Tommy Girl

By Donna Daniels

Donna Daniels grew up at a time when most people thought that little girls love to wear pink, dress up, paint their nails and have their hair done. And her mother definitely wanted Donna to be the perfect debutante and for her to "marry well." On the other end were the girls who would rather play sports, dig in the dirt, and never dress up. Donna actually enjoyed being both. She could play softball, plant flowers, just get down and dirty. But then she wanted to come home, take a shower, put on make-up, a dress and heels and go out. She was and still is a Tommy Girl.

 

By turns humorous and heartbreaking, Daniels shares her life as she tries to live her truth and find how she fits into the world.  She honestly describes her fears and failures as she navigates her sexuality in high school and college, falls in love and marries a man outside her race, struggles with depression and eventually divorce, leaving her to raise a young daughter on her own. In her journey to find herself, some of her choices will come across as reckless, even self-indulgent. But she doesn't shy from sharing them and the lessons she learned from those experiences so that perhaps someone else can avoid that pain.

 

With her self-esteem at an all-time low, Daniels marries a second time and is faced with domestic violence that takes every ounce of fight she has to get her and her daughter out safely. Just as things are looking up she loses her beloved father, her mother's Parkinson's disease progresses and she dies. Suffering grief, depression, and trying to claw her way back to life, Daniels is next diagnosed with a brain tumor and undergoes several surgeries and rehab over the next few years. 

With her life finally back on track and her daughter an adult with a career of her own, one more trauma is visited on her body when she is diagnosed with Stage4 rectal cancer at age 62. Over two years she endured nineteen surgeries, radiation, and countless time in rehab facilities before she could even begin to step back into some semblance of everyday life again.  

 

Daniels continues to fight with her health and, when she is able, she advocates for cancer sufferers and strives to educate the public and medicine about taking a wider view of health and healing. Her no-holds-barred glimpse into the life of a woman who continues to survive, no matter the odds, is something to celebrate. Perhaps we can all learn something from her fight and her love that will help us live and appreciate our own lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donna Daniels
• Release date: Jun 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781952447662

Book preview

Prologue

Most people think that little girls love to wear pink, dress up, like to paint their nails and have their hair done. But some little girls would rather play sports, dig in the dirt, and never dress up. This group is usually referred to as Tomboys.

Then there are a few of us who actually enjoy being both. I (as well as my daughter), fall in that category. We can play softball, plant flowers, just get down and dirty; but then come home, take a shower, put on make up, a dress and heels, and be quite comfortable going out all dressed up. This is where I have come up with the title Tommy Girl!

Everyone in life has ups and downs, that’s all part of the journey. The important part is to learn. Each time life gives you a challenge, no matter how difficult, use it as a learning experience. Don’t let it defeat or define you. Use it as a tool to make you stronger. For each struggle, let it be a lesson on being empathetic towards others. Everyone has a different childhood—life experiences that usher us as into adulthood. That’s what makes us unique.

So whether you are a Girlie-Girl, a Tomboy, a Tommy-Girl or something in between. We must all learn to accept each other. We all have positives and weaknesses. In sharing my life’s journey in this book, I hope it shows you that whatever hardships you have, fight for life. Always fight to live and to be kind to one another.

I’ve always been a fighter. I suspect I fought coming out of the womb. Even as a child, I questioned everything and fought hard for what I wanted. I didn’t always make the right decisions. But I kept fighting.

My mother wanted a debutante who would fit in to her view of successful womanhood—someone who loved country club parties and would find a good husband to keep her in the same economic status as her wealthy friends. Along with that, she tried to instill in me the ideal of a beautiful, ultra-feminine, quiet and submissive life where I lived for my husband and family.

That wasn’t me. I was an energetic tomboy mixed with the overdrive hormones of a woman who loved men and enjoyed my sensuous side. I could hang with the boys, being rough and tough. But I also embraced my feminine side and my sexuality. I loved getting dressed up, putting on make-up, and going out dancing. I was and still am a true Tommy-Girl.

I learned early in life that love, money, jobs, friends, health were not a given. Fortunately, my father adored me while my mother scorned me. I could never live up to her expectations; so I stopped trying.

This is the story of my chosen path through life with the highs and lows, the failures and the times I got it right. Though there were times of great joy, there have been many times of great sorrow. Certainly, some of that sorrow is brought on by my own life-choices, but much of it is the hand the universe dealt me and my body.

I’ve fought for my life many times, and so far I’ve’ won. I hope my story provides some insight into how women must fight to keep going. Through mental, emotional, and physical challenges you must keep fighting.

Don’t give up! You can do it. I’m still here against all odds and you can be too. Your life is worthwhile. Your story is important. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

(Tommy Girl is a personal history. The events described in this book are real. Many names, except for my own, have been changed to protect privacy and security. A few friends are named with their permission. They have been critical to my survival.)

1

The Early Years: Love and Neglect—Crashing My Way Into Adulthood

Igrew up near Fredericksburg, Virginia in Stafford County. Fredericksburg’s history goes back to 1721. It is the place where George Washington, our first President grew up. The story of the area’s best-known residents goes back even further. Pocahontas and the Patawomeck tribe lived there before the United States even existed. Although Fredericksburg and the surrounding area is known for the battles fought during the Civil War, it is also where the first ironworks in North America was built. Slaves attempted a revolt in the 1810s; and one of America's most productive early gold mines was in the area.

The military is also a big presence. Quantico Marine Base is half an hour north, a base that almost every Marine visits at some point in his/her career. Dahlgren Naval base and research center is a similar distance to the east. Dahlgren played a critical role for missile development, submarines, and computing in WWII and still does today.

