In the midst of one of the great and glorious games in the big barns,
when I was in my element, dressed in one of the boy’s suits, it became
necessary for me to retire to the house for pressing reasons. After
questioning as to the seriousness of the matter, and finding that it was
only “bo-bo,” the name we all used for the lesser call of nature, the
boys settled it then and there that it would not be necessary for me to
go to the house as I had on a pair of trousers. They showed me the
little hole in front that was put there conveniently for that very
purpose. We were all quite relieved that the games would not be
interrupted.
They told me to go to the corner, as they had been taught to do, and
turn my back and that seemed to be all the instruction necessary. I
could not seem to fathom the mystery of the said opening as a solution
to my increasing desire to relieve myself. The two seemingly important
things were in evidence. The little hole in the trousers and the
secluded corner—but, what next?
They explained that I must just pull out something before I could
accomplish the act. But there was nothing to pull! I protested. The clan
then assembled in serious conference. First one and then the other tried
to find what they supposed grew on all children alike, but to no avail!
Alas! Nature asserted itself, and I _had_ to go to the house then,
dripping with tears and otherwise crushed and broken, in my fall from
the pedestal of equality with the boys. I went straight to my mother
and, through tears of disgrace and rebellion, tried to tell her that I
was not made right and telling her freely all that had happened.
The result? I was promptly spanked during the course of changing my
clothes. I was given the ever-to-be-detested sewing and made to stay in
the house, without one word of explanation as to why. I believe my
terror of the truth and my loss of confidence in my mother began at that
moment. I was not allowed to wear trousers for a long time. I presume it
was felt that the spanking had given me the clue that another would
follow if there should be a repetition of the episode. Possibly the
greatly increased basket of mending had something to do with my mother’s
finally yielding to my entreaties for the boy’s clothes. Until then I
had always been conscious of the contempt of the boys and my pride was
suffering.
When at last I appeared “clothed in my right mind,” as I felt, my
self-respect restored, and hoping my standing with the boys would be
back to normal, I was fairly happy. Yet I sincerely believe we were even
then wondering about things.
Was that method used by my mother wise? According to her lights it must
have been. Tradition ruled.
How much better it would have been for our parents to have frankly
discussed the sex questions as they were raised, and to have explained
the reasons for the difference in anatomy between boys and girls. How
much could have been saved for the generations which followed. But they
were so bound to tradition they simply could not bring themselves to
such a course.
To my mind, that was the time all of the wonderful truths of creation
should have been explained to us in a beautiful way. When the child is
capable of wondering is the time to explain without reserve.
What was the result of the method used by my mother? There followed
frequent discussions between us children regarding our discovery of the
difference in our make-up. If I had been punished for telling about it,
it must be something worthy of investigation. It was definitely decided
that it would never do to go to my mother with any further tales of such
discussions or investigations. It was decided that it was only a case of
lack of development in my parts; that the little lip which had been
pulled and hauled at the time I was trying not to interrupt the game by
going to the house, would grow and become like that of the boys.
My disgust that I had not in the beginning been created a real boy,
instead of having to wait for certain parts to develop, began at that
time.
Mystery now connected itself with this difference, whereas formerly
trousers and petticoats were the only marks of difference in sex. When I
wore trousers, I had been a real boy, or so it seemed to all of us.
I could not have been over three or four years old at that time, while
my brother and one cousin were two years older. I often hear people say
that a child is too young at that age to understand any of the truths of
life. I still maintain that the moment that a child begins to wonder is
the time for reasonable explanations. A child is a rational human being
the moment he is conscious of the difference between yes and no.
I know I would have understood why I was spanked on that momentous
occasion if it had been explained to me, else why have that episode and
the mental reactions it engendered remained in my mind all these years?
Secret sessions were now being held at intervals, first with my older
cousin and with my brother. Their curiosity was much greater than mine.
It was enough for me to have to bear the disgrace of being the alien.
But from that time on I was forced to submit to these sessions under the
threat of not being allowed to join in the sports I so dearly loved. I
simply had to acknowledge the superiority of the male because he was so
much more perfectly and conveniently made.
