An Ode To My First Grade Teacher
I’ll be so kind to admit it right now. I’m in my late thirties and, using my sharp math skills, have spent the better part of thirty years as a crossdresser. Even as a lot of time has passed since my first days across the border, I’ve always found myself trying to recall those first moments that would bend my gender the rest of the way.
No, I didn’t raid my mother’s drawer of bras and pantyhose. No, no one decided they would have some cruel fun, dress me all girly and proceed to laugh at me.
It actually can be traced back to first grade in grammar school and my beloved teacher, Mrs Rainwater. I can vaguely remember what she looked like. Things like her youthful face and short curly hair.
I remember one detail about her rather vividly and something that bonded me to her back then. She always wore blue knee-high socks on some days and on other days, blue pantyhose.