I pointed out that on the bench in the booth there
was a pillow he could attach around his belly with Velcro straps, to see
how he would look once he started showing.
When he came out of the changing booth, his visage had altered
completely. He was obviously very excited ? though he tried to be
outwardly calm ? and his eyes showed the deep pleasure he was feeling.
He looked at himself longingly in the mirror. "You look very pretty in
that," I said, "it becomes you." I told him the price. When he looked
a bit crestfallen, I quickly added, "Of course, for new customers we
give a 25% discount on the first item, if you agree to be on our list to
receive further sales information via SMS." That made him feel better,
and he said he would take the dress, and ducked back to get money out of
his backpack. I started entering his information into the computer.
When I asked him his name, he obviously hesitated. "It doesn't have to
be the name on your driver's license, hon," I reassured him. "I just
need some name I can call you by." "You can call me Karen," he said in
a low voice. "Fine, Karen," I answered. "I am Helen. I am sure that
you will find many interesting things in the store. But I have to close
now, so it will have to wait until next time. Please come back soon."
He started to go to change his clothes, but I stopped him. "You look so
beautiful in your new dress," I said, "why not keep it on?" He looked
in the mirror and sighed. "Oh, you can keep the pillow, if that is what
you are worried about," I reassured him. "The chain sends me many more
of those than I actually need." He ducked back into the changing booth
to get his things, and I folded his jeans and put them in a bag with our
store's logo in bright red on it.
As I let him out and locked up the store, I reiterated that I hoped I
would see him again soon, and that if he ever needed my help in
anything, I would be glad to be there.
I hoped that Karen would return, but I was not positive. It was very
pleasing, therefore, to see her (from now on, I am going to use feminine
pronouns in speaking about her; it is more appropriate) again four days
later, a Saturday, again just before closing time. She was not wearing
the dress she had bought, but again was in girl's jeans and, this time,
a more-obviously girly top. She had also applied lipstick and some
minimal makeup, and was carrying a plastic bag which, as it turned out,
contained the belly pillow I had given her last time. This time, she
was interested in buying some maternity jeans, and felt much more at
home in the store. She tried on several pair, before settling on a very
sexy one that accentuated both her long legs and (with pillow in place),
her obvious pregnancy. I also suggested a maternity t-shirt to go with
them. It was pink, and on the lower front ? the part that covered her
bump ? was a big black question mark.
I was in no hurry to go home that evening, since my husband had taken
the girls to visit his parents in Eugene and would not be back until
Sunday evening. I couldn't accompany them, of course, because I had to
be in the store. As I locked up, I therefore asked Karen if she would
like to join me for a bite to eat at a nearby restaurant. She nodded in
agreement and we went down the street, with her wearing her new jeans
(and, of course, her belly pillow). When we came to the restaurant, a
young woman who was just leaving held the door open for her, looking
admiringly at her bump. She smiled, and I could feel the pure happiness
she must have been experiencing. For a transsexual, having her apparent
pregnancy envied by a genetic woman is an unbelievable high.
When we sat down in a booth, far away from the other patrons, I asked
her to tell me about herself. She looked down and said nothing. "Look,
Karen," I said soothingly. "When I was your age, I was in your position
... exactly in your position. I know how it feels. I was lucky
then that I had an older woman whom I was able to open up to, and I
would be honored if you would allow me to be such a woman for you."
Karen looked at me in disbelief. "But you are married and have
children; I saw the picture next to the cash register." (On the wall
next to the register I have a framed photo of my husband and me,
together with our two girls. I have found from experience that it lends
a maternal atmosphere to the store and puts many of the clients at ease
when they talk about their hopes and fears ? all of which leads to more
sales.) "You can be there too, when you are my age, if you just want,"
I assured her. "Later, if you wish, I will tell you all about it."
And so, for the next hour, we exchanged life stories. Karen (born
Kenneth), was a faculty brat, the sole child of two members of the Reed
College faculty: her father was a Professor of French Literature and her
mother was a Professor of Sociology. She had been born and raised in
Portland. Despite her parents' high educational and intellectual level,
they were not able to understand, nor cope with, their son's transsexual
feelings. As both of them were very busy playing the academic
oneupsmanship game (to which I, in my previous life, was never able to
devote enough attention) they tended to leave her to her own devices.