The two older boys must have gained some knowledge of the sort they
would get from the “hired men” or older boys at school, as they kept up
the demands upon me. Not often, but occasionally. At first it seemed to
be a matter wholly of curiosity. They seemed to be watching for
developments as to my becoming like unto them. In a way, this also
interested me as I remember my dismay each time when “no progress” was
reported. We were bound to secrecy for obvious reasons. The lesson in
deceit was well learned by this time. Most parents believe that when any
question bearing on the matters of sex or pertaining to “private parts”
(what a disastrous appellation!) arises, one good spanking will put an
end to all trouble; whereas it is just the beginning of a life of deceit
and the birth of a barrier to confidences between parents and children.
I am not trying to prove an alibi by saying that I was not keen on these
sessions of adventure. I really do believe it was the terror of giving
up the sports with the boys which were my very joy. It was done in much
the same spirit as was the work in the house I had to do: a means to an
end.
I had work to do regularly. It was never made interesting for me, as I
have made it for lots of children during my adult life, but it was
demanded of me as it was my duty! Duty! I believe every child hates that
word. We better understand the futility of that argument in after years,
but in our youth we are unable to reply: “We did not ask to come into
the world. We are the price or perhaps the reward. You probably did not
want us. You talk of our duty to our parents. What is your duty to us?”
However I never liked to sew or knit or wash dishes or sweep, but I did
it every day and never sulked. I had a sister, older than I, who also
hated to do the dishes. She always cried her task through and my mother
placed a board up over the sink and every time my sister cried mother
would make a chalk mark on the board. When there were many marks, sister
would cry harder than ever, so I believe the experiment was given up.
I was always merry. While I have boasted that I was never whipped in
school, I realize it was due to the fact that I often got the teacher
laughing before the fatal blow fell, and in that way I escaped the usual
whipping. In those days it was never “Did you get a whipping today?” but
“How many times?”
I worked rapidly, as the incentive was nearly always right outside of
the window, in the shape of three boys waiting for me to come out to
play.
As time went on a great discovery was made by the older boys, that their
little organs had life and vitality. How important they felt! They had
to show me how wonderful this was. Privately, of course, as neither boy
wanted the other to know of his sessions with me. We had now given up
all hopes that there would be any development in my anatomy, and we had
to submit to the fact that I was and always would be different and on a
lower level than they. This was a heartbreaker for me.
I do not want to give the impression that our minds were always on the
subject, as might seem by this account. We had wonderful games, mostly
of our own inventing. We hunted Indian relics with enthusiasm, digging
for days in order to find every piece of an Indian pot which had,
without doubt, been buried in some grave. We took long tramps in the
woods, hunting imaginary wild animals. We played ball in the summer and
coasted and skated in the winter. We built up strong and vigorous bodies
without the aid of vitamins or calories. In short, we were normal
children—the same as many children are today. Thanks be, there are some
parents who have opened their eyes! It is my hope that this tale will
pry open a few more.
It was not long before the idea seemed to dawn upon us that there must
be some reason why a boy and a girl were differently made. I never knew
where the boys got their information. I never cared. When I expressed
any surprise that they knew so much, I was only given the answer that
“boys knew those things,” and did not wish to enlarge upon the fact that
caused me so much pain.
Some vague explanation seemed to come from watching the animals about
the farm. We had been piously told not to look when a rooster was on top
of a hen, as it was “naughty.” What greater incentive could a child have
than to be told that? Of course we stared our eyes out to find out what
was “naughty” about that silly act.
It did not seem to hurt the hen or the rooster. We gathered just as many
eggs. The hens all went about their scratching just as before. No one
was punished, so the inference was that the parents did not know what
they were talking about, and I believe we were about right. Experiments
followed in “playing hen and rooster,” always on the sly and never
understanding why, while I felt the ever increasing degradation of
having to play the part of the inferior and submissive “hen”!
I hated these games, which thanks be, were not frequent, but endured
them for fear I would be denied the joys of the other and more appealing
games.
In this analysis of my earliest recollections my object has been to
determine whether my early propensities were of a sexual character. If
this book is to be of any value in solving any problem, it would be my
desire to speak just as freely of any satisfaction I derived from these
experiments as I do of the disgust. I do not mean physical satisfaction,
of course, but they were really not interesting to me, even as a matter
of curiosity.