Roger

Roger, age 2
Galt, Ontario, Canada (1963)

Here I am at age 2 on the right, holding the hand of my little sister and best friend. We were inseparable. We played dolls and had little tea parties together. As we grew up we kept to ourselves as our four brothers hung out together.

Five years later we had another sister to play house with. All the while, my dad said "Something ain't right with that boy."

My oldest sister had a beautiful yellow and white dress that I absolutely adored! When I was six I pushed a chair to the closet, climbed up, and took down the dress.

I started to put it on when:
Oh no! The dress got stuck!
My arms were above my head, and I couldn't see and could hardly breathe!

I yelled for help and my mom came and pulled the dress from over my head.
She said, "What are you doing? Boys don't wear dresses!" After I was freed I heard my dad ask, "What is he, some kind of sissy?" 

I remember feeling embarrassment and shame. But mostly shame.

My parents started signing me up for sports teams and encouraging me to play with my brothers. That ought to "fix things," they thought. It worked for a while, and I was developing a more "boy-like" attitude and demeanor.

A couple of years later, my sister died. I was devastated and lost. I turned to the church, and my "feminine side" was on its way to being completely buried.

I eventually broke free and have slowly become the person I am now. I still like to wear blouses, skirts, stockings and panties. I feel very much at ease when doing so, but as soon as I put on a dress, I revert back to being that six year-old kid feeling fear, embarrassment, and shame.

But mostly shame...
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Roger

Roger, age 11

Plettenberg Bay, South Africa (1966)

By the age of 5 I knew I was different. I grew up in a small coastal resort town, population then of about 1,200 people. Pop culture frightened me then, and
I switched off the radio when "modern music" was played.

One night, I'd wondered away from the colonial stone terrace, where the parents were being served drinks by the staff in their red-sashed, white uniforms.

Down a long grassed ceiling passage, through a bathroom doorway slightly ajar, I came across our hosts' son taking his early evening bath.

The reflection of candle light on the clear water in the white enamel bath, the fragrance of the grass roof, the shiny and smooth soap-scented muscled body, and the rough male kiss of fresh towels reverberated in the very depth of my being.

I was 21 when I told my parents I was gay. They asked, "What does that mean?" "Homosexual," I stammered. And it was left like that, and never spoken of again.

At 8-years old I fell in love with a nameless, dashing soldier dressed in full mess kit. His hand extended to a beautiful lady in a turquoise frilly ball gown, in an invitation to dance. He was on the cover of my first LP, and I played the Viennese waltzes over and over again, until I knew every note and was dancing with him.

Seeing this picture now, I feel stupid and camp. And quite frankly, ridiculous. However, I remember that back then, I was happy carefree and in love with life.
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