Skirting the Dress Code, by Karin Bishop

Part 1

Chapter 1: Franklin Middle School Dress Code: Preface

It is expected that students dress in a style that is conducive to learning. The dress code applies to the school day (including coming to school and leaving school). The dress code applies to ALL school-sponsored events, including field trips, sports, drama presentations, dances, and on-site events. Students dressed inappropriately will be asked to change into Franklin PE clothes.

“I see they’ve closed up that loophole,” my mother observed dryly.

“What, Mom?” I asked as I continued to fold towels.

“In my day—oh dear; I never thought I’d sound so much like my own mother!—but, in my day, when you violated the dress code you were sent home to change. They’d just never come back the rest of the day. Kids used it as a sort of legal way to ditch school.” She looked at me over the stack of internet printout; we had downloaded the Student Handbook. “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Laurie?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“You know there are going to be hassles and a lot of pressure—a lot of pressure! And dear God, I hope not, but it might turn physical.”

“I hope not, too, but Franklin Middle School is supposed to be one of the best, um …policed in the state. But, yes, I know about the pressure. But I’ve got to be me.”

She looked at me with a sad smile, then reached out and gently stroked the side of my head. “Yes, I suppose you do.” Her jaw tightened. “Very well, honey. We will march in there tomorrow and we’ll see what we can accomplish.”

I thanked her and finished with the towels, rose and put them away. My sunburn still stung and I could feel the spaghetti straps of my sundress against my tender skin, much more than usual.

I heard Mom phoning her best friend Veronica. I hear parts of the conversation. “Of course I’m proud of her, Ronnie …not disruptive …gonna stick to her guns …”

I smiled to myself but there was uncertainty to it.

* * *

My mother, Carol Tilden, is Executive Secretary to the President of the Progressive Women’s Defense League, and a former paralegal with both a corporate and non-profit company background. Most people would think I’m the way I am because she’s with the PWDL—which she calls ‘the Pee-Dub’—but they’d be wrong.

I came first.

‘Such a delicate baby!’ and ‘She certainly takes after her mother!’ were the comments most heard when I was young. Mom took them in stride, but my father, Frank Tilden, a high-powered lawyer, couldn’t handle it. He left when I was three, and I was already very much a pretty little girl. Unfortunately, my birth certificate said ‘Laurence Tilden, male.’ Mom swears—and I believe her—that she did nothing to coax me into girlhood. I do believe her; I have absolutely no memory of her doing this or that, or saying this or that, or anything that might have nudged me into being girlish. I just was girlish because that’s how I felt. I ‘came out’ to her when I was three, believe it or not. “Momma, I’m a girl,” I said with certainty. That wasn’t when I’d ‘discovered’ it or anything; it was just when I first vocalized it.

Later there was a confrontation in nursery school—what they called pre-kindergarten or ‘Pre-K’, although Mom called it ‘Preak’—and I had been told to go play with the boys. I pointed out that they played too rough and I didn’t like their games, or their spitting, or their farting. This had brought a smile to the teacher’s face but it vanished and she said I had to act ‘appropriately’. I was young but I was learning new words fast. ‘Inappropriate’ and ‘improper’ and ‘confused’ were just some of them. ’Ambiguous’ and ‘androgynous’ came later. Along with ‘latent’.

I learned those words in Home School. After what Mom liked to call ‘the Preak-Freak’, she found a state-certified but very tolerant gender-neutral home school in a nearby neighborhood, and that’s where I’d graduated from in sixth grade. The funny thing was, the school didn’t use the term ‘graduate’ but used ‘transition’, which had extra meaning for me. Among the dozen students, there were two gay boys and one gay girl, and me. I naturally became friends with all of the girls, and I was best friends with the gay girl, Rachel Highsmith.

The joy of the school came from two areas. The first was the sheer joy of learning; they had the idea that kids are bottomless pits. You could pour information into them and never reach saturation point. The second was the sheer joy of being a girl with my classmates, regardless of having a penis. “What’s in your pants is not as important as what’s in your head and heart,” the teacher, Ms. Rosen, explained.

