Changeling: The Unremarkable Story of My Remarkable Life

By Susan Calvin

This is the story of a child that was wrongly born male, and through revelation realized nature had made a serious mistake. It chronicles the struggles of dealing with a great and terrible secret, thinking there was no way out of the dilemma of being born the wrong sex. Trying to find a cure, that child tried many ways to conform to her biology, only to find out all her attempts were in vain. Then, after many long years of frustration, quite by accident, a door was opened. Call it fate, or divine intervention, that child, now an adult, was able to crossover the strange and mysterious void between the sexes and emerge a new and beautiful female creature; a Changeling. Finally mind, spirit, soul, and body were in agreement, and a wonderful new life journey began.

Like the ugly, repulsive caterpillar that abandons its life to become a beautiful, wondrous butterfly, I have lived, died, and come back as the whole woman I was meant to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781662404306

Book preview

Chapter 1

Childhood

My Early Memories

Parents

Looking back over a lifetime of experience, had I been given the opportunity to choose my parents, I would definitely not have selected the two I got. They were the most unlikely pair you could imagine. Their philosophy on any subject seemed always to be in conflict. In fact, my first memory was of the two of them having a heated argument about me. That pattern continued until I finally left home to join the military.

Needless to say, this event had a profound effect on my life. I could never feel comfortable around my parents, nor could I ever fully trust their motives regarding me. At a time when I desperately needed to be loved, I was being held at arm’s length with regard to parental love. Of course, there was nothing I could do about it, except to seek what I needed outside my immediate family. My grandparents were helpful here, and I’d always felt closer to them. In their home, there was no arguing or angry words, just understanding and acceptance. And there were the friends I made along life’s path. Most of them would probably never know how much they helped me cope with life.

I was born on August 18, 1947, and by all physical appearances, I was a little boy. Of course, that didn’t matter to me until I was several years older. I just went along with the way everyone treated me. All my toys were oriented toward those which were typical for little boys, including my first bicycle. There was one exception, however. The memory was vague, but I do remember my mother insisting at one point that I have a doll to play with. As I recalled, Dad was opposed to such a thing, but Mom won out. Did she know something, or was she wishfully thinking? Was it possible she secretly wanted a girl and was unhappy with me being male? I never asked her about that, and she never brought the subject up, but now I wonder …

Some psychologists might have a field day with this revelation, thinking that Mom’s alleged secret desire might have affected my gender identity. No one will ever know, and regardless, I’m more than elated that I ended up becoming female. I wouldn’t have it any other way now that I’ve crossed over. Something I came to know later in life is that being female is one of life’s best kept secrets.

My dad had served in the Army in Europe in World War II. I was given to understand he was an ambulance driver in both Italy and France. That seemed interesting inasmuch as I would later serve as an air ambulance helicopter pilot (call sign Dust-Off 159) during my second tour of duty in Vietnam. It was while serving in France that he met my mother in Nice, France. The details of their marriage and relocation to the US had been lost to me. Something I was aware of is that my mother came over on what she described as a battleship, although, as she liked to tell people, her citizenship paperwork called it a cattle ship. And shortly after arriving in Independence, Missouri, my dad’s hometown, they settled into a dilapidated small red brick house that was little more than a small apartment. This was the location of my first memory.

As best I could recall, that house was only about twenty feet on a side with a dirty dark-red brick exterior. It was more like an efficiency apartment than an actual home. It was located alongside a major road that ran through town, past a nearby junkyard and a dirty-looking gas station. There were two such structures on a small, dirty lot, and they were uninviting to behold. They didn’t remain long after we moved out, and their destruction actually improved the appearance of the town. Years later, when I recalled that house, it seemed more like a slum shack you might find sitting alongside a railroad track. It was disconcerting that my dad ever thought such a dwelling was acceptable for his young family. Maybe he was accustomed to living in crummy digs after his time in the Army in Europe. But that was no excuse. I knew about living in a hole in the ground from my military experience, and I could never expect my family to live at such a low level.

At that time, Independence was a small, close-knit community, steeped in the traditions of the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century. Its greatest claim to fame was that President Harry Truman was from Independence. Life at that time was much simpler, and it was not uncommon to see Mr. Truman walking around town, unescorted. The same could be said for Mrs. Truman. She and my mom became friends somewhere along the way, and when Mom became manager of a cosmetics department in a store on the square, Mrs. Truman bought much of her cosmetics from her. Mom let me in on some of their girl talk, and it made listening interesting. Apparently, Mrs. Truman was not opposed to telling on Harry, and some of her stories were a bit racy.

