POET'S ANATOMY
439
throughout history and all over the world. But today, they said,
it was another matter. In our society a true hermaphrodite was
impermissible-and besides, correctable. The two possibilities were
clear. Would I like to have my newfound male organs cut away
surgically, and my female organs brought to full maturity with
hormones? Or conversely: would I like to have my manly parts
released to their normal position, and my uterus and ovaries cut
away? "It's up to you, Millie." Me? "You or your parents," they
said. "Take your choice--male or female. "
Although the full complexities were not clear to me for weeks,
still, even in those first ten minutes after I learned the truth, I
realized that I was a lot less confused than the doctor; all my
experience had made it possible for me to grasp without vertigo
the news of my sexual fusion. I had the uncanny impression that
I had actually transformed myself-into a freak, if you will-by
an alchemy of illicit desire. And that I was now hopelessly triumphant:
I was to be deprived of Sandy forever. Getting dressed again in
the doctor's office, fixing the garters to my silk stockings and slipping
my heels back on, I began to search for a way back.
That same night, I discussed the doctor's visit with my shaken
parents for five difficult hours. Daddy's voice seemed
~
lose its
spring; his steeltrap mind opened limply. "Millie darling," he whisper–
ed, "you won't let them ... alter you ... would you?" I vowed in
a horrified baritone that I wouldn't let them take my womb. Fiercely,
Mother kept sobbing, "We'll sue the doctor." They phoned. They
hung up. Unanimously and desperately they pleaded with me to
remain their daughter. But I will say this to their credit: they left
the choice to me.
I said goodnight- for the first time without kissing them–
and went to bed. I sat on the edge. I had equalled Sandy, and
in doing so, lost him. But
it
wasn't irreversible. I slipped off my
heels-unhooked my garters- pulled down one stocking-and instead
of going to sleep, took up a pencil. The words, the lines, seemed to
force themselves lovingly on me, as if I had to hold my twin self
visibly at arm's length from me on paper to decide. It was the
work of a sixteen year old girlboy, addressed to her lost-and-found
brother.
