For me - despite the leopard pants my grandma made me - wearing jeans and sneakers while running into town was who I was.
I hung out with all the boys, playing Bart Starr to my friend Jon's Donny Anderson, from the Green Bay Packers. Or playing a Knight of the Round Table using metal garbage can lids and cardboard swords.
And beating up anyone who dared pick on my sister.
I used to race the boys' Stingray bikes my dad built all over town, with my little AM radio slung over the handlebars, as I listened to the Rolling Stones and Jefferson Airplane.
Darkness would fall and I'd race home, compelled to be on time to watch Elizabeth Montgomery in "Bewitched," whom I loved on an epic scale.
One of my fondest memories is the day my dad gave me a bright and shiny new baseball bat and ball for my birthday. It's a memory which he probably assigned as the pivotal moment he still had some control to do things differently, and not end up with a lesbian daughter.
Fortunately, I had parents who did not force me into dresses, except as decorum required, such as church on Easter. I’m forever grateful I got to be essentially who I was in those days gone by.
I wonder what might have been, had puberty not interfered with the innocence of pure joy I experienced as a 9-year-old dyke.