Kathoeys for Joni

I was born in 1952.

Doctors during that prehistoric period had no way of predicting an infant’s sex, yet my mother was convinced that her second child would be a girl. Her first had been a boy. A year’s worth of pretty pink baby clothing lay neatly stacked in a pink crib. When her labor pains began, my father drove from Hingham to Boston at great speed. My mother had later explained that she had gone down to the valley of death at the Richardson House. Twenty hours after her arrival I exited from her womb and the attending doctor announced, “Congratulations, you have a boy.”

"A boy?" My mother had remained conscious during the entire birthing. "Why is that a problem?" The doctor showed her a healthy son. "Not for me." Some women would have resigned themselves to this destiny, however my mother had dressed me in pink dresses throughout my early life. She wasn't letting them go to waste. My father finally rebelled against her pretending that I was a girl and declared firmly, “He’s a boy. Boys aren’t supposed to wear pink.”

This infantile transvestite period inflicted little if no psychological scarring on me, but last November I fancied dressing up in the extravagant silk costume for the Thai festival honoring the water goddess, if only so I can say that I was a ka-toey for Loi Krathong.

This one-night transformation into a deeply-desired daughter probably would reward my late mother with an after-life smile. Unfortunately for my mother I have always resisted this urge, since no 55-year old man should wear a dress unless it’s to escape from prison, although I have occasionally wondered about my appearance as a woman and several years ago at the Plaza Hotel and I tried on a long wig. Not too attractive, although a female friend said upon seeing the photo that I looked like Joni Mitchell on steroids.

I was thinking more on the lines of Brigitte Bardot.

The mirror is the best liar of all. Especially after a couple of beers. N'est pas?