Somehow they acquiesced to the fact that she wore girls' jeans and
sandals or boots (or maybe never noticed the difference) but gave her no
encouragement or support. Other than the maternity dress she bought
from me, she had no dresses or skirts.
Karen finished high school with a scholastic average good enough to get
into most colleges, but preferred to take a year off to "find herself"
before continuing her education. At the moment, she worked as a clerk
in a used-book store (and was usually called "ma'am" or "young lady" by
the customers, to her great delight). She had recently befriended
Selene, a girl who worked in a beauty parlor two doors down from the
bookstore, and who was teaching Karen the basics of proper feminine hair
care and makeup techniques. However, since Karen still lived with her
parents, she still did not dare to wear any noticeable makeup around the
house, though she could get by with mascara if it were not too obvious.
She had no contact with transgender support groups, and was afraid to
get involved with the one on campus, since its faculty advisor was a
colleague and close friend of her mother.
Pregnancy had always fascinated her, and was an integral part of her
female self-image. When I asked her if she ever planned to go "the
whole way" and have sexual reassignment surgery, her answer was that
there was no point in it, since she still could never get pregnant.
When I told her about how she could still experience the joys of
motherhood, as I had, she was unconvinced. To her, carrying the baby
was the crux, not caring for it after it came out into the world.
3. PREGNANT KAREN
I saw Karen frequently over the next two months. She now wore her belly
pillow constantly, except when she went back home. In fact, I was able
to get her a better one, which had a zipper in the back so that more
stuffing could be inserted as the pregnancy progressed. She bought
several pairs of jeans and tops to go with them, as well as more
maternity dresses. She told me that her boss at the bookstore was very
understanding about her pregnancy (he knew, of course, that she was not
really pregnant but apparently felt that it would be best to go with the
fantasy) and would not let her lift boxes of books or even climb the
ladder to fetch rarely-needed books from the upper shelves. Her lessons
with Selene were clearly bearing fruit, and she now made herself up
quite well. Of course, the makeup and the belly all came off before she
returned home at the end of the day, but she was seriously considering
renting a room of her own and moving out of her parents' home. In fact,
her mother had hinted that the experience of living by herself would be
good for her social development, and offered to pay half of the rent.
She had not introduced Selene to her parents, but did hint that she had
a girlfriend who worked in the city.
We met quite often, and shared experiences. I told her about my
transition and about the joy of raising my daughters. She told me that
she hoped to be able to "go all the way" also one day. One day, I asked
her what her plans were in two months time. She didn't understand where
the question was coming from. "Look Karen," I said, "pregnancies do not
go on indefinitely. By the look of you, you are in your seventh month
now. In two months or so, everybody is going to ask where the baby is."
She hadn't really thought of that, or even worked out some sort of a
story. So we considered several alternatives and finally decided that,
since she was unmarried, the best story would be that she decided to
"give the baby up for adoption" as soon as it was born. When her time
came, she would go out of town for a week, and come back "after", with a
suitable story about how she handed over the baby to a very nice couple,
who would love it and take care of it.
As the last two months wore on, I could see that Karen was less and less
satisfied with this course of action. Several times, she cried that she
could not possibly give up her baby. Then she would calm down and
realize that, of course, there was no real baby. It was very very
difficult for her. However, when the time came, she told her parents
she was going to visit a friend in San Francisco for a week or two. I
took her to the bus station and kissed her goodbye.
She didn't come back.
4. AFTERMATH
The above tale was written three years ago. For all of those years, I
worried about Karen. It was almost as though she was another of my
daughters. Then, one day, she suddenly appeared in the store. We
hugged and kissed, and she told me her story. When she went to San
Francisco, she met several other transsexuals and had decided to stay
with them. She got a job as a librarian in a city library and the
health care plan provided to municipal employees covered her SRS
operation. She was now legally a woman. Moreover, she had met a very
sweet and understanding man, with whom she had recently started living.
They planned to get married shortly, and she had come to Portland to let
me be the first to know. As I hugged her tightly, I felt her belly and
looked down. Sure enough, she appeared to be four months pregnant.
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