It was through Ms. Rosen that Mom heard of, interviewed, and eventually joined the staff of the Pee-Dub. In addition to working hard for rights for women—especially those in abusive relationships—they reinforced the need to let gender-variant children explore and discover their own true gender and embrace it fully. I appreciated that freedom for other kids, but for me there was never a doubt: My gender was female, thank you very much.

But the home school ended at sixth grade; there was nothing else except to go into junior high, or middle school, which was seventh and eighth grade. I already knew it was a very strange time, a time when little girls, skinny as rails and playing with Barbies, lost their best friends, who suddenly developed curves and breasts—and an overwhelming interest in boys. Little boys, playing with action figures and making explosion noises with their mouths, lost their best friends, who suddenly grew two inches, got muscles, hair, and deeper voices—and an overwhelming interest in girls. I’d seen it among the other kids in the neighborhood.

My hair was long, my skin was light and clear and I wore girls’ clothing. I was treated as a girl. I was happy, because that’s what I was. Mom kept saying, “You can be anything you want” and what I wanted was to be a girl, grow up and get breasts and curves, be pretty, kiss cute boys, fall in love and get married.

Oh, and fight for world peace and cure cancer, too!

When I was eight, we began seeing The Specialists. I capitalize it because that’s what they all were. There were many of them over the years, but there was a core group that followed ‘my case’ year after year. Regardless if they were temporary or permanent, they were always introduced as specialists: ‘This is Dr. Montague; he’s a specialist in ... This is Dr. Kawasaki; he’s a specialist in ... This is Dr. Olsen; she’s a specialist in ….’ And blood and urine and tests and charts and questions, questions, questions. Finally they said either “He’s too young; wait until things sort themselves out” or they said “She’s too young; wait until things sort themselves out.”

So we waited.

They all agreed that Mom wasn’t pushing me one way or another, but in test after test, if left with trucks and dolls, I played with the dolls. Who wouldn’t? What can you do with a truck, for goodness sake? Or describing what was going on in a scene they’d show me. I’d tell them it was about Mommy taking care of her family, not about Billy building a model. So they said for Mom to have, basically, two wardrobes—boy and girl—and non-specific toys …but I preferred books and music over toys. And drawing. I drew horses, mainly, with big eyes and beautiful manes. Then I began drawing dresses that reminded me of the flowing manes of my horses. I’d show my sketchbook to The Specialists and they’d look at each other and at Mom.

I did not care to wear the boy wardrobe.The things hung in the back of the closet, untouched. I much preferred the dresses and skirts and pretty colors to the drab, baggy boy things. My hair was long and grew longer, and we would go visit Marge at her salon and she would trim and shape and I looked so pretty when we left that I would skip.

I wrote that my best friend in Ms. Rosen’s class was Rachel, a girl with beautiful straight dark brown hair who always wanted to hide behind it. She didn’t know what to make of me, because at first I kind of played ‘peek-a-boo’ with her hiding as usual, and I got a giggle and a beautiful smile from her and suddenly we were best friends. That was in what would be first grade; by fourth and definitely in fifth, Rachel confided to me that she knew that she really, really liked girls. In that way, she’d say, and I could tell she wasn’t sure whether to giggle or cry. I hugged her and said, “So what? You’re my best friend,” and then she did cry and we hugged some more and then she cried and pushed me away.

Ms. Rosen tried explaining it to me as adults do, but I knew what it was. I was a sort of girl, and sort of boy. If I was all boy, Rachel wouldn’t be interested in me. If I was all girl, Rachel might be too interested in me. I wanted—oh, God how I wanted!—to be all girl, but I also knew that Rachel would still be crying, because I was definitely interested in boys, by fifth grade. It was like throwing a switch. In a flash I realized what Rachel had meant that she’d known—because now, I knew. At one moment, the boys were just …well, these odd creatures. Then, suddenly, they were fascinating odd creatures. Well, except for Sammy and Steven; they were gay but in different ways. Sammy was more girlish than us girls; all swishy and sing-song and heavy sighs, and Steven was already starting to look buff, and was lifting weights with his older brothers. I liked the way Steven was looking; I felt a stirring deep inside, a swoony kind of floating feeling, but I knew that he didn’t care for girls.

