All my life, I've known I was different. My mother really wanted a girl, and as far as she knew, she got one when I came along. Except she didn't. By the time I was five, I knew I wasn't a girl. It drove her crazy that she couldn't get me to wear anything but pants, that I only wanted to play with "boys' toys," that I had the gall to insist that a doll given to me by my grandmother was a boy. But that was in the mid-1950s, and the concept of "transgender" wasn't even on the radar. I'm 63 now. I've spent the years in between trying to survive, working hard to make life bearable as a gender-nonconforming woman, and it hasn't been...
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