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In a tentative voice, he asked, “Would you love me if I were a boy?
” The mom was raising her boy to become a trans-girl.
I could see myself in it, standing in front of the mirror at my grandma’s house.
I was small, but I participated and excelled in football, track, and other sports.
After high school graduation, I worked in an automotive shop, then took classes in drafting to qualify for a job in aerospace.
After a short time, I earned a spot on the Apollo space mission project as associate design engineer.
She nourished and encouraged the idea, and over time it took on a life of its own.
That dress set in motion a life filled with gender dysphoria, sexual abuse, alcohol and drug abuse, and finally, an unnecessary gender reassignment surgery.
I could see no use in telling people about what Fred was doing, so I kept silent from that point on about his continuing abuse.
I went to school dressed as a boy, but in my head that purple dress lived on.
Ever eager for the next challenge, I switched to an entry-level position in the automobile industry and quickly rocketed up the corporate ladder at a major American car company. I had it all—a promising career with unlimited potential and a great family. After thirty-six years, I was still unable to overcome the persistent feeling I was really a woman. Unbeknownst to my wife, I began to act on my desire to be a woman. I even started taking female hormones to feminize my appearance.
Who knew Grandma’s wish in the mid-1940s for a granddaughter would lead to this?