And with the exception of my birth certificate and what was between my legs, I was a girl. I had long, light brown hair and wore dresses, I loved playing with the makeup and nail polish kits I’d gotten at Christmas, and I felt and thought just like every other girl in my small group. Except, of course, I had this …thing dangling between my legs that shouldn’t be there. Fortunately it was small and used to spending life tucked back between my legs. I overheard Steven talking about his ‘balls’ and even Sammy agreeing with a giggle and an eye-flutter, so I knew they were something but I just had this hairless little sausage thing and wrinkly flesh around it. And I so wanted the pretty mound and smile like Rachel. That’s what I called it; she called it ‘a slit’ but to me it was a sideways smile. It was so pretty and I was so jealous!

One of the things that Mom insisted on was ‘giving back’. Working as a volunteer was very important to her, even before all the Hollywood stars jumped on the volunteerism bandwagon. I’d never met my uncle, Mom’s oldest brother Stuart, but he had served two tours of duty in Viet Nam and been so traumatized that he became, well, a homeless drunk and died on the streets. This was just about when people were realizing the truth about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder but it was too late for my uncle. Mom had done everything she could for him, but nobody seemed to truly understand the situation.

Mom became politically active—after my father left—and wanted me to feel the need to contribute back to society. After talking it over and checking things out, I began volunteering at a downtown shelter, The Beacon, most weekends. I was only ten when I started but there were lots of things I could do—I mean, even a ten-year-old girl can ladle out hot soup! The people there …Mom was right. I was grateful for all I had and I would feel guilty if I didn’t volunteer, to ‘give back’. And despite their sadness and loneliness and sometimes their craziness, they were people and I hoped I helped them.

So the rest of my days were spent riding with Mom to the home school, a couple of blocks away, and learning and playing with my friends until the afternoon, when Amy’s mom or Rachel’s mom or sometimes Sammy’s mom would drive me home. I’d do my homework and then do my daily chores, like laundry or vacuum or prepare a salad. Mom mixed things up so I’d learn to do everything on my own. She would come home from the office and we’d have dinner and talk and then watch TV or a movie and get all snug on the couch. Sometimes there were bubblebaths and sometimes giggly facials. There were occasional birthday parties for classmates, and shopping for presents, and the parties were maybe at the skating rink and maybe at their home, and life was good. And then suddenly it ended.

Sixth grade, end of the line.

Time for public school.

Chapter 2: Statement of Purpose

The dress code policy exists to improve and maintain safety for all students. The policy is designed to prevent distraction in the classroom and help students focus on instruction rather than fashion. Some clothing and the way certain clothing is worn can be distracting to others and incite issues of harassment between students.

We met Mrs. Halloran, the new Principal. Actually, Mom met her; I was in the car with my cell phone, waiting. Mom went in armed with a briefcase full of documents. From what she told me, it went like this: Mom produced a general medical examination and doctor’s report that satisified District Regulations concerning my overall health, vaccinations and so forth; then she pulled out what she’d called ‘The Big Guns’—the specialists’ diagnoses, a letter from the District Superintendent with copies of his inquiry with the state’s Department of Education and their approval. She also had complete copies of the District Regulations and State Education Guidelines, legal precedents, and a whole lot of other paperwork.

She basically said, “My child is a girl. Though she possesses a penis, she is transgendered and thoroughly assimilated in a female role. She has been home schooled in a class of twelve and is socialized as a girl. However, due to the laws of our state, she still has a birth certificate stating ‘male’ and legal first name of Laurence. She is, however, a girl named Laurie.”

I believe at this point Mrs. Halloran blinked.

Mom continued to bombard her with documentation, acquired at levels higher than Mrs. Halloran’s junior high, since Mom routinely worked with state-level administrators. I was to be considered a ‘Special Needs’ child, as if I had a physical disability (there were students in motorized wheelchairs) or mental disability (there were special classes for Down’s Syndrome kids) or some other physical complication (there were three ‘Little People’, technically not ‘disabled’, although one was on crutches). My own situation was so minor in comparison to the struggles these other kids went through, and the courage they showed, but the state still grouped transgendered kids that way. My rather trivial ‘Special Needs’ were that I was to be allowed to use the unisex bathroom, would not have to take gym, and would be treated as a female student. But Mrs. Halloran balked at the last one; she was thinking lawsuits from other parents, no doubt. Planning ahead, Mom had documentation ready as well as a personal letter from the Superintendent.

