It Wasn't a Mistake by Tiffany B. Quinn How bad can things get? In his darkest hour, Jerry finds out that his life has been one big character test... And he passed! The changes are becoming apparent prompting actions on several fronts.

Chapter Six: More Changes

“Yes, Miss,” the ticket seller says. “that’ll be fifteen dollars and fifty cents.”

Samantha giggles and pats me on the head while I hand over the cash. We are buying tickets at the movie theater, it is winter, and we’re both bundled up in winter coats and hats.

“Enjoy the show, ladies,” he adds with a smile as he hands us our tickets.

This type of thing is happening more frequently. It’s now been almost four months since the accident. I’m still on sick leave, I recently celebrated my sixtieth birthday, and my retirement should be official any day now.

And the guy thinks I’m a young teenage girl.

I love it.

So I give the guy my sunniest smile and say “Thank you kind sir” before heading into the theatre.

I am now five foot four inches tall and weigh in at one hundred and fourteen pounds. I’ve lost half my body weight in four months. According the height/weight charts I’m about the size of a tall girl between twelve and fourteen years old. My hair is now two inches long. I won’t let anyone touch it as I want it to grow as much as possible. Dr. Mike tells me that I’m pretty much completely XXY now which makes me officially intersexed. The fact that my facial features and voice are becoming more girlish by the day just confirms that fact. The remains of my male genitals aren’t worth talking about, though they are there. The pubic and underarm hair which grew back after the accident is starting to fall out again. The fever and achiness are still both present, but I’ve growing accustom to them.

“Quit flirting,” Samantha admonishes me once we are out of earshot. “It creeps me out to have my father acting like a teen girl.”

“I might as well,” I reply, “I get mistaken for one more often than not. Might as well give them what they expect.”

“You know,” Samantha observes for about the hundredth time, “it is hard to call you ‘Dad’ anymore.”

All the rest of my children and their wives had taken to calling me by my first name long before the accident so they don’t have the same problem. Samantha has been gone and has not taken on that habit.

“Then just call me Jerry,” I suggest.

“I guess so,” she agrees, “but if I close my eyes and picture my father, I have a hard time calling him by his first name.”

“The open your eyes, sweetheart,” I suggest to her.

Samantha is not the same young woman who came back from the desert four months ago. Sometimes I think that her change has been more miraculous than mine. We have been spending a lot of time together. We’ve spent a good part of each weekend skiing or ice climbing together this winter which has given us a lot of time to bond and to talk about life and things. I think that those conversations have helped her to work through a few issues.

Her visit from her mother has had a profound effect upon her. While the change hasn’t been easy—she still rebels against it from time to time—she has made an effort to change her life, her views, and her attitude towards other people.

It is not easy for her.

We’ve had long talks about religion, interacting with other people, and how to set goals.

Her first job after returning home was at a large sporting goods store where she tried to work with people getting outfitted for various outdoor adventures. She’d often come home with disdainful comments about how ignorant and ill-prepared most people are. Her lack of tolerance and lack of empathy have been the trademarks of her character all her life.

When she was judgmental, I’d try to help her realize that these other people haven’t been raised with a family focus on mountaineering, back country skiing, ice and rock climbing, canoeing, sea kayaking and mountain biking like she had been. Few people have her level of expertise—and probably never will—and that’s alright. I tried to get her talking with her clientele about what it is that they do well so that she’ll realize that everyone has value and have expertise that she doesn’t. Her job is to help them learn enough to have a safe and enjoyable experience doing the things that most people dream of. She’d work on it and it wasn’t too long before she started to be just a little less judgmental. She was having trouble with her supervisors as well so we had to talk a bit about working with those in authority. It was a great—and sometimes painful—learning experience for her.

Working through contacts with her old college professors, she managed to land a minor job with one of the local news outlets. The job could work into a real photo journalism position if all goes well. She used some of her newly refined people skills to squeak through the job interview. We’re still working on ingraining the new habits.

She also started going back to church and we spent many hours talking about scriptures that give us guidance in how to be tolerant and respectful while showing love of others. She is often critical of intolerant church members but we talk about the fact that all of us have weaknesses and we need to help each other overcome them. It surprised her when I pointed out her own intolerance of them—something which gave her food for thought.

“Do you know how hard it is to take advice from someone who looks like a teenager?” She asks rhetorically. “When you talk, your voice sounds like a teenage girl, but what comes out is really grown up. It is so weird and incongruous.”

It has been hard to get respect lately!

------< O >------

“Can I talk to you a minute, Jerry?” My Pastor asks. He looks as if he has something significant on his mind. He also appears uncertain about how to approach whatever topic he wants to discuss.

“Sure,” I reply. I can pretty well guess what he wants.

