oo VV VO CHRISTINE JORGENSEN A Personal Autobiography In 1952, She Was . a Scandal ys When George Jorgensen \y decided to change his name—and body—the nation wasn't quite ready. —NewsdayChristine Jorgensen A PERSONAL AUTOBIOGRAPHY INTRODUCTION BY SUSAN STRYKERCopyright © 1967 by Christine Jorgensen, ‘Copyright © 2000 Motion Picture and Television Fund. Introduction copyright © 2000 by Susan Stryker. Allright reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, or television eviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic oF ‘mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval ‘stem, without permission in writing from the publisher. Published in the United States by Geis Press Inc, PO. Box 14684, San Francisco, CA 94114 Printed in the United States. Cover design: Scot Idleman Text design: Karen Quigg Logo ar: Juana Alicia, Fint Edition. 10987654521 Library of Congress Ctaloingin Publication Data Jorgensen, Christine, 19261989 Gristine Jorgensen : a personal autobiography / Christine Jorgensen ; introduction by Susan Stryker. pcm, ISBN 1-57344100-7 (alk. paper) 1. Jorgensen, Christine, 1926-1989. 2. Transsexuals—United States—Biography. 3.Sex change—Denmark. I. Title, 'HQT7.8,67 67 2000 305.9°068—ae21 0.058004 Grateful acdnontedgment is mage to the following for permision to reprint: Amica Journal of Pehthery (WI 8, No.2), Ap, 153, an article by Bab Sherwin; Copyright © 1954 by Amacom rural of Poche. Harry Benjamin, M.D, excere of the pamphlet of the Harry Benjamin Foundation, Ic, New York, 1968, and two excerps of articles from journals Copyright © 1954, ‘Amancon urn! of Prchatrapy, Copyright © 1964, Warn furl of Sig, Ober ond Graig. Cus Brown, Lid, New York, to excerpt fom Rabwcn by Dapline di. Maurie, Doubleday Se Company, in, Copyright © 1998 by Buphne du Maurer Browning. Edtr ond ‘Publish for permission to quote om an arcle i the March 28, 1953, ue; Copyright © 1955 ty Editor and Publisher, In. Dr. Christian Hamburger for permision to reprint rom his teers anid an article appearing in the Danish medical journal, ACTA Endavinalegn, Copyright © 1953 ‘by ACTA Endocrinologica. Dr. Hamburger consented to read the manuscript and shared his valuable snggston for defnon and clanfcation ofthe medical pect, for which Tam mos grateful Harcourt Brace and Word, Inc. New York, and to Paul de Kru, for permision to quote from Tie Male Homoxey Pat de Kruif, Copyright © 1945 by Paul de Kru. The Hollywood Reporter Corporaen for permision to que par of review fom an eof May, 158. The Jlan Pres, for permisdon to. quote several portions of test from The Transom Phenomenon, by Hary Renjamin, M.D. Copyright © 1965 by Harry Benjamin, M.D, reprinted by perminion of Jan Pres, Inc, New York. The Macmillan Company, New ork, and Carton Blatsingame, ae, for ermision to reprinc an excerpt fom The Prat in the fury Box by Howard Felher and Michael Kosen; The Macmillan Company, New York, Copyright © 196 by Howard Felsher and Michael oven. The New Tok Tomy forthe article concerning the Johos Hopkins program in Gender Orientation, apocaring im the ine of November 21, 196, © 1969 by The New York Times Company, ceprated by periaion. News Spndicne Company, for prminion to wasn portion of their news article release in March 1955; Copyright © 1958 by Robert Dywer and Neal Paterson Dr George Stinop, for permision to quote him dnety, an my dns to hin for reading portion ofthe manvseript nd for hs iggestons clarify. Tn Magasin for permiaon to quote 3 paragraph fom the tame of December 15,1962, reprinted by permision. Copyright © 1952 by “Time Ine ary, for perminion to quote a par of «review fom a My, 1998 ve: Copyright © 195 by Variety ne Viking Pes, Ine, New York, for permission to quae from “Imentoy” from The Porte Doth Parr, Copyright © 1925, 1954 by Dorothy Parker. Wid ja Tinme for ‘ermition to quote from an are by Walter Akarer, M.D. which appeared inthe New Yk Herald Trine Ag 1957PustisHEr’s NoTE The Publishers wish to acknowledge Brenda Lana Smith for sharing her memories, as well as many of the photographs and documents that appear in this book. We also wish to thank Susan Stryker for the intelligence and the passion she brings to her work as an historian of the transsexual movement, and for travelling to the Christine Jorgensen archives in Copenhagen and bringing back some of the wonderful photographs included here. ‘Thank you, Donald Segretti for executing Christine’s will so that the rights to and proceeds from this book be transferred to The Woodlands Hills Home of the Motion Picture and Television Fund. ‘Thank you Sherri Conrad, lawyer extraordinaire, for making it all fall into place And to Christine, who lives in all of us, and who doesn't need anyone's opinion because she has her own. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Special gratitude is due many people who contributed to my life their friendship, understanding and support. Among these are my parents and members of my family. My thanks to my Danish doctors; also Professor Dah- Iversen, They never wavered in their belief. The late Dr. Joseph Angelo and his wife, Gen, are due the greatest regard and appreciation for saving me anguish. I am especially indebted to them for having saved my letters written, during the extended period in Denmark which has given me the ‘opportunity to readily recall those years. My thanks to William Hunt, the producerdirector, who gave me his wonderful support and shared with me his talents for the development of my career in the theatre. My gratitude to Mrs. Charles Yates and Mr. Steve Yates, for permission to use letters by the late Charles V. Yates, my first agent, and friend, who guided my controversial career with deftness and tender concern. To Creative Management Associates, Ltd., and particularly Warren Bayless and Ernest Dobbs of CMA’ literary division, who contributed more than a lient may expect from her agents. Special thanks freely goes to Lois Kibbee who, finding herself involved in the task of assembling and preparing the manuscript, became truly co-author. With her sensitive, diligent probing and her gracious, intelligent manner, she, more than anyone, brought forth the buried facts and forgotten emotions from my memory, causing this autobiography to be as honest and truthful a document as can be written at this time. The identity and names ofa few individuals have been altered for obvious reasons. The responsibility for the content is mine.INTRODUCTION hhristine Jorgensen was arguably the most famous person in the world for a few short years nearly half a century ago, though her name is not widely remembered today. The journalism trade publication Editor and Publisher announced in the spring of 1954 that more newsprint had been generated about Jorgensen during the previous year than about any other individual—over a million and a half words, the rough equivalent of fifteen full-length books, That Jorgensen now requires any introduction atall underscores the truth of that old adage about how fleeting fame can be. At the dawn of the 21st century, it seems almost quaint that Jorgensen should have provoked such widespread attention simply by having the shape of her genitals surgically altered one late-November morning in Copenhagen in 1952. But she did, and as a consequence of doing so she helped introduce the word “transsexual” into the American vocabulary. As Jorgensen herself recounts in the pages that follow, her celebrity began December 1, 1952, when a banner headline scream- ing “EX-GI BECOMES BLONDE BEAUTY: OPERATIONS TRANSFORM BRONX YOUTH" greeted readers of the New York Daily News. Hearst Publications’ popular Sunday newspaper supplement, American Weekly, subsequently paid twenty thousand dollars for an exclusive interview with Jorgensen that brought her story into millions of American homes, and whetted the appetite of the world press. When she returned to the United States in 1953, an unprecedented three hundred reporters were on hand to meet her plane at New Yorkvi Christine Jorgens International Airport. She was inundated with offers to appear in nightclubs, strip joints, wrestling arenas, and other sensationalistic settings. Such mundane activities as walking her dog were reported in obsessive detail to an avid worldwide readership. If reporters couldn’t find a legitimate story, however trivial, they simply made one up. Jorgensen received letters by the thousands, many reaching her addressed only “Christine Jorgensen, USA.” Some were from other transsexuals who wanted to do what she had done; most of her correspondents sought nothing other than an autograph or photo; only a few sent pieces of hate mail, and the vast majority simply wished her well. Stil others, however, spoke of Jorgensen’s physical transformation as an event with profound religious significance. Her “sex-change” was viewed by many as a miracle of God in which not Christ, but Christine—Man reborn as Woman—heralded a new dispensation of human history. In spite of beginning life as the son of a carpenter, Christine Jorgensen hardly seemed destined to become anyone's messiah. Born in 1926 to Danish-American parents and raised in unremark- able working-class circumstances, she had been a delicate, painfully shy child who always felt more feminine than masculine. By adolescence she was attracted to boys and terrified at the thought she might be “homosexual,” a word she’d learned by furtively reading books in the locked “medical” case at the public library where she worked after school. Upon graduation from high school she studied commercial photography, held a low-level job in the film- stock archives at RKO Studios, and reported for military service when drafted in 1945, months after World War If had ended. Jorgensen served a brief enlistment as a file clerk at Fort Dix, New Jersey, processing demobilization paperwork for the combat troops streaming home from overseas. Later, after failing miserably to find work in the Hollywood film industry, she returned to school in New York and resumed her photographic studies. Jorgensen was desperately unhappy with her lot in life as the 1940s drew to a close. One ray of hope, however, were the stray accounts she'd read in the popular press of hormone experiments carried out on animals, which had reportedly changed theirA Personal Autobiography vit secondary sex characteristics. After a handful of humiliating visits to clinical endocrinologists to see if such treatments were available for humans, followed by a few research trips to a medical library, Jorgensen decided to take matters into her own hands. She prevailed upon an unsuspecting pharmacy clerk to sell her a bottle of estradiol, a recently synthesized version of estrogen. She began to selfadminister the drug, which promoted breast development and.a general softening of her appearance. A few months later, Jorgensen set sail for Europe—and the history books—in search of doctors who would provide the sex-change procedures she sought. She found them in her ancestral Denmark, and soon became for all the world the woman she had long considered herself to be. Jorgensen’s subsequent celebrity is especially remarkable given that she was not the first person to undergo surgical and hormonal sexcreassignment—that had been going on for more than twenty years before her story hit the headlines. The procedures employed on her behalf, as well as the rationale for using them, had been championed by the eminent German sexologist Magnus Hirschfeld, at his Institute for Sexual Science in Berlin, in the years between the World Wars. Jorgensen herself notes that her doctors were familiar with dozens of prior cases similar to her own, some of which had even been widely reported in popular media in Europe and the United States. None of that seemed to matter—Jorgensen was christened the atomic age sex marvel the second her story leaked out. Historical context helps explains why Jorgensen became an emblem of her era, an icon representing some fundamental shift in human affairs to an audience of millions. First and foremost, it is crucial to recognize the extent to which massive population mobilization of World War II refigured conventional notions of men's and women’s proper social spheres, and helped unsettle familiar concepts of sexuality. Women left the home and entered the paid workforce in unprecedented numbers to meet the demands of the burgeoning wartime economy, while members of the armed services could scarcely help but notice the homosexual activity that flourished as never before in sex-segregated military settings. American society hasn't been quite the same ever since. Jorgensen’ssiti Christine Jorgensen story became a lightning rod for many post World War II anxieties about gender and sexuality, and called dramatic attention to issues that would drive the feminist and gay-rights movements in the decades ahead. Years later, in the twilight of her career, Jorgensen herself commented that while she couldn’t personally take credit for launching gay liberation, the women's movement, or the sexual revolution, her notoriety had given each a “kick in the pants” by drawing unprecedented scrutiny in the mainstream media to questions of personal identity, sexual orientation, and gender roles. Many formerly taboo topics were publicly discussed in the postwar era with specific reference to Christine Jorgensen. Jorgensen’s fame was undoubtedly structured to a certain degree by the paranoid logic of Cold War cultural fantasy. At the height of the United States global military dominance, “traditional” American masculinity seemed from some reactionary perspectives to be paradoxically on the defensive: subverted from within by an increasingly visible homosexuality, challenged from without by an economically empowered womanhood, and menaced from abroad by the specter of communist totalitarianism bent on subjecting it to unmanly servitude. In an era when atomic bombs could now rip open the fabric of the physical universe, the sudden spectacle of male-to-female transsexual re-embodiment offered further giddy proof that science had indeed triumphed over nature. Jorgensen’s notoriety in the 1950s was undoubtedly fueled by the pervasive unease felt in some quarters that American manhood, already under siege, could quite literally be undone and refashioned into its seeming opposite through the power of modern science. All this cultural baggage—everything from the mind-numbing implications of the atom bomb to tectonic shifts in gender roles— added up to a rather heavy cross for a twenty-six-yearold American to bear as she lay convalescing in a Copenhagen hospital in December, 1952. At first, Jorgensen seemed utterly bewildered by the storm of publicity that surrounded the revelation of her intensely private quest for personal happiness, though rumors persist that she herself leaked her story to the press. Whether she intended it or not, the sheer magnitude of her celebrity quickly precluded any prospectA Pasonal Autobiography ix of returning to a lowprofile career in photography. From the moment she hit the headlines, Christine Jorgensen was a star— destined to stand before, rather than behind, the camera. If a perceived crisis of American masculinity fed some of the hysterical attention to Christine Jorgensen, her stardom definitely played itself out in terms of American womanhood. She was presented in the media as a blonde bombshell—fashionable, desirable, slightly aloof, blending Doris Day's wholesome propriety with Marlene Dietrich’s sly wisdom in the ways of the world. Jorgensen rose admirably to the occasion. Fate placed her in the limelight, but her own talent and charisma kept her there. Other transsexuals made news in the immediate aftermath of Jorgensen’s story, but they all sank quickly into obscurity. Fortunately, the formerly introverted Jorgensen blossomed into her new role. Following the advice of seasoned theatrical agent Charlie Yates, who later became her manager, Jorgensen pulled together a surprisingly polished nightclub act in the summer of 1953. She sang a