Buried under the weight of documents from her superiors, Mrs. Halloran agreed to meet with me. Mom had purposefully kept me out of the office so Mrs. Halloran couldn’t see me; later Mom told me that she was sure that Mrs. Halloran expected an obviously male, obviously gay boy stuffed into girls’ clothing. Mom texted me and I came in immediately.

I wore a white dress with turquoise and black abstract patterns, and black at the hem and neckline, black Mary Janes with a small heel, and my hair loose with a silver barrette keeping it off my face. I had my purse and wore nail polish and a light dusting of makeup and lip gloss—the maximum makeup allowed, according to the school’s Dress Code. I was a very well-put-together twelve-year-old girl. Mrs. Danby, the secretary, smiled at me and asked, “Are you out of class, honey?” only to be buzzed by Mrs. Halloran and told to send me in.

When I entered her office, Mrs. Halloran actually did a double-take and stared. Then she frowned. Then she looked at my mother and at me; the resemblance was certainly there. She said, “Won’t you take a seat, uh …Laurence.”

I said, “Thank you, Mrs. Halloran, but I prefer Laurie, if it’s alright with you,” and smoothed my dress under me when I sat, knees and ankles together and with my purse on my lap and my hands folded. Mom smiled at me.

Mrs. Halloran was still standing and staring. She kind of ‘harrumphed’ and said, “This won’t do. This won’t do at all.”

“What won’t, Mrs. Halloran?” Mom asked.

“This …” Mrs. Halloran waved a hand. “It’s beyond all …I didn’t expect …”

Mom smiled. “You expected a gawky, nervous boy in a dress, perhaps?”

Mrs. Halloran started to protest and then shrugged. “Yes, somewhat.”

“I don’t blame you,” Mom said graciously. “Please understand that not a single person—ever—has met Laurie and thought she was male. Not since birth, Mrs. Halloran. As I think I’ve stressed, it’s really a minor point. By almost every yardstick, she is a girl. But,” Mom sighed, “the state law is clear and until she is eighteen, she is burdened with the original birth certificate. Which affects her educational documentation.”

Mrs. Halloran said with some hesitation, “I assume that at eighteen she’ll have …he’ll have …that operation?”

“Laurie?” Mom turned to me.

“Oh, absolutely, Mrs. Halloran,” I smiled. “Although it’s possible that it might happen sooner, but until that day, I’m just holding onto eighteen. Eighteen and a day, I want to be in surgery. Eighteen and a minute!”

Mrs. Halloran stared at me for a long moment, then looked at one of the papers and back at me. “Am I to understand that this is all your own doing?”

I looked at Mom and frowned. “I’m not sure exactly what you mean by ‘all your own doing’. If you mean, did anybody—Mom or anybody else—tell me to act this way or force me or anything like that, then I’d say, no, nobody did that. This is me. I am a girl, and always have been.”

Mom pointed to one of the papers. “You might see that Dr. Margulies stated that the female gender identity was quite apparent at age three.”

Mrs. Halloran sifted through and found it and read it, frowning and nodding at the same time. Odd that she could do that, I thought. “Yes, I see …” She read a little more and then put it down and folded her hands on the stack of documents.

There was a pause, and she said, “I have three responsibilities, and there’s a degree of overlap, of equal importance but their priority changes with the situation. These three are the individual student, the student body as a whole, and the school itself as an institution.” She stopped, frowned, and sorted through the documents and read one.

I looked at Mom; she appeared placid.

Mrs. Halloran said, “Yes. Well. Despite what Superintendent Ellison says, I have some leeway. Here is the situation from my viewpoint. First, your educational and social needs as an individual student must be seen to. You will have a standard curriculum with the exception of a medical exemption from PE. We certainly can accommodate your use of the special restrooms. I do have concerns over your safety, however. As you know, my predecessor’s …unfortunate mishandling of the racial situation has resulted in security precautions that are higher than usual for a middle school. You may have noted the new metal detectors.” She looked at Mom. “It’s a sad state of affairs where children are treated like they’re entering a foreign country, just to get into school.”

Mom nodded. “It was an unsafe situation last year. Children need to feel safe, to learn.”