I’ve continued teaching our adult Sunday School class since the accident happened five months ago. I know that it has made a lot of the newer people in the congregation a bit uneasy. The old timers seem to be taking the changes in stride as they all know that the changes in my life are not of my doing. It doesn’t hurt that we’ve respected each other for decades in many cases.

Visitors and newcomers, on the other hand, are totally confused. I’ve overheard, or had reported to me, conversations where folks have asked how a person so young can be so knowledgeable. Recently it’s been overheard that some folks are pretty sure that I’m female. Some of my old friends in the congregation seem to get a kick out of keeping people off balance regarding my age and gender. My baby face is now more on the female side of androgyny. I’ve dressed in male slacks, a white shirt and tie but they hang loose on me, hiding any shape that I do or don’t have. I continue to let my hair grow and it is about four inches long, and while I try to keep it combed in a male style, it is also pretty androgynous.

It has been getting harder and harder to get respect out of the adults. They know that it’s me up there teaching, but their eyes and ears hear a young teen girl instead. It is unsettling to most of them. I’ve been thinking it’s time to step aside and let someone else handle the class.

I’m down to one hundred seven pounds and am just under five foot five inches tall. All the teen boys and most of the teen girls in the congregation are bigger than me. I think that I’d get even less respect out of the kids if I were their teacher.

After settling into a seat in the church office, the Pastor tries to engage in small talk as he looks for a tactful way to broach his subject.

“Pastor,” I decide to help him out, “I’m sorry to say this, but I’m thinking that it’s time to step down as a Sunday School teacher. Maybe there is some place else you can use me where I don’t have to interact directly with most of the congregation. I’ve got lots of time on my hands since I am retired.”

You can see the Pastor relax considerably. I saved him the effort of asking me to step down.

“That’s too bad, Jerry,” he says with relief. “You are—without a doubt—the most knowledgeable person around when it comes to scriptures and church history. It will be a shame to lose you in the classroom, but your condition is getting in the way of your effectiveness.”

Well put, I think to myself. This Pastor may be young, but he knows how to be diplomatic.

“What would you think about producing our monthly newsletter?” He asks. “It hasn’t been the same since our old editor moved out a couple of months ago. You know most of the people and everything that is going on. I think that you’d be good at it.”

What he means is that I can do this by email and with a few phone calls—limiting my face-to-face time with people who are confused by me. I can see his point, and I’m not anxious to create any more waves that I need to. I just want to transition quietly into what I think the Lord has in mind for me.

“Sure, Pastor,” I smile at him, “I’d be happy to.”

------< 0 >------

Samantha has invited the daughter-in-laws over on a Saturday morning. And from the looks of it they have something serious on their mind.

It has gotten to the point where I no longer resemble my old self. It’s been six months since the accident. I stand a bit under five foot four, weigh in at one hundred pounds. My fever and achiness are still ever present though not as bad as at first. Fortunately the rate of weight and height decline is gradually slowing. It is fortunate as I have been worried that I might age regress to infancy. My hair has had a minor growth spurt and is now six inches long—it looks pretty shaggy. I’m still pretty much hair free everywhere else. No one but my doctor and I know that my genitals have receded to nearly nothing with my testacies actually ascending. My penis is only about an inch long—about where a very young boy would be. I haven’t told the family that my sex chromosomes are now mostly a mix of XX and XXY with only a very few XYs. The Y’s seem to be losing the battle. My testosterone output is virtually nil. Estrogen levels continue to be consistent with that of a young girls’. While still appearing to be somewhat androgynous I am on the feminine side of androgyny. I now look more like a preteen girl than a male.

It is funny though, none of my family—immediate or extended—have felt comfortable enough to talk about the implications of the changes.

Samantha, as the my own biological daughter, seems to be the initial spokeswoman for the group. Her boldness and former lack of social tact make her the ideal candidate.

“Dad,” she starts, “or should I say, Jerry. We want to talk to you about something.”

We are all sitting around the living room. The three daughters-in-law are lined up on the couch, Samantha is on the love seat and I’m sitting in my favorite lounge chair facing the bunch of them.

I give Samantha a ‘go ahead’ look.

“It’s pretty apparent to us,” she continues, “that your body is becoming more female every day.”

She takes a deep breath and spits out the bottom line, “We think you should start living as a girl.”

I work hard to keep the smile from my face. I was wondering how long it would take before the subject was broached. I’ve been wanting to make the switch for months now, but did not want to seem too eager.

“And we,” she quickly continues, waving at her sisters-in-law, “ have talked about it and we are prepared to help you make the transition.”

“I’ve been with you when strangers think you are a girl,” Helen, Bill’s wife, adds. “I don’t think anyone meeting you for the first time ever thinks that you’re male.”

That’s true. No one has mistaken me for a boy in a long time. In fact, most people seem to think that I am the tom-boy daughter of one of these women whenever I’ve been out and about with one or more of them.