little, danced a little, told some jokes, and made quick costume changes, but mostly she simply performed her own identity on stage for paying customers. Though her audiences initially seemed interested in gawking at a freak show—harboring the same expectations they might bring to a female impersonator act or a burlesque show—Jorgensen generally left them feeling enlightened as well as entertained, She managed to keep her name in marquee lights well into the 1960s, often earning more than five thousand dollars a week in top venues around the world. Christine Jorgensen’s long-awaited autobiography—reissued here by Cleis Press—first appeared in hard-cover in 1967, just as her life on stage was coming to a close, and it helped launch the next phase of her career. The Bantam paperback edition issued the next year sold over four hundred thousand copies, yet it remains hard to find in second-hand book shops due to its continued popularity with the many transgendered people who consider Jorgensen a pioneering role model. An exploitative film version of Jorgensen’s life story based on the autobiography appeared in 1970, starring crossdressed Olympic swimmer John Hanson in his acting debut.x Christine Jorgensen The film quickly disappeared into well-deserved oblivion. Jorgensen, however, rode the new wave of attention created by her book and movie to establish herself as a highly sought-after speaker on the college lecture circuit, where she regularly drew audiences of thousands into the mid-1970s. By the time she slid more or less gracefully into a modest retirement in the 1980s, she had been in the public eye for more than a quarter-century. Even in her final years she remained a feisty presence in the social circles in which she moved. With her health and fortune failing fast by the late 1980s, she would still pry herself out of her favorite armchair where she spent much of the day reading newspapers and working crossword puzzles, put on a carefully chosen outiit, fix her face in a flattering style, and announce “It’s show time!” to whomever was listening as she dashed headlong from her apartment and into the night. Bravado notwithstanding, bladder cancer eventually brought down the curtain on Jorgensen’ life in 1989, at age sixty-two. In her autobiography, Christine Jorgensen does an admirable job recounting the inner turmoil of her youth, as well as the triumphs and tribulations of her glory years. She does so with a steadfast determination to present her story in a dignified and understated manner—so understated, in fact, that the book sometimes makes for admittedly dull reading. So intent is she on proving her respectability and countering the many untrue and unkind things said of her in the press, that parts of her story seem little more than lists of which famous and important people she lunched with during any given week, which fabulous and exclusive clubs she performed in, and which tasteful ensembles she wore while doing so. This is a pity, for Jorgensen's life was anything but dull. It's a shame the prejudices of others persuaded her to tone down a vibrant, often bawdy personality for the sake of posterity’s opinion. The photographs included in this new edition of her autobiography offer tantalizing glimpses of the woman behind the veil of propriety she draped around herself: Christine at the racetrack with two handsome male escorts, Christine surrounded by hungry eyes at a Havana resort, Christine belting out tunes in a Philippine nightclub. To see Jorgensen in her prime in old newsreelA Personal Autobiography x footage is to be struck by the ironic distance between the staid persona presented in the pages of her autobiography and the vivacious starlet who exudes sexuality for the camera like a young Marilyn Monroe. To read her own descriptions of her nightclub act one would think she recited Shakespeare in a high-necked gown; to read her actual stage material is to appreciate her keen assessment of the roots of her popular appeal. “It’s a Change,” one of Jorgensen’s trademark numbers, was full of double entendres that played on the public's titillation with her shift in gender presentation, and with the ambiguous desires that eddied in its wake: Every hour every day we encounter something new Electric this, Atomic that—a modern point of view. ‘Now anything can happen and we shouldn’t think it strange, If oysters smoke cigars Or lobsters drive imported cars, For we live in a time of change. When baby starts to cry And the volume’s like hi-fi, It's not because he's dry—he wants a change. ‘Wagner, Beethoven, and Tchaikovsky wrote symphonies complete But they never heard rock and roll and they never had a beat. In ‘56 we reek with chic, but those boys would think we're deranged That a man called Elvis Can wave his pelvis For a handsome piece of change. When the Dodgers sign up girls, When Liberace cuts his curls, When Cartier’s sells battleships And marijuana has filter tips,ii Christine Jorgensen When a stripper bumps and grinds And you're impressed with her brilliant mind Instead of her behind—it's a change. When the First Lady is a he—and the President is me It’s a switch—it’s a twist—it's a change. Still these things would shock most people But I really don’t know why, For the world is full of changes—who knows this more than I! Understandably, Jorgensen’s autobiography also skimps on the details of her many behind-the-scenes struggles and personal shortcomings. She smoked and drank excessively, and had a tongue sharp enough to drive away the most dedicated and long-suffering supporters. She was more than a little starstruck, perpetually impressed with herself for having hobnobbed with show business glitterati. She was litigious, constantly embroiled in petty lawsuits and legal actions. She peddled an endless stream of improbable projects that never went anywhere: Danish cookbooks, wretched screenplays for movies in which she played the female lead, a guide to the graves of movie greats. Towards the end of her life she even contemplated a new no-holdsbarred, tellall autobiography, complete with nude photos of herself. It, like all the other projects, ultimately failed to pan out. But what of it? Christine Jorgensen’s human failings do little to tarnish the zest with which she tackled the role that history handed her. She threw herself heart and soul into playing the part of the world’s first famous transsexual: educating and entertaining, being gracious and glamorous, striving for the respect that every vidual should be given as a birthright, but which is all too often denied those—like Jorgensen—who express their gender identity in an atypical fashion. Even now, straying too far from rigidly enforced gender norms makes one vulnerable to employment discrimination, familial abandonment, emotional violence, vicious hate crimes, and other potentially life-threatening difficulties. Jorgensen faced those inA Personal Autobiography sii challenges in far less tolerant times, and transcended them. Given a very narrow path to walk through life, she found a way to walk it with style. This act of simple dignity is her enduring achievement and greatest legacy. For the personal courage she showed in her public life, Christine Jorgensen remains a heroine for many transgendered people today, though she has largely faded from our general culture’s collective consciousness. It is a pleasure to introduce her story to a new generation of readers, and to celebrate her life once more with those for whom her memory is still very much alive. Susan Stryker San Francisco May 2000PREFACE bree seemingly unrelated incidents—one medical, one profes. sional, one personal—can be cited as representative of my life since my return from Denmark, in the culminating series of events that was to make me, unwillingly and unwittingly, an international controversy. The most significant of these incidents consisted of a few words in a letter written to me in April, 1965, by Dr. Harry Benjamin, the distinguished medical scientist. “Indeed, Christine,” he wrote, “without you, probably none of this would have happened; the grant, my publications, lectures, etc. You will find me giving you credit in the book.” The book to which he referred was The Transsexual Phenomenon, his scientific report on transsexualism and sex conversion in the human male and female, published by Julian Press in 1966. I knew Dr. Benjamin had been engaged for many years in the study of the psychological, endocrinological, surgical, and sociological aspects of transsexualism, At the time J received his letter, I gave it no further thought until I received a copy of his book and read the glowing tribute to my trials and tribulations. If Dr. Benjamin felt that I had donated something to his studies and findings, it seemed to me that I was more prominently in his debt than he in mine, and to be acknowledged was to be overpaid. If, indeed, 1 had made any contribution, it must be admitted that at the time of my transition it was purely an unconscious one. To me, it was a matter of survival. As the object ofA Personal Autobiography » one of Nature's caprices, I was merely searching for my own personal expression of human dignity, with no thought of what the consequences might turn out to be. Although many times in the past I had been the recipient of great kindness and support from the medical fraternity, I had also been the subject of much controversy and attack, particularly in the United States, and I hoped The Transsexual Phenomenon would help to dispel some of the enigmas of my case for the medical profession. The curious unpredictability of the second aspect of my life, the professional, is seen in the following somewhat startling and disturbing news release: Curistive JORGENSEN Rotep Orr Limrrs FRANKFURT, GERMANY, SEPT 11—THE U.S. ARMY'S 3D ARMORED DIVISION HAS REFUSED TO ALLOW A FORMER GI TO ENTERTAIN AT ITS ENLISTED MEN’S AND NONCOMMISSIONED OFFICER'S CLUBS. THE ENTERTAINER IS FORMER PVT. GEORGE JORGENSEN, JR., 39, WHO HAS TAKEN THE NAME CHRISTINE SINCE UNDERGOING MUCH-PUBLICIZED ‘SEX-CHANGE OPERATIONS IN DENMARK. ‘A DIVISION SPOKESMAN SAID YESTERDAY THAT “WHILE THE DIVISION BELIEVES THAT MISS JORGENSEN 1 PERFEGTLY FREE TO PURSUE A STAGE CAREER, IT WAS FELT NOT IN THE BEST INTERESTS OF THE DIVISION TO PERMIT HER TO PERFORM IN OUR CLUBS.” The incident was not unprecedented in my life as a performer, My adventures had been many and varied in the entertainment world over a period of the previous thirteen years, most of them extremely pleasant and rewarding, some of them highly amusing, a few painful. I had already had the distinction of having been banned in Boston, refused permission to entertain troops in the Philippines, criticized for an inept performance in Los Angeles, and badgered by a nervous Las Vegas club owner who wanted to cancel a contract.ni Christie Jorgensen However, the spokesman for the U.S. Third Army Division, though magnanimously believing me free to “pursue a stage career,” seemed to imply that I was surrounded by an aura of ungodliness or immorality, by which my presence would corrupt, in some mysterious way, the United States military forces in Germany. The third incident, trivial perhaps, though significant to me, involves the personal meaning: my life simply as a woman, and as a human being. It occurred quite accidentally, a few months after the newspaper item appeared, in another community where I had been performing professionally. I happened to find myself in the unavoidable position of eavesdropping on two attractive young matrons who had witnessed one of my nightclub performances a half hour earlier. Always a dangerous pursuit, it is one which I admit finding irresistible, particularly when I am the subject of discussion. “Christine Jorgensen is a shock!” “What do you mean?” “Well, I mean she is. I thought she was going to look—well, you know, different. But she’s as feminine as we are. Wears clothes like a fashion model. I read someplace she was engaged or married, or something. I mean do you think it’s possible?” “Anything’s possible, but I wonder what she’s really like, personally?” What is she really like—personally? It was a question that ‘echoed in my mind. That, coupled with the medical contribution of my “case,” and the stir my professional aspirations continued to cause everywhere, led me to review the events and people who had contributed so heavily, both positively and negatively, to my whole existence. For the first time in many years, I labored through the thousands of words printed about me in the newspapers, periodicals, journals, and scandal magazines. I tried to regard it all as objectively as possible, and was made aware again that much of the information about the “Christine Jorgensen case” was confusing, often biased, or made sensational and bizarre by the press. I thought it small wonder that I have been regarded, occasionally, with suspicion and mysteryA Personal Autobiography sel over the years, although there had been perhaps thirty cases of sex conversion on record before mine. Atone time or another, I had been called a male homosexual, a female homosexual, a transvestite, an hermaphrodite, a woman since birth who had devised a sensational method of notoriety for financial gain, a true male masquerading as a female, or a totally sexless creature—the last category placing me in the same neutral corner as a table or chair. Another surprising fact was brought to my attention during this critical survey, one that hadn't occurred to me before. Never ‘once, in all those acres of newsprint, had I been asked about my faiths and beliefs, both of which had played important roles in my life. What I slept in, apparently, was considered more important than what I believed i Whatever the value of this judgment of myself as seen through the eyes of others, it helped to open a route through which I can now examine my life from the vantage point of time, to weigh its realities, successes, and failures in light of my own interpretation, and to bury once and for all the rumors, speculations, untruths, and miscon- ceptions by which I have been surrounded for almost a decade and ahalf, There is also the hope that a clear and honest delineation of my life may help lead to a greater understanding of boys and girls who grow up knowing they will not fit into the pattern of life that is expected of them; of the men and women who struggle to adjust to sex roles unsuited to them; and the intrepid ones who, like myself, must take drastic steps to remedy what they find intolerable. A statement written in 1952 has remained indelibly in my memory: “Only time will tell how Miss Jorgensen will adjust to the world and the world to her.” Time, indeed, has told...All religion, all life, all art, all expression comes down to this: to the effort of the human soul to break through its barrier of loneliness, of intolerable loneliness, and make some contacts with another seeking soul, or with what all souls seck, which is (by any name) God. —Don MargutsChristine Jorgensen A PERSONAL AUTOBIOGRAPHYCHAPTER 1 s is the case in the history of most American families, the Jorgensens immigrated to the United States from a foreign land. It is possible that my attachment to the world of make believe was influenced even before I was born, for my paternal grandfather, Charles Gustav Jorgensen, came to this country from Odense, Denmark, the birthplace of Hans Christian Andersen. The great Danish novelist and spell weaver was still living when Grandfather left Denmark for the United States in 1870 and settled in New York City. Charles Gustav was in the building trade, and as an immigrant to America he brought with him litte but his skills and a determination to prosper. With the construction activity that prevailed in the post-Civil War decade, he was soon thriving in an expanding world and became a citizen of his new country. ‘Twenty years after his arrival, he returned to Denmark for a brief visit and met Anna Maria Magdalena Petersen, who came from the city of Aarhus. Anna Maria