Mrs. Halloran nodded. “My feelings exactly. Normally I don’t support obtrusive policing of that nature as it interferes with education, but as you said, it was unsafe last year. And we’ve got them for a little while longer. So students can leave a little earlier to go through the line, as long as things are quiet and the children can feel safe and get back to learning. Alright; I should also mention that our teaching staff went through supplemental training over the summer, to better equip them to handle racial situations but I will see that they’re briefed to be on the lookout for …well …”

“Hate crimes,” Mom said calmly. “Several states now classify racially-motivated criminal acts as Hate Crimes. Have you had any harassment of gays?”

Mrs. Halloran nodded. “Last year. It seemed part of the whole volatile environment, though. From what Mrs. Danby has told me, there was little to none prior to the racial disturbances.” She frowned. “I just hope that some individuals haven’t developed …a taste for it.” She sighed. “Alright. We’ll do what we can do to keep Laurence …Laurie safe. But there is a problem, Mrs. Tilden, in that the teachers …I can’t order them to change their personal views, and one or two might be inclined to …be adverse to Laurie. On principle, that is.”

“I understand,” Mom said. “But I’ve told her that learning to cope with the individuality of teachers is part of the educational process. School is not just about learning facts and figures; it’s also about learning to deal with people.”

“Very nicely put, Mrs. Tilden,” Mrs. Halloran nodded. “You’d be surprised how many parents don’t even consider the teachers to be people. But that’s another issue.” She looked at me. “Now then, young lady …” Then a major frown. “That is a problem. It was too easy to say that, and yet …” She looked at the documents again and shook her head.

Mom said gently, “Mrs. Halloran, we fully understand that dealing with Laurie is not a normal experience; typical modes of speech and thought don’t always apply. I have it too easy; I come home from work and there’s my pretty daughter. But I’m not dealing with the legalities as you are, and I appreciate that.”

“And I appreciate your understanding, Mrs. Tilden.” Mrs. Halloran thought and then took a deep breath. “My second area of responsibility is the student body as a whole, and, frankly, Laurie’s presence as …a boy that’s a girl will only cause disruption, both in the classroom and the general areas.”

“If I may, Mrs. Halloran,” Mom suggested. “Children are remarkably flexible; study after study shows that they can very quickly assimilate an unusual situation, and then any disruption ceases. Therefore, I firmly believe that, as you suspect, Laurie will be a major topic of conversation the first week.”

“I’m prepared for that,” I added.

Mrs. Halloran said, “Well, prepared for what you think might happen and the actuality could be two different things.”

“We understand that,” Mom said. “But any disruption caused by Laurie’s uniqueness will fade very quickly, especially when they come to know that she’s just another girl.”

I said, “Just because I was home schooled doesn’t mean I don’t know some of the kids in my neighborhood who go to school here. I remember when Rhonda Glendenning started going to Franklin. That was all they could talk about, and then …it was just Rhonda, you know?”

Rhonda was a very sweet girl; an achondroplastic dwarf who required two polio-type crutches to walk.

Mrs. Halloran nodded. “Rhonda did very well last year. And, yes, you’re right. The uniqueness, as your mother put it, wore off very quickly.”

Mom said, “Since sexual matters are involved in Laurie’s case, it may take a little longer.”

“Yes, it’s the sexual aspect that worries me. Oh, not about you, but about how some parents will respond. But—fortunately for me—the District Superintendent has more or less ordered me to admit you. So he can take the heat!” She grinned wickedly. “They can voice their concerns directly to his office.”

“And they will,” Mom said. “There are always people who prefer ignorance, fear, and hatred. We’re counting on your staff’s increased awareness to protect Laurie until the other students have grown used to her.”

“There is one area of concern for me, and that is the Dress Code. It’s been added to this year, and is top-heavy with gang-related proscriptions, but Laurie will be expected to abide by it.”

Mom said, “We fully understand, but we need to know, from you. As a boy or a girl?”

“Well, certainly, as …” Mrs. Halloran realized the situation. “As a student …um …all students must comply.”

Mom said, “And we will. But we have scrutinized your Dress Code as well as the District Guidelines. And, yes, they are quite specific on gang-styled clothing. But there is nothing there specifying male or female.”

