Taylor Lange

D1

As I looked down from 30,000 feet at the scenic California landscape below on that morning almost two years ago, I had little idea what would unfold in the weeks that followed. Over my thirty-one years, I had taken the flight from Los Angeles to San Jose dozens of times and driven between the two metroplexes twice as much. At the time, I had family on each end. After growing up south of San Jose, I had moved south to attend college in West LA and had lived there since.

My degree in English ensured that I could write a complete sentence and, despite the down economy, having an uncle who was the publisher of a major newspapers and magazine concern permitted me to work as a free-lance reporter. Things had gone well for me as I moved from daily news reporting to feature-length stories to finely-crafted and well-researched magazine articles. Just four years ago, I won a coveted Sotter prize for best feature reporting on the large increase in transgender youth in the Bay area.

Now my editor in San Jose wanted to see me about another transgender article. I didn't exactly know what he was looking for and would find out at our afternoon meeting. I knew I would find out in a few hours and my mind began to wander, thinking about my earlier article...

David Mitchell was a typically aggressive executive editor of my uncle's flagship news and features magazine "Golden Bay." The magazine was widely distributed throughout California and was attracting a national following. Mitchell had an eye for news and trends; there was little question he was a keen cultural observer. The visibility of the magazine had the benefit of making people return my phone calls, which made my life much easier.

I knew David had reservations about me as a reporter, thinking that my relationship to the publisher made me lazy and entitled. I compensated for his concern by producing well-researched and well-written articles that discussed controversial topics without being preachy. We got along and I could manage my own time. I was also able to continue to live in south California, apart from all the office politics in San Jose.

What I knew but told no one was that his own son had begun gender transformation four years ago. I had learned this rather compelling tidbit while researching my first transgender article. I had kept it to myself since then, but clearly it helped me understand where David was coming from.

David was a classic news editor, who softened the aggression inherent in his male-pattern baldness, muscular build and short stature with the highest quality Brooks Brothers cotton blue Oxford shirts. The shirts had to be custom made to fit his blocky form. They made him look positively regal.

"Taylor, I want you to do a follow-up to your first transgender article. From what I have heard, the science has changed rapidly over the last three years. Some of the bad outcomes that were occurring at the time of your article have been almost eliminated." David obviously did not want to profess too much familiarly with the topic and was counting on me to fill in the blanks. "Find out what those improvements look like and what else has changed in terms of the medical approaches."

"And, of course, try to avoid a slant to the story that will create too much controversy," he continued. "Don't give anybody a pass and ask tough questions but let the facts speak for themselves. This is becoming more and more mainstream. Don't turn it into a freak show."

These were odd words for an editor, but I appreciated where he was coming from. Gender transition was controversial enough without injecting advocacy or judgmental approaches. But I couldn't help but ask: "So what kind of a slant should I take?"

"Write it as if you were gathering facts to try to make a good decision," he said.

For yourself? I asked.

"For someone that you care about, if that means for yourself, fine." he said, without giving his answer much thought.

I left his office and headed to my parent's house to spend the night. The food was familiar and the price was right.

When I arrived, my Mother was home and greeted me warmly. Shortly, however, she advised me of the goings-on between her and my Father. I was surprised to hear that something was up.

Tay, your Father and I are going to live in separate places for a while, she said.

"I did not see this coming," I thought at the time.

It is not quite what you may think. He has been given an opportunity to teach as a visiting professor at a University in South Africa. He really wants to go and they want him to come as soon as possible. It is a three year commitment. So he is over at the campus putting his things into storage. He leaves at the end of next week.

I am interested in seeing South Africa but really don't want to move there. Besides, I was hoping to spend some more time with my friend from college, Jamie. She lives in New York but also has a place in South Florida.

I will be still spend time here, but I really don't know exactly when that will be.

Mother probably didn't appreciate that I knew that she and Jamie had spent a year and a half living together after college. And "living together" meant just that as the two had an intense lesbian relationship at the time. It was a big source of friction between my Mother and my Father. It is amazing what a curious adolescent can learn staying up late and eavesdropping on conversations.