followed him to America two years later and they were married the day after she landed. Therefore, Grandma became a citizen one day after she arrived in the United States. Their first child, my Aunt Esther, was born in 1893; my father, George Jorgensen, the following year. Seven more children followed in rapid succession, making a total of nine, With the growing responsibilities of an increasing brood, Grandpa sent to Denmark for a teenage girl named Augusta, who was believed to be his younger sister. She was affectionately welcomed into the household and helped Grandma with the care2 Christine Jorgensen and upbringing of the younger Jorgensen children. Augusta was to play an influential role in my life and, in addition, to reveal a heavily guarded family secret many years later. My grandparents, Charles and Anna Jorgensen, quickly assimilated into the Danish-American community in New York City, retaining many of the traditions and customs of the Old Country. They helped establish the Danish Beach Club, which was a young people's social organization, at a place known as Askov Hall, named for a famous gymnasium school in Denmark. A standard joke at the time was that when the Jorgensen family got together, there were ‘enough members to start a club of their own. Tt was at a social gathering at Askov Hall that my father, George, met the attractive young lady who was to become my mother, Florence Davis Hansen. Her father, John Kreogh Hansen, was born in the small Danish town of Horsens and immigrated to the United States as a young boy, accompanied by his parents. He was an accomplished artist, who occasionally worked at house painting during the leaner periods. One of his major assignments during the 1890s was painting the original ceiling of Grand Central Station, an enormous expanse of blue sky and countless silver stars. He also painted a sizable number of draped nudes in oils and a faithful copy of Rosa Bonheur’s The Horse Fair. In 1892, he met and married Caroline Rohre, who was born in Baden-Baden, Germany, near the Black Forest. They had two children: Otto and my mother, Florence. Soon after, John and Caroline Hansen were divorced. Mother and Uncle Otto went to live with their paternal grandmother and were never again to know the influence of their own parents. One day, my Grandfather Hansen accidentally kneeled on an exposed nail and developed blood poisoning. His physical resistance at low ebb when the flu epidemic struck in 1918, he was unable to withstand the onslaught of the disease and died in November of that year. His wife, Caroline, whom we called “Nana” Hansen, lived until 1956. ‘Asa young man, one of my Dad’s earliest hobbies centered around his fascination for radio communication, when it was still in itsA Personal Autobiography a infancy. In 1910, when he was sixteen, he earned an Operator’s Certificate of Skill in Radio Communication from the United States Department of Commerce. On his home sending and receiving set, he heard the distress signals from the ocean liner Tifanic when it sank on April 15, 1912, taking with it 1,517 people. Dad entered the Coast Guard in August of 1917 and while in service, he suffered a serious fall in which his hip and lower leg were fractured in several places, which necessitated eighteen months of hospitalization. In later years, he loved showing off the x-rays of his injury, because they clearly showed the silver plate in his leg. The result of the accident left him with a slight limp which became habitual, though it in no way hindered him from doing manual labor. He was retired from the Coast Guard in 1920. After Dad retired from the Coast Guard, he formed the Jorgensen Realty and Construction Company, along with his brother, William, and his father. With the end of World War I hostilities in 1918, the country was enjoying a construction boom and. the Jorgensens erected many houses in the New York area, as their company successfully expanded. My father and mother, George and Florence Jorgensen, began their happy married life together in 1922, on a wave of expectant prosperity. ‘The first introduction to parenthood for Mom and Dad came in 1928 when my sister, Dorothy Florence Jorgensen, was born. A vivacious little blonde girl, Dolly was three years old when on a warm, sunny day in the late spring, Dad hurriedly bundled Mom into a taxi and started out on a mission of extreme urgency. There were, no doubt, some traffic laws broken that day, as the taxi careened wildly through the streets of the Bronx, headed south, After what must have seemed to them an interminable tip, the cab came to a grinding halt in front of a large hospital, but one look at the building and Mom gasped, “It’s the wrong one!” They continued their desperate journey and finally arrived at their correct destination, the Community Hospital in Manhattan. Within the hour, Mom gave birth to the Jorgensens’ second child, a normal baby boy. It was on Memorial Day, May 30, 1926 that I was born,4 rristine Jorgensen while lines of marchers paraded down the streets to the lively accompaniment of numberless brass bands. Some years were to pass before I realized that the parades and flag waving had nothing to do with celebrating my birthday, but later Tenjoyed the fact that, at least, it always meant a holiday from school. There seemed to be nothing unusual about me at birth, except that I was slightly tongue-tied and a snip of the surgical scissors quickly rectified the minor defect. ‘A few weeks later, I was christened George William Jorgensen, Js, in a small neighborhood Danish Lutheran church. From the very beginning of our young lives, Mom took over the reins of our care and discipline. When Dolly and I were ordered to take a nap we did, with no exceptions. Mom never let anyone pick us up unless it seemed to her the proper time, and there was no careful tiptoeing around the house while we slept. As a matter of fact, my crib was placed right next to the radio and I learned early to sleep through the sound of voices and any other noise. No doubt this conditioning is the reason why Dolly and I are such great sleepers today, an ability for which I've always been grateful and without which T couldn’t have survived some of the crucial moments of my life. When one of the childhood diseases took turns, Mom worked on the theory that if one of us was attacked, the best thing to do was to stick the other one in the same room and get it over with all at once. That seemed a sensible arrangement as mumps, measles, and chicken pox came and went in pairs at our house. A few years before I was born, Dad had taken advantage of his trade as a contractor and carpenter and built a two-family house on Dudley Avenue in the Throgs Neck section of the Bronx. We lived in one unit and Dad rented out the other. It was there that I was to live the first twenty-six years of my life with my parents and my sister Dolly. I remember that the house had a small square of lawn in front and a backyard garden, where I probably first developed a lifelong love of growing things and a frustrated desire to be an expert gardener. I still retain fond memories of that pleasant residential area in the Bronx. The favorite hangout of the local small-fry was theA Personal Autobiography 5 neighborhood grocery and candy store where we bought licorice hats for a penny and were loudly reprimanded by an irate proprietor if we left dirty fingerprints on the glass showcases. Those were the “good old days,” when grocery staples were bought in bulk and milk was sold by the dipper from big shiny cans. Later, when I learned to smoke at sixteen, we bought cigarettes singly at one cent apiece, a price that seems extremely modest today. In those days, Dolly and I were both victims of cereal-box advertising, a childhood blandishment that seems to have changed very little. I saved oatmeal box-tops to send away for a pair of cowboy chaps made of imitation leather and tired fur, and Dolly and I must have consumed a ton of oatmeal for that prized dividend. We had the standard oldersister-younger-brother relation- ship as children, with the usual number of juvenile altercations, Dolly, three years older than I, generally had the advantage of her seniority, and the roughhouse that ensued frequently left me with a few well-planted “lumps.” Today, Mom vehemently insists that we were model children, but I'm afraid that maternal love has clouded her vision. I recall that Mom frequently made Dolly take little brother, or “Brud,” as I was affectionately called, with her on afterschool outings. Dolly wasn’t filled with enthusiasm, a reaction that was perfectly understandable, but in spite of her protests, I usually ended up by tagging along, Jumping rope, playing jacks, hide-and-go-seek, and potsie (hop scotch) were our favorite games, How much these girlish activities were to contribute to my future problems and the inability to identify myself with the masculine sex, I don’t think I will ever know. Dolly and I were surrounded by a closely knit, affectionate family of the sort that gives a child a warm feeling of belonging. Happily, we had the advantage of being in a family that enjoyed activities as a unit, and that still applies today. Mom and Dad had a faithful Model A Ford that often got a good workout in the summertime. On vacations, we four Jorgensens rode through the New England states and Canada, stopping at night in what were then called “roadside cabins." They were flimsy structures, made of little6 Christine Jorgensen more than two-by-our beams and clapboard, and I can remember inspecting the thick cobwebs in the corners, wide-eyed with fear that I'd find a spider in residence. A dollar a night for the whole family was the going rate and we set up our own cots and cooked on a portable stove. We could never have imagined then that these crude, unkempt little cabins would grow in the next thirty years into the slick and luxurious motels of today. Aswith most everyone, some of the cherished memories of my childhood revolved around the Christmas holidays. To me, the Scandinavian Christmas was and is the grandest of celebrations. Starting December 1, we children were allowed to select one small parcel from a pile of twenty-four (usually ten-cent store items), before we went to bed. It wasn't surprising that Mom didn’t have to employ any of her usual disciplinary measures to get us to go to bed on each of the twenty-four evenings before Christmas. A few days before Christmas Eve, Dad brought in the tree and Dolly and I helped decorate it. Some of the decorations were brought from Denmark and I still have a few in my possession today. The family festivities were always centered at Grandma Jorgensen's house and it was deluged with children, grandchildren and, ultimately, great grandchildren. The entire clan congregated there on Christmas Eve, laden with packages which soon formed an enormous ring around Grandma's tree. . Dinner gave rise to the single disharmony of the evening. Although the largest available turkey was prepared for the dinner table, it wasn’t possible for each of six grandchildren to have a drumstick, when even the noblest of birds had only two. To preserve the peace, the thighs and wings of the turkey were immediately referred to by the grownups as “drumsticks,” and I can remember that we children accepted that gentle deception for years. One of the charming Danish customs was serving the traditional rice pudding, which contained a single almond. Whoever found the almond in his dish of pudding, kept it tucked into his cheek, watching gleefully as everyone else searched each spoonful for the elusive prize. The beneficiary received a gift, usually a little pig made of marzipan.A Personal Autobiography 7 After Christmas dinner, we sang traditional carols and marched hand in hand around the tree. At this point, our patience vas strained to the breaking point, for we awaited the appearance of The Yale Man, the Danish equivalent of Santa Claus, When finally the bells rang, announcing his arrival and the time for distributing presents, I recall once I froze in terror and ran for Mom’s protection, for indeed, he was a frightening apparition, dressed in a red bathrobe and a distorted starched mask. His disguise had been stuffed in an attic when not in use at Christmas and the years had taken their toll of both the shape and color of his costume and mask. I often wonder how I could have believed in The Yule Man as long as I did. Some of the strongest and most enduring of childhood memories are inevitably linked with my paternal grandmother, who exerted a great influence on my carly life. There were twenty-six aunts, uncles, and cousins in our Bronx neighborhood, but the matriarch and focal point of the clan was Grandma Jorgensen. She was a generous, commonsense woman who enriched the lives of our family, friends, and neighbors, enveloping us all in a warm glow of love. In stature, Grandma was short and pleasantly plump. She chose mostly gray and lavender shades for her clothes, which complemented her white hair. In my mind’s eye, even now, I can picture her silvery hair brushed high on her head and topped by a shining knot. Another outstanding thing about her was an aristocratic, “Indian-type” nose, which was a genetic feature in the Petersen family. Dad and Dolly inherited it, while Iwas endowed with the prominent Petersen ears. Grandma had small, plump hands that seemed to have a life of their own as they worked incessantly at some form of handiwork: needlepoint, knitting, or crocheting. As the years passed, she met the rudeness of time gracefully, and her hands, particularly, seemed never to age. I remember the scent of lavender that surrounded her. She was always a person of grace and dignity. Asa child, I used to pick violets for her. They were her favorite flower, and she had a green thumb for raising the African variety, an ability which I've tried to match, unsuccessfully, for years.8 Christine Jorgensen I developed into a frail, tow-headed, introverted child, but I learned early that society laid down firm ground rules concerning my behavior. A little boy wore trousers and had his hair cut short. He had to learn to use his fists aggressively, participate in athletics and, most important of all, little boys didn’t cry. Contrary to those accepted patterns, sometimes I did feel like crying and I must have felt that Grandma understood and didn’t disapprove when I ran away from a fistfight or refused to play rough and tumble games. Once, when Iran to her in flight from some childish altercation, she said, “Fighting is the ugliest part of life. To live without fighting is much more important, and much more satisfying.” After Grandpa Jorgensen died in 1927, Grandma lived comfortingly close to our house in the Bronx with her son-indaw and daughter, Helga, Dad’s sister. As soon as I was permitted to travel the few blocks to Grandma’s house alone, I began to spend many hours with her, I loved listening to the stories about Denmark, told in her soft voice and Danish accent; the customs and traditions of the Old Country and the charming, funny things she did as a child. Always, as we talked, her small hands were busy crocheting doilies or antimacassers and our conversation was accompanied in the background by the ticking of a beautifully carved wall clock which was given to Grandpa in 1868, and is still in my possession today. Occasionally, 1 was allowed to admire her collection of fine porcelain, at reasonably close range. I suppose I knew instinctively that 1 didn't have to tell Grandma when someone had hurt my feelings or when I had been cruelly disappointed. Had I told her of my childish prayer one Christmas when I was five, asking God for a pretty doll with long, golden hair, Grandma might have helped answer that prayer. At least, she would have eased my disappointment when my present turned out to be a bright red railway train. It must have been about this stage that I became aware of the differences between my sister, Dolly, and me. Those differences, to me, lay in the