Mrs. Halloran frowned and Mom helpfully pointed out the section in the handbook. Mrs. Halloran said, “I’m sure there is …” as she read through it. She flipped a page and back to the section. Then she tossed it on the pile and sat back. She tapped her front tooth, thinking. Then, she said, “You are quite right. It could be argued that common sense should be applied, but then common sense would also say don’t wear pants that fall down around your butt and show your underwear, but half the boys do when they’re off the school grounds. Obviously when it refers to skirt length, it implies girls, but you’re right; it’s doesn’t explicitly state the word. But common sense and implications only go so far. Dress Codes tend to be more exclusionary than inclusionary—describing what students can’t wear rather than what they can—and currently there is no statement that boys cannot wear skirts and other items usually associated with girls. You have a major point there, Mrs. Tilden, but I would like to make some stipulations.”

“Please,” Mom said, inclining her head.

Mrs. Halloran turned to me but was talking to both of us. “Laurie will abide by all of the Dress Code. We’ll dispense with the obvious failure to specify male or female clothing. That’s something for lawyers to wrangle over with the next revision. But I would ask that you please, please do not dress as you are. A certain element of ambiguity may be acceptable, but to so fully go to the other end of the scale …”

“Scale?” Mom asked.

“A dress, makeup, and so on,” Mrs. Halloran pointed on me. Then she sort of sagged. “Laurie, you are a very pretty girl. Quite feminine and poised and natural in every way. I suspect you are usually well-groomed and dress better than most of our student body. But you are a boy, as far as the records show, and that will quickly become common knowledge. For your own safety, and to minimize disruption, please do not dress as a girl.”

I said, “Mrs. Halloran, I appreciate what you’re saying. But on some rare occasions, I have dressed in boys’ clothes and gone to social functions and was immediately criticized by adults who told me that girls shouldn’t dress like boys; they took me for a girl. Once it was made known that I was technically a boy, the kids all picked on as a sissy. And they called me worse names. I am not a sissy or a fairy or a fruit; I am a girl. I don’t look like a boy even in boys’ clothes and that causes even more problems. I dress as a girl and blend in with the other girls. But I appreciate that you want me to …tone it down.”

“Tone it down …” Mrs. Halloran mused. “Not so overtly feminine, perhaps? Don’t wear that dress, for example,” Mrs. Halloran said. “I must say, it’s quite fetching on you, and a lovely design, but it’s not only too formal for school, it will be inflammatory to …well, the less-enlightened members of our school.”

“I understand. Maybe …” I looked at Mom but spoke to both of them. “My friend Rachel has said I should start on the feminine side, but just over the line, so to speak. And then gradually introduce more typical girls’ clothes a piece at a time. And grooming.”

“Grooming?” Mrs. Halloran asked. “Oh, your nails, for instance.”

“Yes,” I said, examining my extended fingers. “I’m due for a change anyway, so I can go with a clear coat until the kids are used to it and began adding color. In a few weeks, it’ll be the most normal thing for me to wear nail polish.”

Mrs. Halloran nodded. “I think your friend is right. Moderation may be the key.” She smiled. “Well, at least we won’t have the usual problems about exposed bra straps, lingerie and so forth.”

“Excuse me?” Mom said. “Why not?”

“Well, because she’s a …because as a boy, Laurence has no need of bras.” Mrs. Halloran said it like it was the most obvious thing.

Mom looked at me and then at the principal. “Mrs. Halloran, my daughter has been under the care of the University Medical Center for nearly five years. She has recently begun a juvenile form of Hormone Replacement Therapy. Only in her case, it’s not a replacement; more of a supplement.”

“I’m not sure I understand …”

“It’s in the documentation, Mrs. Halloran. Laurie is entering puberty. A female puberty. Her skin has always been soft and smooth but even I have noticed the changes recently. There’s been some redistribution of adipose tissue, and she is starting to bud.”

“Bud …” Mrs. Halloran’s eyes widened. “You mean as in …breasts?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I smiled happily. “And about time! Almost all my girlfriends are showing already.”

The poor principal stared from Mom to me and back. “But this is …I’m not sure …”

“It’s in the documentation,” Mom gently reminded. “I didn’t expect that you’d have had time to read all of it; it really is quite a lot and is quite detailed.”