“You are starting to look like a young teen girl who hasn’t started to develop yet,” Amanda, Tim’s wife points out.

Oh yeah, that reminds me that I can’t drive anymore—actually I can, but it’s too much of a hassle. I got pulled over by a cop a month ago who wouldn’t believe that I was old enough to drive. He thought that I was joy riding in my parent’s car. I don’t look anything like my driver’s license photo so I ended up at the police station and had to have my lawyer come down to prove my innocence. Some of the cops at the station remembered all the hoopla about the change and I was eventually let off with advice to get a new license issued—which I did. That’s a whole other story in its own right—one requiring further legal aid. I’m the only preteen girl in the world with an official driver’s license declaring that I am a sixty year old male.

I’ve been bumming rides off these women for the past month or taking the city bus to avoid a repeat of the hassle. The good news is that I can get away with paying the youth rate on the bus.

I’ve also been accused of skipping school on multiple occasions when out in public on a weekday. Several shop owners have threatened to call the police to take me back to school.

“Even the grandkids are confused.” Debbie, Mark’s wife tosses in.

Not long ago, the oldest grandson, young Frank—a very preconscious seven year old child—loudly proclaimed in a family gathering that I didn’t look like a grandpa anymore and that he was going to call me Jerry from now on. The youngest, Kimberly –a happy go lucky four year old—just wants to play dolls with me after declaring that ‘Papa’ is now a girl.

It’s not only the grandkids who are confused. An eleven year old girl, new to our church congregation, asked me just last week why I wear boy’s clothes and why don’t I attend the youth Sunday School class, or any of the other youth activities, like the other girls my age. One of the other youth who knows me tried to explain to her that I’m actually a sixty year old man. There is no way that the girl would believe that—neither would her parents.

This past week I had a chat with an old friend of mine who has been observing the growing confusion at church. He and I talked for a long time about what all the confusion was doing. Even he had mentioned that I might want to give people what they see if I continue to morph into a little girl. It might make things easier all around.

“So,” I reply with false caution, “just what do you all have in mind?”

They all look nervously at each other before Amanda, the oldest, pipes up.

“We want to take you shopping this morning for some clothes more appropriate to your apparent age and gender,” she states, “and to get your hair done. It’s a mess.”

They all look at me nervously hopeful.

Wow, I think to myself, I wasn’t expecting this. I’ve been wanting to start making the transition. In fact, I’ve managed to purchase a few items myself when none of them were around. I’ve got a pair of girls jeans, a couple of skirts and blouses, and some panties hidden under my bed—some are already too big as I bought them a couple of months ago. Using my credit card is nearly impossible these days, even with my new identification, as all the clerks think that I’ve stolen my father’s card. I can only use it when shopping on the internet. I’ll need to talk with my lawyer about getting my gender status changed and new identification documents secured once the changes settle down.

I make a show of sighing while doing a happy dance inside, “I guess it is inevitable, but I am still changing. We can’t go too wild.”

“We need to go all the way,” Helen points out with a smile. You can tell that she smells an easy victory for the girls. “You need to get rid of that androgynous look and quit confusing people. We don’t need to get much and can go to a Walmart or Target so that we don’t spend too much.”

“Alright,” I agree with another sigh while suppressing a happy smile, “I’ve been anticipating this. I suppose that it’s the right thing to do. Where do we start?”

This kicks off a flurry of happy activity. Amanda—being her normal efficient self (she has an MBA and was a successful business woman before deciding to focus on raising her two sons)—suggests that we start with some measurements and asks me—with a bit of nervousness—to strip down to my underwear so that they can get some accurate measurements.

They all express some surprise as I take off my baggy T-shirt and jeans. My body shape is a cross between that of a preteen boy’s and a preteen girl’s. My thirty inch chest and twenty eight inch waist is pretty typical of a young boy my size, but my thirty two inch hips with slightly rounded bottom is more representative of a young girl’s body.

Turning slightly pink, Debbie hesitantly asks, “Um, where are your male parts? You haven’t totally changed into a girl have you?” The rest of them look more closely at my jockey shorts covered crotch. It is pretty clear that I’m not filling them out.

“Even Frank’s are more noticeable,” observes his mother.

I guess, it’s time to let part of the cat out of the bag.

“Well,” I admit, “my testicles have ascended back into my body and my penis is quite small.”

“It must be.” Samantha agrees. “It doesn’t show in those shorts. I wonder how you’d look in panties. If you can hide it well, this opens up a few more clothing options since girls bottoms don’t leave much room for extra equipment.”

“I think some control briefs with lots of spandex should hold whatever you still have. That is, if we can get them that small.” Debbie mentions. “We’ll have to get some of those first.”

After I get dressed again, we all pile into my big SUV—I let Samantha drive as it looks more natural. And so our girls shopping spree begins.

To Be Continued...