We originally lived in a second house that my dad's parents owned. It bordered a large graveyard in a gritty working-class neighboorhood sandwiched between a steel mill, a large slaughterhouse and two breweries. With the half dozen backyards facing a sea of marble behind a chain-link fence. One room houses that had grown into a ramshackle collection of wood and tar paper houses. I stil find it hard to imagine my great-grandparents raised 10 girls in that tiny house!
The house we first lived in was but a few steps from their home, and I certainly remember my Grandparents house being filled with love and great cooking. It was clean and a hub of social activity, it seemed like there was always someone visiting or stopping by with pastry or fresh baked Pita bread.
Of course I was aware of my Father's absence to some degree, I asked "where is Dad?" many times and was told he was on a trip to Alabama. So if there was some kind of underlying tension between my Mom and her In-laws, I wasn't aware of it on any conscious level.
Eventually my Dad returned, tail-between his legs, His parents had to take out a second mortgage on the second house to payback the money he stole. I remember visiting him at some cheap motel cottage and later some rented room in a old victorian on the city's west end. At some point he moved back in with us, it wasn't long after that my sister was born. We lived there another year until we had to move out because my dads sister was getting married and needed the house.
So we moved into my Mom's parents home, my grandfather ran a bakery on the first floor and we lived on the second and third floors. It sat on a corner on a very busy main road across the river on the east side, across the street from the local projects, where we could smell the sewage plant at night instead of the slaughter house.
This was also a house of love and where my feminine stirrings would begin. But here was a difference, there was a definite tension between between Pop-pop and my Dad, and it was where I would begin to discover what a jerk my father was.
Yes, I was not a perfect son and I was having behaviour problems stemming from my father's early absence, I was acting out and I was angry that I could not be a girl. I was while living here the daycare incident and the wake-up game was played. a few months before we moved out I was enrolled in a special school for kids with learning and behaviour problems.
It was in an adjacent town, mid 1800's with a bell tower with a bell and a huge coal burning furnace in the basement. I went here for 1st thru 3rd grades, it was also here I would be molested my first time. I was in 2nd grade and was using the toilet when this older boy came in and forced open the door to my once private stall. There, he forced me to perform him oral sex or he would cut my penis off! I never told my shrinks or my parents or friends at the time and buried my horror from that event.
Eventually a new school was built and we moved into our new digs, my dressing in secret began here. I started like many crossdressers by using what was handy, I started by using my sisters bikini, she was two years younger than me and it was very tight and uncomfotable but I bore out the discomfort because it made me feel whole and happy.
It wasn't long before my mom discovered the bathing suit in my room one day and a good amount of screaming and yelling and of course a spanking from my father. Well it was clear the special school was doing me no good and most likely for financial reasons I was taken out and placed into the 4th grade back at the school I went to for kindergarden. Again it was a special class and I didn't really fit in. I became destructive and violent here out of anger and frustration over my situation, I encountered a great deal of bullying and ostracism for being in a special class. My rage knew no bounds here, mostly I was acting out of anger for my rape and my not being allowed to be a girl.
I still clearly remeber the anguish and frustration and how I dealt with it.
This is where I began to hate myself and my lot in life, a few well timed releases of now classic westerns turned me onto hanging and it looked to me like a good way to go away from my awful situation. My parent's went away for some family event and left us in the care of a great aunt when I was 10. I came home from a particularly awful day of teasing and bullying, I remember coming home and before I went inside I got a rope from the shed and a large metal washtub. I lay the tub upside-down on the ground beneath a strong branch, and I climbed on up. I attached the rope to the branch, (at this point I'd like to mention I felt no fear, just a great sorrow and excitement.)
I fashioned a crude noose and climbed down and went inside to sort of say goodbye, I remember it was like some sort of trance, i walked ouside and walked down the back steps and over to the mullberry tree I had appointed as my place of execution. I think thats how I looked at it then, I was an abomination, a curse, a mistake that needed to be corrected.
I wanted out of my cursed life and body and away from my ass of a father. As I stepped up onto the tub I felt some sadness, I took the crude loop of rope and placed it around my neck and tightened it, the cold November wind blew across my face and hair reminding me that soon my young body will soon be as cold as the unforgiving pre winter winds. The rope was rough and and already painful against the soft skin of my neck. With a heavy sigh and a few tears I looked down and began to try to kick away the washtub......
More to come dear readers.