order of “masculine” and “feminine” things. Dolly had long blonde hair and wore dresses, both of which I admired but which were not allowed to me, and I was upset and puzzled by this.A Personal Autobiography 9 “Mom,” I asked, “why didn’t God make us alike?” My mother gently explained that the world needed both men and women and that there was no way of knowing before a baby was born whether it would be a boy or a girl. “You see, Brud,” she said, “it’s one of God’s surprises.” “Well,” I replied, “I don’t like the kind of surprise God made me!” I believe the spirit of rebellion must have been taking a foothold in me, even though I was a shy and introverted child. Though I don’t remember the incident, I've been told that my childish revolt manifested itself one day when I was about four or five, and I went to visit my maternal grandmother, “Nana” Hansen. During the course of a shopping trip, I planted myself stolidly in front of a neighborhood store and demanded some candy. “No,” Nana replied, “you're going to eat shortly.” “Then I'll go home,” I answered, and started on my way. Nana followed, block after block, but at a distance. Reaching another candy store, I stopped, turned to see Nana regarding me, and said, “Candy now?” “No,” came the prompt and firm reply. True to my word, I plodded my determined way home. Evidently, I was a willful one even at that age.CHAPTER 2 ‘n 1928, the nation was riding at a prosperous high tide and [sect that spirit was one of the popular song hits of the time, “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Newly elected President Herbert Hoover was proclaiming “a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage.” Wall Street's ticker tape machines clattered away at a great rate and stocks rose to new heights. The Jorgensen Realty and Construction Company expanded its credit and continued to build more houses. Even the death, in 1927, of Grandpa Jorgensen, one of the company’s founders, didn’t stop its meteoric rise. But The Roaring Twenties were about to quiet down to a whimper, October 29, 1929, was the beginning of one of the darkest periods in American financial history, for it ushered in the Great Depression. With the sudden, swift market crash on Black Thursday, everything lost value, the economic stability of the country was destroyed, and the Jorgensen Construction Company was swept along with the wreckage of countless others. Fifteen houses, built by the company on bank credit and mortgages, stood in lonely vacancy in the New York area. A few of them sold for a tenth of their original cost; others the family couldn’t give away. Even our home on Dudley Avenue was in jeopardy for a while. Dad and his brother Bill had all their resources in those buildings, even including Grandma Jorgensen’s money. The stock certificates were worthless and, as Dad said, “Good for nothing but papering a wall.” As I was only three years old at the time, I don’t recall that financial catastrophe, but many years later, I took Dad’s pronouncement literally andA Personal Autobiography a papered a wall behind the bar in my home with those colorful, worthless certificates. In the wake of the depression, Mom and Dad managed to survive and keep a caf, a house, and a family intact. Dad had cashed in his government insurance and funds were low, but he worked at various jobs in the building trade in order to keep going. After the crash, when her children contributed to her support, Grandma had an efficient, if unusual system of bookkeeping. She had a sheaf of envelopes, each marked and set aside for a specific purpose: “Birthdays,” “Christmas,” “Funeral” (her own), “Crocheting cotton,” etc. When one of the envelopes was empty, Grandma was “broke” in that department and she would never think of taking from one to satisfy the needs of another. After noting Grandma's unique accounting system, I tried to set up one of my own. Of course, my weekly allowance never seemed to find its way into the envelopes, but the feeble attempt was probably the first to make me aware of the principles of thrift. A couple of years after the demise of Dad’s compaiy and totally unaware of the drastic changes in the lives and fortunes of the Jorgensens, I began to prepare for the great adventure of going to school. I remember that I anticipated school with a great deal of excitement, for my one great ambition at that period was to learn to read. Dolly could already decipher meaning from the printed pages and I imagine I didn’t want to be outdone. The daily arrival of newspapers and the large library of books at home were a constant frustration, and attempts to get others to read to me were futile more often than not. Dad, who was an avid reader, always seemed to me to know so much. He'd point to the newspaper and heatedly discuss an item and, later, when I tried to get some meaning from the printed symbols, I met with no success. School was the place where I could learn to read and I looked forward to it eagerly. When I was five-and- ahhalf, the day finally arrived, and I went to Public School 71, within walking distance of our home. During my first week in kindergarten, I meta little boy named Carl, the first new friend with whom I wasn’t shy. Carl came from Swedish parents and as we were both Scandinavians, we had common2 Christine Jorgensen family backgrounds. Diabetic children were relatively unknown at that time, and I can remember watching with fascination one day when his Mother gave him an insulin shot. We became fast friends and all through our school life together, Carl was my one uncritical ally. We often appeared in school plays and that was one of the activities I loved best of all. “Play-acting” was fun and I could hide my shyness behind the facade of someone else, in a shining world of fantasy. I remember my first role was as an organ-grinder’s monkey, and by the time I was in the third grade, I'd graduated to the most cherished of all character parts, Mickey Mouse. The long rubber tail and suffocating mask were a mark of distinction and I wore them proudly. At some time during that period, I acquired a set of marionettes. I never seemed to tire of manipulating the tiny figures in their fanciful world. Outwardly, I was a very submissive child, but the sense of rebellion must have been growing rapidly within me and established itself more openly the following summer, when Mom and Dad sent me to a boys’ summer camp, located at Dover Furnace, New Jersey. Camp Sharparoon was a typical vacation camp, operated in what seemed to me then a far too militant manner. The day's schedule was posted each morning on a bulletin board and, although I was too young to read the notice in detail, I was sure in advance that I wasn’t going to like the “orders of the day.” The first day’s regimen confirmed my fears when we flew from one activity to another, commanded by the shrill, piercing sound of a whistle. High on the mountainside above the camp was a large rock with a gigantic letter “S” painted on it, and the penalty for an infraction of the rules was the job of painting the “S.” A fearful, whispered rumor told of the many boys who had fallen to instant death from that dizzying height, while painting the camp symbol. The story held me in terror for several days, until I finally realized that it was, of course, false. I fell a victim to other tricks played on the newcomers, when I was told that a “Sky Hook” and a “Jericho Pass” were absolutely‘A Personal Autobiography B essential to every camp member. I don’t remember why the Sky Hook was necessary, but a Jericho Pass had no little importance, as I was informed that it was the only thing that would permit use of the latrines. Finally, in dire circumstance, I rushed around the camp looking for someone to give me the vital Jericho Pass until a sympathetic senior counselor put a stop to my frantic search. My relief—in several aspects—was so great that it is, even now, memorable. I can still remember that a desire for seclusion grew more positive with each passing day, and my plans never included others. There was more freedom in carrying out those plans alone and, therefore, less chance of being made to feel ridiculous, strange or different. “Hey, George, c’mere!” I was often ordered to join the other boys in a game. It seemed to me then it was always like that, just when was having fun on my own. I resented these intrusions so much that I began devising ways of disappearing for a whole day, but when I returned, I knew I'd have to face the discipline of the counselors. After a few miserable days of inadequately trying to fight against the regimentation, I made a tearful but determined request to be taken home. “I want to come home,” was all I wrote on the penny postcard that I sent to Mom and Dad. No one could understand why I was so unhappy or why I delighted in visiting Dolly when Mom and Dad took me on a trip to the girls’ camp, some distance away. Somehow, I felt more at ease, more comfortable there. The girls didn’t call me “sissy” or ask me if I was really a girl dressed in boy's clothes, like the boys at Camp Sharparoon did. Fortunately, neither of my parents saw any reason for forcing me to continue something I disliked so violently, so each summer after that I was shipped off, with a blanket roll and a few dollars in pocket money, to relatives who owned a farm in northern New York State. Many of the leisure hours on the farm were spent at an old, familiar “swimmin’ hole” in the area. Like the children at the summer camp, the neighboring farm boys couldn’t understand me either. To them I was “that strange little kid from the city.”i“ Christine Jorgensen “C’mon, George,” they challenged. “Why don’t you swim in your birthday suit like we do?” I remember that I wanted so much to have them admire me and to be included as a member of the gang, but I shrank back in confusion and fear. “I get too cold in the water,” I lied. Though I liked to swim and was a good swimmer, I couldn't break the habit of wearing a complete swimsuit with both top and bottom. I have no doubt that my embarrassment stemmed from shyness and a natural modesty which I had learned at home. There were other ways in which I didn’t measure up to the acceptable standards of a budding young male, as one of my school teachers was to point out so graphically and cruelly. Most youngsters are acquisitive and prone to annoy adults with the oddities they collect and hoard. To a childish mind, anything from tattered comic books to a chipped marble are considered rare and valuable treasures to be admired, cherished, and sometimes even traded. In that respect, at least, I wasn't any different from other children. I can’t recall how, but when I was eight, I had in some way acquired one of those rich treasures: a small piece of needlepoint which I kept hidden in my school desk. Occasionally, I would reach in my desk and touch it, or if no one was watching, I'd take it out and admire it secretly. I didn’t display it openly, probably sensing the derision that might result. After recess one day, I was astonished to find that the lovely piece of handiwork had disappeared from my desk. Even now, I remember that I was heartbroken, for one of the small pleasures of my life had been lost or misplaced. Or had it been stolen? Our teacher called the class to order and stood beside her desk, apparently waiting for the last echoes of childish freedom to die. She must have sensed her triumph as she paused significantly for complete attention, “George Jorgensen, come here,” she said finally and a steely look in her eye reinforced the command. ‘I'd like you to come up, too, Mrs. Jorgensen, so you can hear what this boy has to say.” Tturned to see Mom, quietly making her way from the back of the classroom. In distress over my loss, I hadn’t noticed her sittingA Personal Autobiography ib there before. In growing panic, I wondered what Mom was doing in class. She hadn’t told me that she was coming to school. The teacher must have asked her, but why? Mothers were asked to school only when the kids did something wrong and I wondered what I had done. In the silence that followed, the teacher took an object from her desk. “Is this yours?” she asked, with a prim little smile, holding the precious needlepoint just beyond my reach. “Yes,” I answered. I felt the quick sting of tears, the blood rushing to my face and heard a hot little breath sucked in behind me in excitement. I reached out to take the needlepoint from her hand, but she withdrew it sharply and faced my mother, “Mrs. Jorgensen, do you think that this is anything for a red- blooded boy to have in his desk as a keepsake? The next thing we know, George will be bringing his knitting to school!” There were titters from the class which she didn’t try to silence. I glanced at Mom. Her lips were quivering and her face was flushed. ‘I'll take care of it,” she said quietly, and guided me ahead of her out of the classroom. We walked home in silence. From time to time she brushed tears from her eyes and even now I recall my feeling of humiliation and confusion. In some way I had hurt her. I wasn't sure just how, but] think I knew that the teacher had hurt her even more. For the first time in my life, I felt the most destructive of all emotions, hate. That woman had cheapened something I loved and, in some way, had injured my mother, I was no doubt too young to realize that a love for beauty was not the sole property of either a male or female, but the teacher's attempt to form that link seemed wrong to me, even then. Mom never mentioned the incident after that, but to me it has remained a vivid memory. From then on, except for answers to direct questions, I never spoke to the teacher again and I know now how much I must have resented her. I didn’t realize that her own tragedy lay in ignorance and a lack of understanding, In her callousness, she couldn't comprehend the fact that in order to follow the normal pattern of development, I needed help, not ridicule. As 1 often did when I was troubled, I went to visit my beloved Grandma Jorgensen and told her what had happened. She went to16 Christine Jorgensen one of her great wooden chests and lovingly unwrapped many samples of her own superb needlework. She handed me a small, exquisitely crocheted doily and explained to me something of the joy and satisfaction she had known in making an object that was both useful and beautiful. “You mustn't mind if other people can’t see or feel a sense of beanty, too, George,” she told me gently. Grandma’s explanation seemed more real to me than the teacher's ridicule. I thought that I knew what beauty was in my own way and that it was a mistake to categorize it as either masculine or feminine. But Grandma was always my champion when others laughed at my “sissified” ways. I've been told that once, at the age of four, I had insisted on carrying a miniature cane and wearing a beret wherever I went. “Never mind,” she said, “it’s his way of expressing the yearning for dignity in his life.” I remember I was about eleven or twelve years old when my sister Dolly began to notice my outstanding feminine mannerisms. One day when we were walking home from school, Dolly said, “Why do you carry your books that way? It looks silly for a boy!” I was carrying my books up in my arms, just as she carried hers. It was something I’d never been aware of before. I thought a great deal about those books during the following few days. “Does the way in which one carried books have to be “boyish’ or ‘girlish’?” I wondered. I tried carrying them at my side, but it was awkward and I kept dropping them, so I simply went back to the old, more comfortable method. A few years later, when Dolly was in college, she devoted a thesis to the effects of environment on the development of a child. 