Well, good for her, I thought. I gave my Mother credit for coming up with a good story. Maybe some of it was true.

After a few minutes thought, I noted that she would certainly fit right into her new lifestyle. Mother looked very fit and sexy, and appeared to be much younger than her fifty-four years. I never quite understood how she kept her long dark brown hair looking so good, although I think the $400 per month at the salon had something to do with it. If she wanted, she could play a very successful "cougar" if she was interested in young men. But it appeared that she was going in another direction with Jamie.

I had met Jamie a few times growing up when we visited New York. She had worked as a model before deciding to take life seriously and was now an editor at a leading women's magazine.

My Mother and I had a good and close relationship, although as an only child, it could be a little smothering, as opposed to mothering. She had a very successful career as a graphic artist, space designer and consultant. Over the past ten years she had directed the design of the inside spaces of some of the lavish offices of Silicon Valley's high-tech companies. Her work was prized and she was exceedingly well-compensated. She could afford to do whatever she wanted.

I didn't worry about my Father. As a career university professor and botanist, he had a steady and consistent interest in his trees and bugs. He would be fine in South Africa. I suspected that he didn't much care about Mom's plans with Jamie. Sex and relationships were just not a big part of his life, at least now.

That night, before dozing off to sleep, my mind returned to some things that I never spoke about with anyone...

I was, by all appearances, a guy living comfortably as a guy. I was healthy, even athletic and fairly attractive to women and I was attracted to them. I had a girlfriend in college and that continued into graduate school. I was sexually experienced, for sure, but the aggressive male part of me that wanted to take and dominate a woman wasn't much in evidence. Too often my date nights would end up talking to my date over a drink and later an early-morning fresh donut from a place that I knew in LA. My head and my fascination usually won out over the part of me below the waist.

I knew there was something else and I had known for a long time.

I remembered vividly a road trip when I was twelve. We were driving to San Diego to visit friends of my parents and I knew they had a daughter my age. I had met her once before and thought she was pretty and intelligent. I found myself napping in the back seat on the trip and dreaming that I would arrive as a girl. It felt so comfortable at the time. And very exciting. Although my back-seat fantasy didn't come true, I never forgot how I felt.

I grew up after that in awe of women. Biologically speaking, I wanted to mate with them, of course. But it was more than that. I loved the intensity of their social relationships, the bonding with their girlfriends and the complexity of their lives.

With some minimal attention, women could seemingly enjoy the full pallet of beauty. Pretty dresses covering their curves; tight jeans on top of lace panties. Heels and lipstick. Incredible looking hair, if one was willing to pay for it. Those things really turned me on but not in a way that could be described as raw passion. It was a semi-sexual feeling.

Back on the physical side of things, I also felt what could only be described as jealousy over their overwhelming sensuality and sexuality. I felt more than a little short-changed as a male in that department. Men are like one-trick robots, it seemed to me - prisoners of biology and instinct -- and driven to plant their seed at almost all costs. Slow down for a moment and the flag could come down the flagpole as fast as it went up, to try to use a metaphor. In comparison, women had the apparent ability to be aroused and repeatedly orgasm with little inconvenience. It seemed like a lousy deal.

I allowed myself to watch porn but it was partially focused on observing women in their beautiful natural state. Seeing a swatch of lace from a bra or panty would give me the shivers. It was a lovely little obsession and seemed relatively harmless. I never -- well never much -- acted on that obsession.

Despite those secret feelings, I had concluded that gender change was a futile goal -- while one might appear female to most but a trained eye, inside a male would always be a male, with the DNA to prove it. And, of course, a transgender female would never have ovaries or a uterus. And it seemed equally unlikely that a transgender person would ever experience sex as a real woman would. For me, gender change was an empty fantasy.

I drifted off to sleep thinking about those things. I slept fitfully, knowing that I would return to these thoughts over and over in the weeks ahead. It would be unavoidable.