To say history can weigh on a child growing up there is an understatement. Lots of expectations. Lots of rules. I started flaunting those rules before I even knew they existed.

My first memories were living in Fredericksburg. I’m not sure how old I was—maybe three. I loved to take off all my clothes and run down to the college nearby. Eventually a professor would find me and bring me home. The fact they knew where to bring me is a testament to how often this happened.

My father would laugh. My mother would be politely chagrined. And, I would promptly turn around and do it all over again another day.

In my early childhood, my mother wasn’t mean to me so much as she just overlooked me. When she returned home from work, she would shoo me away, like some annoying pest.

Our daily routine at home was that mother would get up at 5:30am and take a commuter bus to the naval base in Dahlgren. Dad would get up later, then head to work at the IRS. Mom would get home about 5::00 or 5:30pm. The tradition was two cocktails before dinner.

When I felt particularly sad about being ignored, I retreated to the basement in my baby brother’s room to cuddle my baby doll. I pretended to mother it. I rocked it, comforted it, gave it hugs and kisses, and promised, When you’re my real baby, I’m going to tell you I love you.

Luckily, I wasn’t entirely without a nurturing mother figure. I had Blanche, who I lovingly called my black mother from the time she started working for my family when I was two years old. My mom hired Blanche to take care of six-month-old Bart and me so she could return to work.

Blanche’s race didn’t matter to me, but it was a major part of her identity, especially since it was the 1950s. She couldn’t read (though she knew quite a bit about many things); and she couldn’t go a lot of places with us (we lived in the South, after all).

She was a mom to me in both the ways my mother wasn’t; care and nurture. She cooked for me and comforted me when I most needed it. Blanche was closer to my brother because she raised him from infancy. Her room was my brother’s room so she could get up in the middle of the night to care for him.

As a child she would often walk us to and from school. She never yelled at us, and never spanked us. In her gentle way she’d say Girl, you don’t wanna do that. I knew then I’d crossed a line and I would back off.

My brother was a jokester, always looking for a way to get ahead of me, even though I was the oldest. I would often rush home ahead of him so I could go straight to the frig to gulp down a cold beverage. One day, Bart planned his joke well in advance. He’d filled half a bottle of Pepsi with hot sauce and red pepper. He walked in just in time to see me coughing and gagging. He laughed so hard and gloried in having caught me out once again.

Blanche could make any day fun. She often sent Bart and me outside to pick berries for cobbler. Then we’d gather in the kitchen to help her cook it. Blanche replaced my mother for me in that she provided much of the love I craved.

As far as I knew, Blanche was part of our family. She stayed with us throughout the week and ate at the table with us like a family member. If both my parents went away for the weekend, Blanche would stay for the weekend and care for us. I never considered that she had anyone in her life besides us.

My parents, being white and from Virginia, were quietly prejudiced. I didn’t see that at first because they were subtle about it, but as I began to question them about norms in our community I realized something wasn’t right. I asked why, when we would go out to eat together, Blanche was required to eat outside on the steps. In public, Blanche had to eat outside, but at home we made sure she sat at the table with us.

My Dad sent confusing messages about this difference in how blacks and whites were treated. Most of the time, my dad judged people based on their character and morals. And Blanche came up aces. But, he had grown up in the South and he definitely felt blacks had a different place in public. He said that’s just the rules, and he didn’t want me involved in anything that might cause controversy.

It wasn’t until I became an adult that I realized Blanche had a life and a family completely outside of us. Her children were eight to ten years older than me and my brother. When I had my daughter, I raised her the way Blanche had raised me—to treat all people equal no matter the color of the skin, their economic status, or the religion they practiced. Blanche was always fair and loving. When I became a school teacher, I also passed on those same values.

Blanche got Alzheimer’s later in her life, and she died in 2003. I was the only white person at her funeral; I didn’t notice this right away—having Blanche around made me throughout my growing up made me slow to see racial differences.

At Blanche’s funeral, I sobbed openly. When someone asked how I knew her, I said, She was my mother! And although many people didn’t know what I meant, her children recognized me and invited me to sit with them. Blanche had told them enough about me as a child that they knew me too. Just like Blanche, they welcomed me as family that day.

They insisted I sit at the sibling table with them. They were so welcoming. They talked about how appreciative they were that their mother had a good job and she was treated fairly by my father. Because Dad’s job was with the IRS, he made sure that he paid taxes on her wages. He paid into social security for her. When she turned 65 he helped her file for social security so that she would have an income for the rest of her life.

Blanche’s impact on my life has truly lasted a lifetime. Thanks to her, when I became an adult, I never accepted even casual prejudice. I would speak out. It is something I’ve fought against all of my life—often making me very unpopular with some people.

At least once a year we would take a vacation without Blanche. I really missed her during those times. Because my parents worked all the time, my daily life from the time Bart and I woke to the time we went to bed was really up to Blanche. She was my confidant. The person who knew me best—all my thoughts and trials. She was always there to dry my tears or to build me up. Without her, vacations were a difficult transition. My parents were trying to get in some relaxation away from their demanding jobs; while I was doing everything possible to get their attention. When I did succeed it was usually not the kind of attention I sought.

One of those times was during a trip to Rehoboth Beach. My dad loved the water and boating, and he had taken the time to teach us how to swim. He wanted us to love the water just as much as he did.

During this particular vacation, my parents fell asleep on the beach while I was in the water. I