1 never read the thesis, but was told I was the subject of it and that she had won considerable acclaim for her work, in analyzing my feminine ways and attributing them partially to the fact that I played with girls so much as a child. ‘At the time, I was angry, though I never mentioned it. I felt that a very personal thing had been explored and exposed and I didn’t like being used as the subject for such a disclosure.A Personal Autobiography 77 Undoubtedly, my distress stemmed from fear and the total self absorption of my thirteen years and, therefore, blinded me to her motives. Today, I know that she was deeply concerned and was trying to help me by searching for more understanding within herself, In a way, she was shouldering the problem and facing it squarely, a giant step for the average college girl in 1939, when such subjects as the “feminine” boy were not openly discussed. How many of my emotions could be attributed to this early environment I couldn’t determine then, of course, but deep within myself, even at that early age, I felt that all these basic feelings were an integral part of me and not highly influenced by outside conditions.CuarTeR 3 ‘ewspapers were filled with earthshaking events in 1939, but I viewed the war in Europe as something very far away and not affecting me greatly. ‘The closest thing to viewing a tragedy in my life was two years before, when Dolly and I saw the German zeppelin, the Hindenburg, pass over our house on its way to landing at Lakehurst, New Jersey. It was a night in May of 1937 and the Hindenburg exploded and burned at its moorings with a terrible cost of life. I remember thinking how curious it was that I had seen the powerful ship in all its blazing, lighted glory just a short hour before its total destruction. The circumstances of the Jorgensens had improved slightly since the financial holocaust of Wall Street in 1929. Dad had worked at various jobs in the building trade until 1936 when, under the newly formed WPA (Works Progress Administration), he got a job in the mud flats of Flushing Meadows in Queens, helping to build LaGuardia Airport. They were no doubt hard years for Mom and Dad. 1 remember waking in the dark to hear my parents’ voices, whispering in the kitchen over their breakfast. Dad left home before daylight each morning and didn’t return until after dark at night. I can still see him bundled up in “long Johns,” thick woolen socks, a heavy sweater and jacket, and carrying a large thermos of coffee, as he climbed into the trusty Model A Ford. By 1989, LaGuardia Airport was completed and Dad took the Civil Service examination and joined the ranks of New York CityA Personal Autobiograplry 9 employees in the Parks Department. The World’s Fair of 1939 was an exciting period in my childhood. Dolly and I would walk from our home to the Bronx end of the yet unopened span of the Whitestone Bridge and look out toward the fairgrounds, located in Queens on the same site as the 1965 World's Fair. The Exposition symbols of the Trylon and Perisphere loomed in the distance and our excitement mounted as the exhibition buildings grew. Shortly before the Fair opened, we had received special “invitations” to welcome King George VI and Queen Elizabeth of Great Britain, who were arriving in the United States to join President Roosevelt in the opening ceremonies of the Fair. I remember that it was a bright, sunny day in April of 1939, when we found places on the West Side highway in Manhattan and watched the beautiful new liner, Queen Elizabeth, move slowly up the Hudson River. The large engraved invitations, displaying the British and American flags in color, were clutched in our hands and as the crowds grew, we soon realized that they were not exclusive with us, but that everyone else had one, too. Sometime later, we saw the royal motorcade pass slowly by our viewing spot. King George sat quietly in the rear of an open limousine and next to him sat the Queen, waving and smiling graciously to the crowd. I can even recall her pale blue, off-the-face hat. The memory of this sight was to return to me many years later, when I saw the Queen Mother in 1958 at the coronation of her daughter, the young Queen Elizabeth. I had a season pass to the World’s Fair and I used it every weekend and on holidays until school closed, and almost daily from then on. The world of knowledge was unfolding and the foreign exhibitions brought faraway places closer to me. On the evening of September 8, 1939, after an exhausting day at the fairgrounds, I was heading toward the gates on my way home, when I began to hear the first startling rumors of the declaration of war. Iremember turning to see the lights in the British Pavilion go out. To me, “the war” had been the one Dad had told us about when I had so often looked at his personal collection of World20 Christine Jorgensen War I photos as a child. Mom huddled by the radio when I arrived home that night and by their expressions, I knew that the war talk was something serious. The German occupation of Denmark on April 9, 1940, brought the war a little closer, and I felt, to a degree, something of Grandma’s concern for our relatives in her native country. I can remember a clear, bright Sunday afternoon in winter when I was fifteen, and we took a leisurely drive through the beautiful hilly countryside of Westchester. When we arrived home, Dad turned on the radio and the first few minutes of the broadcast were like the famous Orson Welles program a few years earlier, when he panicked the country with his dramatized reports of a Martian landing. Except this time, the reports were true. It was December 7, 1941, and we heard the first reports of the Japanese attack and destruction at Pearl Harbor. I must have been about sixteen when the acute feelings of loneliness which had been accumulating began to possess me even more. Instead of assimilating into a group as most teenagers did, 1 felt like an outsider. I didn’t like sports and I wasn’t interested in dating girls, which had become the chief topic of conversation among the boys of my acquaintance. I tried to find some solace in books and they became my closest companions. ‘There was a vacancy at the Westchester Square Branch of the ‘New York Public Library, and since I was devoting so much time to reading books, I thought I'd like to work around them, My job application was accepted and for the next year, books were a substitute for the friends I seemed unable to find in my schoo! life. I devoted more effort to the library job than I did to my school work, I was never a great scholar, but I think I had an inquisitive mind and the travel section, with its fascinating trips to far places, particularly intrigued me. My travels thus far had been limited to the yearly trip to the farm, but as I read, I began to plan. [collected travel folders. Yellowstone Park, the Grand Canyon, the Blue Ridge Mountains, and Washington, D.C. were a few of the places I wanted to visit. Though my dreams were unlimited, my funds were not. I had managed to save a hundred dollars from my earningsA Personal Autobiography 2 at the library, which considerably narrowed down the distance for my first solo trip. Thus, Washington, D.C. became the logical choice and on a day in July of 1943, I boarded a plane at LaGuardia Airport, disregarding Mom’s fearful protestations. I stayed in a tourist home and all of my meals were eaten frugally in a nearby cafeteria. I visited the Mellon Art Gallery, went to the top of the Washington Monument, took a limousine tour of Arlington, and visited the Library of Congress. The week passed all too quickly, but most important to me at the time was the fact that I had accomplished something by myself, independently. I had looked at a slice of a world beyond my own and, for a time at least, satisfied my restlessness. Around the age of seventeen, I recall that I was even more keenly aware that I was different from other boys. Once I overheard one of them say, “George is such a strange guy.” At other times, they didn’t have to say it; I could read the thought in their attitudes. In spite of that (aside from my childhood friend, Carl, who was almost like a brother to me), I formed another friendship during those mid-teen years. Tom Chaney lived in a small town near the farm in upper New York State where I spent my summer vacations. Our friendship grew during my annual trips to the farm and also through correspondence following those visits, when I returned to New York. Tom was four years older than I and one reason that I liked him was that he didn’t engage in embarrassing conversation about kissing and petting parties, accompanied by worldly-wise comments on sex. Friendship was the only feeling [had for him until he demonstrated that he was like all the other boys. He wrote me a letter that was devoted almost entirely to the irresistible attractions of a girl he had met, with little or no mention of the elaborate plans I'd made to visit the Hayden Planetarium on our next meeting in New York City. I read the letter over with misgivings and disappointment. It was then, for the first time, that I experienced the abrasive feelings of jealousy—emotions which fed what must have been an already mounting inferiority complex. It was a puzzling ambivalence. I didn’t like or understand these feelings for Tom, they were new and2 Christine Jorgensen. foreign. At the same time, though I liked him, I resented him for being the object of these strange emotions. During this period of disillusionment, I tried to involve myself in fumbling attempts at selfanalysis. Quite accidentally, I came across a book in the library that revealed to me new and incomprehensible facts about human relations. Dealing with the subject of homosexuality, the book was concealed from the general reading public in what was known as the “closed shelves.” Between its covers, I found many perplexing statements about sex deviation. I scanned paragraphs and pages of case histories, all of which left me even more bewildered than before. Question after question raced through my mind. Was this the same thing I felt? Was I one of these people? Was I living half in shadow? Was my feeling for Tom one of love, like the love described in the book? I didn’t think I was “in love” with Tom, I only knew that I didn’t want him to be in love with some girl, But wasn't that the same thing? Why did I want to keep him from the accepted ways of men toward women? Wasn't it inevitable that he would meet a girl sometime and marry and have children? Then why did I want to hold on to him if he was only a comrade and our friendship a platonic one? All of these questions continued to flood my mind. Increasingly tortured and confused by them, I could only grope blindly for the answers.CHAPTER 4 skov Hall was the Danish-American Beach Club, located at “Throgs Neck on Long Island Sound, where the young people of our community congregated for social activities and companionship. Grandpa Jorgensen had been one of the club’s founders and when funds were finally raised for the building, Dad was one of the principal architects and was later to serve as president. The club had been organized through the Danish Trinity Church and the actual construction was donated by its members. Dad also contributed a good deal of spare time and effort to the building. I tried to assist with the project at one point, but as Dad said, I had no real aptitude for the work and had to be directed specifically to everything pertaining to the job. Once, I remember, Dad asked me to help him build a boat, an enterprise that would have delighted most boys. I did try, just in order to please him, but my interest soon flagged. My relief was probably no greater than his when I shortly withdrew my services. Around 1943, at the height of the war years, I seldom missed attending the Saturday night socials at Askov Hall, yet I subcon- sciously feared them. In a party atmosphere, my failure to conform to the patterns expected of a young man of seventeen was even more noticeable, not only to me, but I was sure to other people, too. I didn’t like to dance, but I was envious when I saw girls in the arms of their escorts, skillfully employing the standard devices of flirtation. Being surrounded by these lighthearted young people only served to4 Christine Jorgensen heighten my sense of isolation. ‘As a result, there were times when the aching loneliness became unbearable and Ieft the bright lights and youthful gaiety of the beach club for a solitary walk along the edge of the bay. Pinpoints of light winked on the opposite shore and the quiet darkness, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves on the sand, seemed more friendly and inviting. I believe it was during one of these lonely walks that I must have decided my only salvation lay in some sort of absorbing activity—one which would involve me so wholeheartedly that I wouldn’t have time to think about myself or my problems. I hadn’t graduated from high school as yet, but I felt the time had come for me to start thinking of a profession. Photography had always been a fascinating hobby to me, since the days when Dad would improvise a darkroom by putting blankets over the kitchen windows. He, Dolly, and I would closet ourselves there for hours, developing negatives and making prints on his elderly World War I printing box. “I have the largest private collection of World War I pictures in the world,” Dad would say confidently. His boast was no doubt true. During the First World War when he was in the Coast Guard and had been hospitalized for injuries incurred by a serious fally he had set up a darkroom in the hospital and printed pictures for all his mates in the navy. Dad always made an extra copy of each photo for himself, Years later, throughout our childhood, Dolly and I regarded those boxes of photographs as old playmates. Looking through them was a wonderful escape on rainy afternoons or a welcome distraction when we were bundled into bed to cure a cold, reeking of Vicks VapoRub and fretting under hot, itching mustard plasters. (Mom was always adamant about those.) Dad had given me my first camera and I was taking pictures with abandon, if not precision, as far back as I could remember. Sometime during my last year of high school in 1944, I spoke to Mom and Dad about the possibility of taking an evening course at the New York Institute of Photography. I wasn’t surprised that they both welcomed the idea, because they were always anxious to encourage Dolly and mein any educational advancement.A Personal Autobiography 2B I didn’t know it at the time, but Dad took out a loan on his, government life-insurance policy to pay my tuition. Armed with my parents’ encouragement and the money they had given me at a sacrifice, I enrolled at the Institute and started evening sessions in commercial, portrait, motion picture, and color photography. Whatever artistic inclinations I may have had seemed for a time to be satisfied, and light and camera became my brush and palette. Immersed in my studies at the Photography Institute, I was daydreaming of the time when I would have an important place behind the cameras of Hollywood, the gilded Wonderland of make- believe. I think I was fairly sure that I would know exactly how to photograph Greta Garbo, Barbara Stanwyck, and Bette Davis. My preoccupation with the motion picture industry was so great at the time, I can even now recall the Academy Award winners for that year: Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight and Bing Crosby in Going My Way. Involved with these new interests and my high-school work, I was able to push the perplexing thoughts of Tom Chaney into the background and the confusion about my place in the world seemed to be resolving itself slightly. My euphoria was shortlived, however. I received a letter from Tom telling me that he had joined the navy and, after his boot training, would be sent to the South Pacific. Reading that letter, I remember being overwhelmed by the revelation that, despite earlier denials, I was in love with him, I was also filled with a consuming fear that he would be facing unknown danger, maybe even déath. Here was something—a forbidden emotion—of which I had to feel ashamed, and it was abhorrent to me. I couldn't discuss it with anyone, not