Mom seemed to have had a bit of a gift for languages and, soon, became fluent in English. (I have no such gift. My talents lean toward science, not language). At some point, she was even called upon to translate at a meeting between President Truman and some French dignitary. This took place in front of what is now the Truman Office Building, across from the junior high school I later attended. As part of the ceremony, there was a life-size replica of the Liberty Bell as a photographic backdrop. I’d seen a picture of that event, but it got lost somewhere along the way. The bell is now part of the Truman Library a few miles away.

It wasn’t long before we moved to an upstairs apartment in a house on south Noland Road. The family downstairs had older children who had little interest in playing with me. So I spent most of my days with my mother. She could actually be somewhat pleasant to me as long as my dad was not around. After he returned from working, tensions began to increase, and it was better if I kept my distance from them. After a few months, we moved to another upstairs apartment on Main Street. There was little change in my lifestyle there, as I still had no one my age to play with. Tensions continued between my parents, albeit at a somewhat low level.

Both of those houses were two-story wood-frame houses, where we occupied the second story. They were old at that time, but they had survived to this day. The decor was spartan, and it was not uncommon to see mice running around, especially in the kitchen areas. Not knowing any better, I thought the mice were cute. Mom, of course, had a different opinion. The second house was actually a little better, but not by much. One thing I do remember was that the bedroom of the second house had wallpaper that I thought was pretty. Mom seemed to be somewhat impressed with that improvement, but she still wanted something better. Perhaps something, with a big yard and a place to put a washer and dryer and a nicer kitchen. It was also at this time I got my first bicycle. It was red and just my size. I remember the day Dad took me to get that bike. I didn’t know until we got to the bike shop that I was getting it. I thought I was big stuff when riding my new bike up and down the sidewalk, and I wanted to ride everywhere. Unfortunately, our street was too busy for that. So I just rode up and down our local sidewalk, under supervision, of course.

Mom was constantly pressuring my dad to provide us with a nicer home, one we could call our own. To his credit, Dad made an attempt to build a house, but it never got beyond the foundation stage. I remember visiting that site one day, along with my grandpa. The excavation for the foundation had been dug out, but there was nothing else which could be considered a house under construction. No forms had been built, and no concrete had been placed. This excavation consisted of a trench about five feet deep all around the outside dimension of the prospective house. I recall that it had recently rained, so there was water in the bottom of the trench. Naturally, being a curious child, I ended up falling into the trench and getting covered with mud. Naturally, Dad was quite displeased, and I never saw that site again. The foundation was never placed, and no construction begun. Eventually, he gave up and found a newly built house on Golden Lane, a street on the fringes of an area called Golden Acres. It was a small house, only two bedrooms, but it was new, and it was ours (and the bank’s). And it seemed to appease Mom, at least a little.

It didn’t take long for me to start exploring my new neighborhood. At that time, it was not unusual for kids my age to be out and about for hours on end. The great outdoors was somewhat a babysitter, and the only instruction I got from home was to be back in time for supper. My bicycle was my access to the world, and I took advantage of my freedom to the fullest extent. The streets in my neighborhood were laid out in a rather convoluted pattern, but I soon had them memorized.

I was five years old by this time and very much enjoying my new living arrangement. I now had my own room where I could entertain myself for hours on end. I also had a nice yard in which to play. And there was a basement for me to explore. However, I still had no one my age with whom to play and socialize. Not long after settling into our new home, my mother decided I needed a companion, so she pressured my dad to let me have a dog. I still remember the day we went to pick out my new puppy. There were two pups available, one of whom was weak and sickly. Being softhearted, I immediately directed my attention to it. However, Mom convinced me that it would be better to take the other pup, just in case. Her suggestion was that the weak pup might not get any better and, therefore, not live long. So that was how I met Lassie, my first dog. She was a great companion, and I instantly fell in love with her. That was a long time ago, but I still remember her fondly. I have every confidence she will be one of the first souls I will meet in heaven.