Mrs. Halloran stared and under her breath, muttered, “Breasts …”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said attentively. “I wear camisoles now, but once Mom and I shop for my first bra, I fully intend to follow the Dress Code regarding underwear. No exposed bra straps or visible lingerie.”

Mom used her ‘summing up’ tone. “I think perhaps too much has been made of an issue that is actually minor. Let’s scale things down and see if we’re agreed. Although the current records list my daughter as ‘Tilden, Laurence Mark, male’—by the way, that’s Laurence like Laurence Olivier, with a ‘U’ and not a ‘W’—the truth of the matter is that she is ‘Tilden, Lauren Marie, female’. However, that can only be changed by court order once she has completed reassignment surgery, which can only occur at age eighteen, so it is not an issue. Do we agree?”

“Yes, agreed,” Mrs. Halloran said, making a note.

“While my daughter is in attendance at Franklin Middle School, we ask that she be treated as a girl. She will comport herself as a girl, abiding by all rules and regulations pertaining to female students, and taking classes regularly offered to girls, such as Home Economics. But with two exceptions: First, she has a valid doctor’s letter excusing her from Girls’ PE—or any PE, for that matter.” Mrs. Halloran nodded. Mom did, too, in agreement, and went on. “And second, that she will not use the girls’ restrooms until cleared to do so by you, in writing, as we discussed earlier. Until that time, she will use the three Handicap, Unisex bathrooms.”

After a pause and checking her notes, Mrs. Halloran nodded. “Agreed. Although I don’t know if that day will come, when she can go into the regular girls’ restrooms.”

“May I say something?” I asked, sticking a finger in the air. When she nodded, I said, “I just want to say, for you to know, ma’am, that I accept using those three bathrooms. But I would really, really like to use the girls’ restrooms as soon as possible. I know you have, um …potential liability from parents—I don’t think I said that right.”

Mrs. Halloran smiled. “I know what you mean, dear. Go on.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I know you could have hassles from parents who don’t fully understand me. I’m kind of used to that. But I know that the restrooms are a great socializing area for girls, very important socially and, well, to fit in. And I want to fit in.”

“I can see that you do, Laurie,” Mrs. Halloran nodded, with a soft and rather sad smile.

Mom said, “I realize it’s a lot of work, but perhaps a school meeting, PTA sort of thing, and Laurie could speak on her behalf to calm any parents’ concerns?”

“I’ll take that under advisement and we’ll see. The Superintendent would need to be involved.”

“Mrs. Halloran,” I said. “The thing is …neither my mother or I are trying to commit any kind of fraud or misrepresentation. I dress and act like a girl because I am a girl, except for the paperwork and one small piece of anatomy.” I blushed a little. “If I were forced to pretend to be a boy, it would be a pretense. It would be a fraud, because I’m not one. Does that help?”

“Yes, dear; I think it’s a very good statement. Well, I will see to your schedule and alert the teachers involved. I must warn you that there is little I can do if a teacher objects; due to several District lawsuits with the teachers’ union, they do have the power to refuse to allow a student in their class.”

Mom nodded. “I remember the poor Montoya woman. How is she doing, by the way?”

Mrs. Halloran’s face darkened. “Crippled for life, I’m afraid. She warned her principal and the District and her union representative that she feared having that boy in her class. Thank goodness he’s safely incarcerated now, but at what a cost, what a cost.” She looked sadly at Mom. “I taught Biology at that school; Luz was a lovely lady and we had lunch often.”

“I’m sorry,” Mom said softly.

There was a pause.

Mrs. Halloran straightened up. “For better or worse, any teachers may object to your presence in their class. They cannot prevent your presence at the school, however. I hope I can fit a schedule with …teachers enlightened enough to accept you.”

Mom said, “I think we’ve covered everything, but one last item. Laurie’s presence will cause a disruption of sorts, as would a visibly handicapped student, for instance. But it should die down in a week or two, just as the students finally shake the summer out of their heads and get down to the business of schooling. Please do not let any teachers cite that disruption as grounds for Laurie’s removal; perhaps a two- or three-week grace period for the newness to die down?”

“Two weeks, I can grant you,” Mrs. Halloran said.

End of Part 1