even my beloved Grandma Jorgensen and, certainly, I knew I would never mention it to Tom. With an accompanying stab of guilt, I added this sorrowful secret to the already large burden of my inability to cope with life. Throughout Tom’s boot training, however, I wrote to him regularly, never expressing any feelings other than friendship. When he was finally sent to the South Pacific, I admitted an ugly thought and one which undoubtedly served to increase my feeling of guilt. If he never returned, I would be free from a bond that could never know fulfillment, only sorrow. If he were to die, there would be no6 Christine Jorgensen conflict, and I could continue to live in a world of fantasy, in which cour love was not only perfect, but possible. T remembered a passage from Daphne du Maurier's novel, Rebecca, which had so impressed me that I jotted it down in a small, ruled notebook that is still in my possession. “If only there were an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again.” Accepting the existence of this new and terrifying love had left me emotionally drained and, again, it seemed that any salvation life had for me must come through my work. Having graduated from high school, I knew the time was approaching when I would have to look for a suitable place to begin. By then, however, filled with an unreasonable sense of fear and insecurity, I looked for excuses to postpone the inevitable busi- ness of hunting for a job. Helping Mom with work around the house filled in some of the time before I had to go out and face the world. During that period of indecision, I can recall standing on a table, scrubbing the kitchen walls, a radio playing music in the background. Suddenly the music was silenced and an announcer’s voice said, “This is a bulletin. The White House has just announced that President Roosevelt is dead. The President died in Warm Springs, Georgia...” The following words were lost as I stood staring in disbelief. President Roosevelt was the only president I had ever remembered in the White House. When he came to office, I was seven years old and it was inconceivable to me that anyone else could ‘occupy the presidency. His voice was almost as familiar to me as my Dad’s, It was my first encounter with death and I can remember the shocking impact of that April 12, 1945. Within two months, I was to know the death of someone much closer to me. On May 30, 1945, my nineteenth birthday, my Aunt Esther, Dad’s oldest sister, suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and died. Iremember that Dad and I threw coats over our pajamas and drove quickly to Grandma’s home. She was sitting in the living room and for the first and last time, I saw her hands lying inactive in her lap. “I know,” she said quietly. “Esther is gone,” and she went to her roomA Personal Autobiography 27 and closed the door. Even though she had just lost her oldest daughter, Grandma had found it impossible to cry. Years before, she had told me, “Crying can be a wonderful outlet, but somehow when Iam deeply hurt, I can’t cry. I wish I could.” Because I didn’t know how to go about consoling her, I felt strangely inadequate, especially as Grandma had always been such a great comfort to me. On May 7, 1945, less than a month after the death of Presi- dent Roosevelt, the war in Europe ended. V-E Day was one of wild excitement. I remember taking the subway to Times Square, where thousands of people milled around in a mad kind of revelry and it was like five New Year’s Eves wrapped into one. ‘The jubilation didn’t put an end to my personal problems, however, for I was still faced with the need to find a job. Once again, ‘Mom came to the rescue with the suggestion that I approach Larry and June Jensen, both of whom were members of the Danish- American Beach Club and longtime friends of the Jorgensens, I remember them as a happy couple, envied for their seemingly perfect marital relationship. They enjoyed a common interest in sailing and both held responsible positions at RKO. Larry, as an engineer, maintained the film-developing machines and June was a film editor. The interview that the Jensens arranged netted me a job in the library cutting department at RKO-Pathé News in Manhattan, I set out to take my place in the business world with the ever- increasing knowledge that I had been a miserable misfit for the previous eighteen years, and though a ray of happiness was present in the fact that I had a job in the field I’d chosen, I had little hope that the future would resolve my, by then, serious emotional problems.CHAPTER 5 jen I went to work for Pathé News in the spring of 1945, I W: ied to accept the bewildering responsibilities of a grown person that were then thrust upon me. Iwondered if my new associates would notice what I had long since known: that I was one who deviated, emotionally, from what had been termed “normal.” But I was determined to behave like a man, even if I didn’t feel like one, and wy to hide the pretense behind a brave exterior. When someone in the cutting room questioned me about my successes on dates with girls, I learned to hand out an acceptable line, though I'd never had a date with a girl. Undoubtedly, at the time, I must have had an exaggerated idea of other people’s concepts of masculine and feminine behavior. Most people aren’t aware of the inner turmoils of others, and unless the feminine male is totally without self-control, it isn’t difficult for him to put on an acceptable front in public. But my own conception of the difference in behavior was definite and total and I was too immature to see the shades of gray that lie in between, Within the protective framework of my job, however, I felt fairly secure, almost happy. Every film company has a library which contains all of their films and each scene has to be catalogued for possible future use. If, for example, a filmmaker needed footage of a horse coming over a hill, an erupting volcano, or a herd of stampeding cattle, we could produce those scenes from the vault, through a system of crossindexed files. These were called “stock shots.” In addition to my work in the stock library, I spliced the titleA Personal Autobiography 29 film of the Pathé Rooster on to the beginning of the newsreels. I remember that the famous Pathé News trademark was affectionately called “The Chicken.” T can only wonder how my life would have progressed if, one October morning in 1945, I had not received the special “Greetings from the President.” I had already been rejected by the army twice during the active fighting years because I was underweight. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad about the third call, because I didn’t want another rejection to make them feel that their son, something of a nineteen- year-old social recluse, was also a physical misfit. Dad and I had joined the Army Air Force Command as volunteer observers with the Aircraft Warning Service. I'd also tried to join the Red Cross as an ambulance driver, but had dropped the idea when I found that uniforms and other expenses were too heavy for my budget. Once having reported, I thought I'd be back at Pathé News the next day. Itwas a gray morning when I joined hundreds of other draftees for my physical examination at Grand Central Palace in Manhattan, I was rushed shivering through the routine of being weighed, measured, thumped, and stethescoped, in rapid succession. My eyes, cars, nose, and throat were examined, and after answering a few cursory questions, my papers were thrust back at me with the word ACCEPTED stamped across them in bold letters. Many thoughts stuttered through my mind as I stood confused and more than a little shocked. I was “in”! Parenthetically, some members of the press, who at one time or another were skeptical or unwilling to accept the truth, were to make much of the fact that I passed all of the pre-induction tests without the examiners questioning my maleness. The fact that I weighed less than a hundred pounds and was physically and sexually underdeveloped might have seemed significant, were it not for the fact that late development is not an uncommon occurrence. The army medical men had no doubt become accustomed to examining many such cases, with the apt thought: “The army will make men out of them.” In most of these cases, the results justified the prognosis.30 Ohristine Jongensen ‘The war had ended and the great need of the armed forces, at that time, was for clerical help to go about the enormous job of disbanding those numberless forces. Many men were inducted during that period who were not perfect physical specimens. Besides, there was a popular cliché of the time, that if you could see lightning and hear thunder, they'd take you, regardless. On the third ty, I managed both. ‘When the examining psychiatrist asked me, “Do you like girls?” I knew, as did every other draftee, that the question was designed to weed out the men with homosexual procivities. Therefore, I answered simply, “Yes.” Iwanted to be accepted by the army for two reasons. Foremost was iy great desire to belong, to be needed, and to join the stream of activ- ities around me like the other young people of my acquaintance who were contributing to the times, Second, I wanted my parents to be proud of me and to be able to say, “My son is also in the service.” Although they never mentioned it, I was poignantly aware that Mom and Dad must have felt their child was “different” and, therefore, unwanted. ‘At any rate, I was proud of my acceptance papers. When I returned to Pathé News the next morning, it was to announce that I was no longer a civilian but was now a piece of government property with a number, 42259077. I had become a Gl. ‘Two weeks later, along with many other inductees, I was at Fort Hamilton, New Jersey, anxiously wondering where I would be sent from there. I wore an illfitting uniform and was subjected to the multiple shots with which the army was presenting each new draftee. I had always had a great curiosity about medical procedures and I didn’t expect to mind the experience much. A two hundred ten pound man in front of me fell fainting to the floor after a triple- typhoid injection, while ninety-eight pound Jorgensen moved on, apparently unaffected by the shots. I thought it was pretty funny, but my humor was shortlived when I found myself in the hospital the following morning, alternating between chills and fever, a delayed, though purely physical, reaction to the shots. Though my contribution became a necessary and possibly important one, I've always felt that my army service was nothing toA Personal Autobiography 31 boast about. I didn’t fire a single shot in combat or pilot a fighter plane or parachute down behind enemy lines. My job in the army was strictly a clerical one, and it began after a brief journey to the Separation Center at Fort Dix, New Jersey. When the fighting in Europe ended in June of 1945, there loomed the great task of separating veterans from the services and returning them to civilian life, I was one of the many who were assigned to the job of helping discharge four thousand of these men a day. My specific duties involved sifting thousands of manila envelopes, sorting the records they contained, and checking the myriad details in connection with each discharge. On November 2, 1945, less than a month after my induction, I received my one and only promotion and became Private First Class. As the numbers of returning troops mounted, it seemed to me that the working days approximated twenty-four hours each, hours in which I had no opportunity to retire into my own private world. For the first time in my life, I was forced to live and work continually in close association with young men and women of my own age. I couldn’t help comparing myself with the boys in my group and I was aware that the differences were very great indeed, both mental and physical. My body was not only slight, but it lacked other development usual in a male. I had no hair on my chest, arms, or legs. My walk could scarcely be called a masculine stride, the gestures of my hands were effeminate and my voice also had a feminine quality. The sex organs that determined my classification as “male” were underdeveloped. It was, of course, quite possible that some men having the same physical build would feel completely masculine, but my mental and emotional chemistry matched all the physical characteristics which in me seemed so feminine. “What is masculine and what is feminine?” I thought. The question plagued me because I couldn’t find a clearly established dividing line. After the first hectic months of discharging shiploads of battle-weary Gls had slowed down to a normal routine, we received passes to leave the base on weekends and every evening after work. Most of my fellow workers were men with average hopes and desires,32 Christine Jorgensen several of them married and with families. The greatest number of my acquaintances simply did their job, went home for weekends when distance permitted, and waited for the eventual discharge from the service. A few Gls in my barracks, however, left the base at every ‘opportunity, to “girl-chase,” returning with lurid tales of their sexual prowess in these adventures. I tried to keep out of the way during these discussions because I felt embarrassed by them and could in no way share their enthusiasms. During the week, I spent much of my free time in the library or at a movie and usually ended up at the USO Center, which had an extensive collection of classical recordings. It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship with music. On weekends, however, I went quietly home to my photo- graphy or a good book—close enough to my family in the Bronx, fortunately, to make the trip possible. Of course, there were letters I wrote to Tom, but they were part of a secret dream world. However, during the busy weekdays at Fort Dix, I had litde time to indulge in that dream world. When Topic A: “women,” was not the subject of discussion, I found that each of these men, whom I'd expected to be average and untroubled, had his own adjustments to make. These had to do, mainly, with separation from friends and family and, surprisingly to me, they were willing to bring their numerous problems out into the open and discuss them freely. It was anew experience for me. The idea that other people had problems ‘was a revelation, for within my private world, I thought I was the only troubled one. In order to preoccupy myself even more, I took an afterhours job in the post library and, once again, books became the center of my small, detached universe. One day, on a weekend pass, I remember I was poring over a book in the living room at home, when I was brought back to reality by the sharp, insistent ring of the telephone. It was Tom Chaney's voice. “Hello, I'm back,” he said casually. Somehow, I managed to stammer, “Where are you?” “I’m in New York at the Commodore Hotel,” he said. “Come on down and have dinner and then we'll spend the evening on the town.”A Personal Autobiography 3B “Wonderful,” I said, but wonderful was an inadequate word when applied to the excitement I felt at the prospect of seeing my special friend after two years of separation and the exchange of many letters—letters in which no word of my emotions had been expressed. I remember that the hours of the afternoon seemed to creep by while I waited for the reunion with Tom. I'd already taken a stand in my own mind, by then. Iknew, conclusively, that I could never give myself totally to love and affection for another man. During the months in service, I had seen a few practicing homosexuals, those whom the other men called “queer.” I couldn't condemn them, but I also knew that I certainly couldn't become like them, It was a thing deeply alien to my religious attitudes and the highly magnified and immature moralistic views that I entertained at the time. Furthermore, I had seen enough to know that homo- sexuality brought with it a social segregation and ostracism that I couldn't add to my own deep