Lassie was my constant companion whenever I was out exploring. We spent many hours together, with me riding my bike, and she running alongside. She was a good listener, and we had lots of cathartic conversations in private. I had no doubt she understood everything I said, and she was always sympathetic. Had I gotten my way, she would have shared my room with me, and we would have even slept together. However, my dad had other ideas. He was not dog-friendly and insisted that Lassie spend her nights outside, even in the winter. He did build a doghouse for her; at least he was that talented. As doghouses go, it was nice and roomy, and Dad seemed proud of it. But for some reason, he never considered a dog door into the basement. It would have been easy enough to cut a hole in the basement door; I’ve done that myself in my current house. However, Dad never considered doing so. I really hated that and considered it cruel. Many nights in the winter, Lassie would howl, wanting to be inside, but Dad couldn’t have cared less. Often, I wondered how he would like it if someone made him sleep outside in the cold. I’ve always had a strong dislike for his unkindness toward her. In fact, if my dad were still with us, it would be my pleasure to punch his lights out for the way he treated Lassie. I know, that’s not a very feminine attitude, but I think it’s justified. I can’t stand people who are unkind to animals. It’s my nature.

Lassie was my soul mate for many years. We did not have a fenced-in front yard, so I had to keep a watchful eye on her when playing. Our street was not busy, and she normally stayed in the front yard with me. When exploring the neighborhood, she always stayed close to my bike. I had her up to the time I met my first true friend, Charlie Blankenship, and for a while afterward. (I’ll talk more about Charlie when I discuss my grade school years). One day, when I came home from school, my dad was waiting for me, and he looked a little down. As best as he could, he explained that Lassie had been run over and killed by Charlie’s mother. Of course, it was an accident, and I could tell she was nearly as broken up about it as I was. But it left a large hole in my soul that remains to this day. I still tear up when I remember that event. I’m sure Dad meant well, but he never told me how he disposed of Lassie’s body. Maybe he did the right thing, but it still hurt that I never got to say a proper goodbye. I did my best to let Charlie’s mom know I understood that she had not meant to hurt Lassie, and I think she gained some comfort from that. We commiserated with each other for a time, then, life went on.

From what I can gather, it’s not uncommon for a child, and sometimes an adult, to exclaim they don’t want another pet after losing one. I was no different in this regard. I remember crying profusely when I made that statement. It was virtually impossible for my child’s mind to envision ever having a replacement for my Lassie. How could there ever be a replacement for someone I loved that deeply? So I remained alone for a while after Lassie’s passing; then one day, I decided it was time for another companion. Without asking my parents, I went to the local dog pound and picked out a new friend, King. He was a mixed breed and very intelligent. Fortunately, my parents decided to let me keep him, perhaps feeling sorry for me. Like Lassie, he was a constant companion wherever I went. He came into my life as I was completing grade school and beginning junior high. Every morning, he would wait with me at the bus stop and then go back to the house after I got aboard. I suppose I should have seen it coming, but as a child, I didn’t. One day, at the beginning of the school year, just after I got settled in my seat and the bus began to move, I felt it ride over a bump. I immediately knew what had happened. By the time I got to the front of the bus, it had traveled to the next stop a block away. Despite the driver trying to keep me on the bus, I jumped out and began running back to my bus stop. Against all hope, I guess I knew King was dead. And I had lost another soul mate. My parents were mildly sympathetic, but again, I never knew what happened to King’s body. And I resigned myself to not having another pet for the foreseeable future.

By this time, I was more aware of family routine. Dad worked as a pipe fitter at a nearby oil refinery, and Mom was managing a cosmetics department in a major store on the square. We were comfortable financially, but not setting the world on fire. Around this time, Mom’s acrimonious attitude toward Dad began to grow. It seemed that she held the firm belief that the husband should provide the family with everything the wife desired, while the wife stayed at home to be a homemaker. During this time, I spent a lot of my days with my grandparents across town. In the morning, my parents would take me to my grandparents. After work, my parents would pick me up, and we would go home. Dinner followed soon afterward, and in short order, an argument ensued. Sometimes at the end of the week, I would get to stay with my grandparents for a whole weekend. I really enjoyed those times because I got to play with the neighbor girls for a longer time.

I have vivid memories of daily arguments set around the dinner table. My parents had very different philosophies about child-rearing. Dad was conservative in his beliefs, and Mom was very dogmatic, rigid, and strict. It’s funny, but she seemed to have an attitude more aligned with Nazi German idealism, even though she had extreme hatred toward Germans, having grown up in France under German occupation. The result was that, with one exception, dinner was always a time of great contention and fierce argument. The one exception was the time they didn’t speak to