feeling of not belonging. Late that afternoon, I entered the lobby of the hotel and stopped at one of the house phones to announce myself. The elevator ride seemed endless, but finally I stepped out at the desig- nated floor and saw Tom waiting in the doorway. The memory of that meeting is still fresh and vivid. He was taller than I had remembered and with some extra weight he looked vigorous and healthy, He extended his hand and said, “How are you, George?” For a split second, I thought he was going to embrace me, but the moment passed and I realized that it was only my own desire that had led to the delusion. When we were settled, I sat still, looking at him. It seemed inconceivable that there were only four years’ difference between us. He had a muscular, rugged physique and a strong, tanned face, while Iwas slim and pale with a hairless, peachesand-cream complexion. As I sat there watching him, I remember trying to call the things I was feeling toward him by other names: friendship, affection, fondness. But I knew it was none of these, or perhaps a combination of them all and beyond that, I knew it was love. The truth of that fact could not be rejected or denied,of Christine Jorgensen. ‘Tom’s voice interrupted these thoughts. “Hey, are you in a daze or something? Come on, this is my first evening back in New York!” “I was just thinking how long it had been since we sat and talked together,” I answered, in an attempt to be lighthearted. The moment of awkwardness was over and we talked easily of other things, punctuated by “whatever-happened-to?” and “do-you- remember-when?” However, fearful of betraying myself, I began to wind down at dinner. I sat silently toying with my food, painfully aware of my untenable situation. As long as Tom had been gone, I was free to fantasize and believe that when he returned, he'd be returning to me. But] had dreamed the impossible and I knew it could never come true. The evening limped closer to an end and I knew that I would have to destroy the thing that I had allowed to develop within me, that I must be strong enough to let the desire slip into the past. Plans for an extended night on the town having faded by mutual consent, we walked slowly back to the hotel and I turned to him in a gesture of farewell. “It was great seeing you again,” I said. “Tewas fun, wasn’t it? Come on up to the country, George, and visit us sometime soon.” “Yes, I will, soon,” I said lightly, trying to keep conviction in my voice. When I reached home that night, I took a small gray strong box from a drawer in my room and went down to the basement. I opened the furnace door, sat down in front of it, and unlocked the box. Most of the happy moments of the past few years, all there ever was and all there ever could be of my relationship with Tom, were contained in that small chest, I read each letter, looked at each picture and matchbook cover, recreating the times when I had acquired the mementos that had built that small, wretched collection of memories. One by one, I threw them into the fire. Sitting there, in the light of the diminishing flames, I knew that I was running—running from a situation that could have destroyed me. To me at the time, it was another example of the strange, infernal limbo in which I was living. Emotionally, the strings wereA Pasonal Autobiography 5 stretched taut and I awaited a miracle to release me from the growing horror of myself. I didn’t see Tom Chaney again until ten years later, in 1956, after I had been the subject of an inordinate amount of newspaper print. At his invitation, I visited his home. He had married and was the father of two children. He met me at the door and said, “Hello, Chris, welcome to our home,” as he leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. My thoughts went back to our last reunion and the moment, ten years before, when I thought, or hoped, he was going to embrace me. Then, it would have been the culmination of a dream, but this time it was merely the greeting of an old friend. “Hello, Tom, you don’t seem to have changed very much,” I said, though gray had begun to creep into his hair and a few lines that I didn’t remember had formed around his eyes. “You've changed a great deal,” he said with a smile, “but I think 1 understand you, now. I didn’t understand you before, you know.” I knew then that he had never been aware of my emotional attachment to him and though that attachment had long since ceased to exist, I still held him in warm regard. I don’t believe that I could stop loving someone without retaining some sort of fondness for him, He was, by then, a part of my past, but I know he will always own that small part of me which I gave to him and which he did not know existed. Itis fortunate that the weeks following Tom Chaney's return from the navy were busy ones for me, and I was plunged again into my work at Fort Dix. After spending almost a year there, I learned that a discharge from the army wasn’t possible without going through basic training, something I hadn't been required to experience up to that time. Along with a group of men from my unit, I was sent to Camp Polk, Louisiana, in August of 1946. As one of the clerical personnel at Fort Dix, I not only had never shot a gun, I hadn’t even seen one. ‘That's when a whole new world of experience opened up before me. It was at Camp Polk, located a few miles from Shreveport, Louisiana, under the pressure of endurance tests such as marching,36 Christine Jorgensen drilling, and other more rigorous activities, that I again realized my physical insufficiencies in the world of men. My comrades took the strenuous daily routine in stride, but each night I fell into bed half sick with exhaustion, already dreading the moment when the bugle would blow and I'd be forced to drag myself to attention again, Target practice with a carbine ceased to be a problem of accuracy—for me, it became a challenge in weight lifting. The oppressive heat, humidity, and ever-attentive mosquitoes made life increasingly unbearable. My “fatigues,” drenched in sweat, weighed almost as much as I did as my weight continued to go down to an alarming ninety-three pounds. By sheer force of will, I progressed satisfactorily enough, until a dummy in human form was placed on the shooting range as a target. I rebelled and couldn't bring myself to shoot at it. I was faced with the stark reality that it wasn’t just a game and that some day I might be called upon to use a human being as a target. One of my friends shot my rounds of ammunition, for which I got credit. His favor didn’t net me a marksman’s medal, but at least I passed the tests. Fortunately, in the final weeks at Camp Polk there was more opportunity to escape the rigors of training because of overcrowded conditions. I was grateful for that. Rumors spread that we were to be sent to Japan as occupation troops. The chance for travel was certainly inviting, but 1 knew that being so completely separated from home ties would only serve to increase my loneliness. One day, along with several others, I heard my name bawled out over the loudspeaker that sometimes summoned lowly privates into the presence of the Commanding Officer. The C.O. told us that a telegram from the War Department had ordered our immediate return to our former clerical jobs at Fort Dix, and a few days later, 1 was back in New Jersey. The chill November weather was a shock after the hot, sultry climate in the South and I developed bronchitis, and then pneumonia. My tour of duty was transferred to the Tilden General Hospital at Fort Dix. During my recuperative period, the doctors admitted the possibility that I might have TB, but after weeks of xrays andA Posonal Autobiography 7 examinations, the suspicion was dismissed. Pethaps some added weight and a tougher constitution would have given me more resistance to the illness and hastened my recuperation. Rumors again began to filter through the base that the postwar drafted clerical workers would soon be discharged, and I began to contemplate some plans for that happy eventuality. In the meantime, I continued my analysis of the differences between me and the army friends I had come to know and like. They spoke with excited anticipation of marriage and raising a family and 1, so emotionally converse, wondered if it wasn’t time to creep even further into my protective shell. At the same time, I knew such action was impossible and unrealistic. At least, I thought, I had progressed far enough to want to face my problems honestly and in a constructive way. But just what were those problems? I restated them squarely to myself. I was underdeveloped physically and sexually. I was extremely effeminate. My emotions were either those of a woman or a homosexual. I believed my thoughts and responses were more often womanly than manly. But at that point, I was completely unaware of the many variations and combinations of masculinity and femininity, aside from homosexuality, that exist side by side in the world, I was honorably discharged from the United States Army on December 5, 1946, after fourteen months of service. The final official statement on the discharge papers read, “Recommended for further military training.” My immediate response to that was one which may not have been original but it was certainly sincere: “They'll have to catch me first!”CHAPTER 6 returned home from my army service in 1946 with some ‘trepidation, for I knew that I would soon have to face the realities and adjustments of civilian life, including the problem of finding a regular job. ‘My wallet was bulging with mustering-out pay, but my confidence was somewhat slimmer than my bankroll. I felt I was suffocating under the same old dilemmas. By then, these confusions had been reduced to a few vital and recurring questions in my mind. “Iam twenty years old, but what am I?’ “Why am I this way?” “What can I do about it?” On the day that I finally got up enough courage to head for RKOPathé News, I remember trying to pump myself full of assurances. I was on my way to ask for my old job back in the cutting library, and as I walked down Madison Avenue in Manhattan, I kept telling myself that it was as simple as opening my own front door and saying, “Hi, Mom.” My appointment was with one of the vice-presidents, and I squared my shoulders in a gesture of confidence, as I gave my name to the receptionist. A few minutes later, the executive was kind but firm, when he told me that my employment at RKO had been only temporary; the job was no longer available and he wished me success elsewhere. Awave of humiliation swept over me and I wondered if he had seen what I felt about myself, that I was plainly a misfit. There seemed to be a kind of dread finality in the click of the door as itA Personal Autobiography 39 closed behind me. I went home, too discouraged to think clearly, and shut myself in my room. I knew it was no use, convinced that I just didn’t have what it took, Worst of all, I felt Mom and Dad were ashamed of me and that made me feel even more desolate and properly sorry for myself. A knock at the door interrupted that little moment of self indulgence. It was Mom and, as always, she gave me encouragement and some good advice, suggesting that I approach Larry Jensen again. He and June had helped me before, and although they were by then divorced and June was in Hollywood, Mom was sure that Larry would do everything he could in New York. As usual, Mom was right. Through Larry's intercession, I was given a job as a chauffeur for the RKO Studios in New York City. Days, weeks, and months passed in a humdrum fashion, as I drove producers, actors, and other VIPs to their various destinations. I must admit the feeling of envy on that job. I now realize that Lenvied not the wealth or prestige of my passengers, but their ability to advance in their chosen fields while I did nothing more than sit behind the wheel of a limousine because I lacked the courage to do anything else. One afternoon, an inner urge must have sparked my nerve and I spoke to the film executive who was my sole passenger, with what I hoped was the proper amount of deference. “I've studied professional photography and I believe that I have some talent for it. What chance do you suppose I'd have of getting a job in Hollywood?" “Too many stragglers out there now!” I gulped and felt my ears grow red at the thought of my own temerity. “Oh, I'd be willing to start as an apprentice,” I said. “Yeah? That's what they all say!” I knew the subject was closed. The incident may have been insignificant to my dour passenger, but to me it seemed like a major catastrophe. That night, I chain-smoked until dawn and struggled with the problem of what to do next. I knew I couldn’t be a chauffeur all my life and other steps had to be taken if I wasn’t going to remain one.0 Onristine Jorgensen Larry Jensen had helped me thus far, but June was in Hollywood editing films, and that shining wonderland was still the object of my hopes. One day, on impulse, I wrote June a brief inquiry, knowing that she would be honest with me. “What are my chances of getting into the photographic end of the film industry?” I asked. At last I had taken a positive step on my own initiative. Each morning after that, I looked nonchalantly in the mailbox, pretending to myself that I wasn’t at all anxious for a reply, but on the day June's letter finally arrived, I was excited and apprehensive when I tore at the stubborn envelope. “Hollywood is big enough for both of us,” she wrote, “come on out and give it a try.” Iwas elated but I had to keep on with the tedious driving job for a time, until I could build my small savings to the goal I had set of five hundred dollars, a sum that was a small fortune to me. I remember the chill autumn day in 1947 when I took my bags and photography portfolios and, accompanied by Mom, arrived at the Greyhound station in Manhattan. I'd said goodbye to Dad and Dolly earlier, and I knew that Mom was equally unhappy to see me leave. Although she never tried to discourage my move to Hollywood, she kept hinting that “work was the same wherever you go.” I realize now some of the things she must have felt: that while I was home in New York, possibly she could soften the blows that life would deal in my direction. But she also knew that if I didn’t try my wings then, I might never make the attempt, so, regretfully, she pushed me out of the nest and headed me toward the new world of Hollywood. When the bus departed, I had mixed feelings of elation and despair. I was grateful that the little old lady who occupied the seat beside me was more inclined to doze than talk, for I had before me what I hoped would be five uninterrupted days in which to think and make plans for a new life. It was only a temporary lull, however, for she proved to be an extremely voluble companion. Her running commentary on the scenery was followed by detailed accounts of the folks she was going to visit on the West Coast and how much she looked forward to the cross-country trip. As I recall, I think there wasA Personal Autobiography a even a cake recipe thrown in. Finally, I managed to sneak in an observation. “You must have a lot of stamina to make a long trip like this,” I said. “I expect to be pretty weary myself when we get there, but you're just a frail little lady.” “Well,” she replied brightly, “you look real frail yourself, what with your pale, girlish looks and all. If you're weary, I guess it'll be because you're so delicate.” That comment, made in the kindliest way, brought back all the old doubts and fears. If she spotted my feminine appearance so easily, I was sure the other passengers had, too. I shrank within myself, hoping that no one would notice me. Slowly, I remember becoming aware of the hum of the bus tires on the highway pavement. They seemed to repeat an endless refrain, and I found I couldn’t shut it out of my consciousness. “You can escape...you can escape...from everything...but not yourself” recall the grueling miles passing one after the other, and in spite of a certain self-imposed detachment, I looked forward to our arrival at the Grand Canyon. Other passengers formed in groups as they alighted from the bus, but I stood alone on the edge of the cliffs, looking into the bottomless chasms below. The image of that first overpowering sight is still with me. Without warning, the scene blurred and I felt a strange dizziness, then almost immediately, a friendly touch on my arm. It was one of the park guards who had, apparently, been watching me. “I'm sorry,” I said. “For some reason, I suddenly felt dizzy.” “Well, now, that’s not uncommon,” he said. “The Canyon has a hypnotic effect on some people. That's why I'm here, to see that nobody falls over the edge.” I turned to look more closely at the man beside me. He was elderly, with steelgray hair and moustache and wise, kindly eyes. “It’s so...” I said, unable to finish. “Powerful,” the old man added. “Yep, it gets under your skin. I've been here thirty years and I've never got used to the feeling yet For a moment, he seemed almost like a harbinger of something yet to come. I wanted to articulate my thoughts, for I could feel his empathy, but all I could do was nod in mute agreement.2 Christine Jorgensen looked into the vastness again and watched the colors change with the movement of the sun: red, then coral, and finally, slowly undulating into a thousand variated shades of lavender and purple. Slowly, one thought separated itself from the others in my mind, at first ephemeral and then a consciously formed idea. “I am looking at the work of God,” I thought, “but am I not a work of God, 100?” Suddenly, I wanted to stay longer, to savor more of that sublime spectacle and to give myself time to understand the new horizon in my mind that had shown itself, however vaguely. ‘The bus departed without me and I stayed on for several days at the nearby Bright Angel Lodge, a name that might have seemed prophetic. I visited the Canyon again and again and the breathless enormity of it seemed to open the way for me to anew concept—the awareness and imprint of a greater power. I seemed so small, so frighteningly infinitesimal by comparison to the great expanse of God and Nature. My problems, for a time, seemed to recede and I was becoming aware that I was no longer the center of the universe. Undoubtedly, a change of view was taking place and I regard it, even now, as a turning point in my life. I would like to return sometime and see if the Canyon would have the same effect on me. I’m certain that it would inspire me as it did then, but since I have come such a long way from that frightening, insecure period in my life, I think I would probably have a greater sense of unity with, rather than of contrast to, so gigantic a spectacle, Then, my feelings of inferiority made me relegate myself to the borders of nothingness but today I believe I would stand erect in the knowledge that I am one with a creative force. I remember that though I was overwhelmed at the time by these new thoughts and ideas, I also felt a kind of tranquillity I hadn't felt before. Refreshed and somehow renewed, I continued my journey to Hollywood. Thad sent a card to June telling her of the delay, so I wasn't surprised to see her standing in the crowd at the Hollywood bus depot. There she was, my oasis on the West Coast, straining to catch a glimpse of me. We greeted each other excitedly and then drove through brilliant sunshine and palmdined streets studded with small‘A Perumal Autobiography 8 stucco houses. The sunshine, the palm trees, and the knowledge that I was at last in the very center of the photographer's dream world, made me feel that I had finally reached Mecca. We arrived at a squat, Spanish-type house, located a short distance from the Paramount Studios in the heart of Hollywood. It was June's home, where she occupied a furnished room with kitchen privileges, and at her urging, the elderly owners showed me another room they were willing to rent. It was a small room that looked as though it might have been an afterthought, but two of the walls were composed of windows that looked out on a small and untidily overgrown patio. The sunlight streamed through the windows and the room was warm and cozy— almost too cozy, for the bed took up most of the floor space. Happily, I delved into my wallet to pay the first month’s rent and asked that I be permitted the use of the patio, a luxury to an old New Yorker. The owners agreed, with startled expressions. The patio had certainly been neglected and I'm sure they were thinking, “Who would want it?” but already I had made plans in my mind for a lush loafing spot where I could spend my leisure hours in semitropical splendor. Finally settled over a cup of tea, June and I talked endlessly of home, my aspirations, and of her own struggles in Hollywood. Tom Chaney and the world I had left were far behind me. “I think I've found the place where I belong,” I thought, contentedly, When June left for her studio job early the next morning, I was out buying soap, paint, and cleaning agents, determined to transform the patio into the haven I had imagined. When she returned from work that afternoon and had admired my labors, she disappeared into the kitchen for sandwiches and beer, and I dropped wearily into a chair to survey my handiwork, “Thanks,” I said, accepting a plate. “Now, this afternoon we'll start on the furniture and the flower boxes, and then in the morning, I'll...” “George!” From her serious look, I knew it was no time to discuss my plans for further improvements. “You came out here to look for a job as a motion-picture photographer, not a landscape artist! You're afraid to start looking for a job. You're like the writer4" Christine Jorgensen who sits around sharpening pencils because he dreads facing the first blank page. Well, I won't let you do that, so forget it!” “Okay,” I agreed quietly. “Tomorrow, I'll start on the rounds of the studios,” but the cold chill that had always accompanied the thought of asking anyone for a job returned. We discussed two or three possibilities, prospects which I knew I'd have to face the next day. Only then, did June allow me to return to my ideas for renovating the patio. ‘My first attempts at job hunting in Hollywood were painfully unsuccessful ones. It seemed to me that I was merely repeating the same pattern of failure that I had known at home. The only difference was three thousand miles of American geography. When the patio was finished a week later, June and I celebrated with a cocktail party. Our only guest, uninvited, was a large black cat named “Babette,” who came seeking sanctuary from an aggressive neighborhood hound. Though we were comfortable in each other's company, it seemed a rather limited party, and we decided that we should meet some new people and try to have a more active social life. With that in mind, I looked for the name and address which had been given to me by an acquaintance from RKO in New York. “Tony Romano,” as I'll call him, was a man in the Hollywood film colony. The day after our patio celebration, I telephoned Romano, who immediately invited me to his apartment for a drink, with a considerable show of enthusiastic welcome. I arrived at the appointed time to find him in a modern, “arty” apartment. My host was smooth and handsome and I thought his manner insinuating when he handed me a skillfully blended martini. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?” he asked. “Where are you living? Maybe we can arrange something here.” “Oh, I'm—I'm very comfortable,” I stammered. “There are a lot of us out here,” he continued. “You've got to meet the crowd.” He seemed unaware of my discomfort and embarrassment and suggested another drink, while I floundered in small talk. He mixed a second drink, offered it to me and let one hand rest provocatively on my shoulder. “You know, George, you and Lare going to get along just fine together!”A Passonal Autobiography 6 Though I was startled by that sudden intimacy, I knew immediately that I was being confronted by a homosexual and, even more startling, that he considered me one, too. For the first time to my knowledge, I had been classified openly. I stifled an impulse to throw the drink in his face. Instead, I raised my glass and using the Danish salute, I politely said, “Skoal.” As soon as I could, I made my excuses and left. Even now, I can remember that I was appalled and disgusted at his behavior, and I may even have known a moment of fear—a fear of homosexual contact that was probably based on the hidden belief that I, too, deviated from what was termed “normal.” I vowed never to allow myself to be placed in that position again and slowly I made my way home to June. I had hoped to tell her that I'd made at least one new friend in Hollywood, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything about the unpleasant encounter. After dredging up sufficient courage a few days later, I presented myself at the awesome offices of RKO Studios. “I recently worked for Frederick Ullman in New York,” I told the receptionist, “and I'd like to see Dore Schary.” By her answering smile, she seemed to assume that Mr. Ullman, the President of Pathé News, and I were old friends. Actually, he had nodded to me in the hall a few times, but I was sure he didn’t even know my name. Much to my surprise, a few minutes later, I was ushered into the inner sanctum. “What will I say?” 1 thought, in momentary panic. Smiling, Mr, Schary rose from his desk as I entered the elegant office and held out his hand. “Hello,” he said. “I understand you're a friend of Fred Ullman’s. I'm glad to see you. How's Fred?” Friendliness seemed to fill the room and my nervousness abated somewhat as I took a deep breath. “Well, to be honest,” I said, “I don’t really know Mr. Ullman, personally. I worked for RKO-Pathé News in New York, then I was drafted and when I got back my job was gone. Now that I'm in California, I thought perhaps you'd have something for me.” The truth poured out like an overflowing well.6 Christine Jorgensen Mr. Schary’s smile faded and he replied, “Well, we're pretty well fixed on the staff right now, but if you'd leave your name and address with the secretary...” The phrase had a familiar ring. I bitterly wished I hadn’t started talking like a fool, that I'd said Mr. Ullman was just fine and of course I knew him well. I told the truth, but did I have to tell all of it, I wondered? I eft the office with my large photo portfolio under my arm, unopened. Today, I realize that Mr. Schary must have been bombarded many times over the years by aspiring young actors, starlets, photographers, and any number of other people, all wanting something. I certainly had not been singled out for rejection. I simply must have been one of many who sought favors, and though it was terribly important to me at the time, it was no doubt a passing moment to him. Depressed at what I felt was another failure, I went home to my small, comfortable room and took out a ruled pocket notebook in which I had frequently jotted down quotations as well as my own thoughts and ideas, Thoughtfully, I began to write what hardly could be called immortal poetry, but what pretty well reflected my state of mind at the time: I think as I look at the foamy white clouds How wonderful it would be to live among them, And to have their protecting films as shelter To float along through eternity, Never to have the stress and turmoil of the earth disrupt my life. Always to be detached from the earth's pulling forces Just to be alone with the elements. The elements—the one thing human minds can’t control Always moving as they like. Twas running low on money and had no job because I didn’t know how to look for one, and the old fears jumped to the front when I thought of asking a stranger. To me, the importance ofA Personal Autobiography a money was survival, not wealth. The idea of my present survival and thoughts of Tom and the past seemed to envelop me. “I'm a loser at everything,” I thought, in a flood of self-pity, and I turned to a fresh page in the small notebook. The lost soul whose heart reaches out to grasp love While his arms were forced through precedent to hang lifeless Whose very soul cries out to a love that cannot be returned Where can a substitute, a partial relief be found? How can a fatureless life go on? Yet, it does. Year after year, the body lives, while the soul dies. Once more, necessity prodded me into action. I went to the unemployment insurance office and joined the line of ex- servicemen in the “52-20 Club,” a vernacular term for the government unemployment rehabilitation program, by which veterans received twenty dollars a week for fifty-two weeks. For me, at that time, it was a humiliating procedure. ‘The day of my insurance application, I returned home, put away the photo samples in a closet, firmly closed the door on them and decided to have a brief vacation from the ceaseless office-to- office search. 1 felt listless and tired and probably very sorry for myself, when June bounded into the house in irrepressible spirits. We had become more like two sisters, threatened with spinsterhood, than a young man and woman starved for outside companionship. “I've made a decision,” she announced grandly. “We just can’t sit here like two sticks, out on the patio every evening. I’m tired of having you cry on my shoulder and I’m sure you're equally tired of me. What we now have to do is meet some other people, have more social life. We're going to join the Hollywood Athletic Club!” Since I felt anything but athletic at that moment, I laughed. “That's a great idea,” 1 said, “but how do we get through the front door?” “Don't be a killjoy, George. A friend at work belongs to the club and he said I could contact his father who lives there, Colonel8 Onrisine Jorgensen H. T. James. The club has a smérgasbord every week, and we're going tomorrow night!” “Well, a couple of Danish square-heads like us should fit nicely ata smorgasbord!” Rapidly, I fell in with her spirit of excitement and I knew that she was trying to pull me out of my emotional doldrums. When June and I arrived at the Athletic Club the following evening, Colonel James invited us to join him. I remember him as a charming, dapper old gentleman, jauntily sporting a cane and spats who, without waiting for the amenities, immediately confessed his age as ninety-eight. He was an amusing companion and shared with us many fascinating stories from his adventurous life. I recall one in particular that impressed me at the time. “Lost my first fortune in the San Francisco earthquake in nineteen-oughtsix,” he announced, with a casual air that stunned me. “I was in Oakland at the time it hit and my wife was in San Francisco, so I hired a rowboat and somehow made it across the bay. The house was destroyed, but my wife got out all right. I owned a paint factory and that went up in flames, too.” He smiled wickedly. “Well, there was nothing much left, so I picked up stakes and came down to Hollywood. That was still the silent days in movies, of course, and the ‘flickers’ did pretty well for the next few years, but then they hit a bad slump.” The Colonel laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Warner Brothers’ Studio was on the verge of bankruptcy and they offered me a quarter interest for twenty-five thousand dollars. Well, naturally, I figured that to be a pretty bad investment at the time, so Irefused. A couple of months later, they released The Jazz Singer with ‘Al Jolson, the first talking picture, and you know what happened after that!” The old man laughed and slapped his thigh. “I sure missed the boat that time!” listened to these stories of defeat and failure taken so lightly and with such good humor, and was struck by a new attitude. “Why should I accept defeat any more than the Colonel did?” I thought. When tragedy destroyed his home and business, he didn’t settle down in the ashes and moan about it, he sought a solution. It slowly registered in my mind as an objectlesson and I would not soon forget it.