“Once upon a time a child was born. Me. Upon a 1950 time. In New York City.

“I was one of thousands of children born that day. One of hundreds in New York. One of dozens in that hospital. One of several that morning. One of three girls. The only Erica. The only Erica Tucker Washburn. The only child of my parents.

“I didn’t have longer eyelashes than the boy babies. My breasts were no bigger than any other infant’s. The world would learn a lot about sex and chromosomes in the coming decades, and even more about gender and hormones, but none of that was how they determined that the Washburn baby was female. While Eric Washburn sat anxiously in the waiting room, while Ruth Washburn neé Tucker strained and clenched and bore down half-effectively through drugs, the obstetrician cupped my slick head and supported my tiny shoulders with his fingertips and, distinguishing the emergent labia from a scrotum, announced bassily, ‘It’s a girl!’” After saying that I tripped on a tree root, which took some polish off my narration, but my friends were too kind to mock me. The trail was wide enough so we could walk side by side, a little out of breath with the slight hill, and I kept talking.

“A girl. My parents were calling me ‘It’ll’ by the end of the pregnancy. Taken from comments like ‘It’ll be a good sleeper’ or ‘It’ll be a wrestler,’ depending on whether fetal I was quiet or active. The name had grown to ‘Little It’ll’ by the date of actual birth. It was astounding how soon that was replaced by pronouns.

“I was my father’s little princess. I became my mother’s animate toy. All of the baby gifts were pink, frilly and coordinated; little Erica was daily dressed in a precious ensemble. I didn’t have much hair at first. Even with all the pink some strangers thought I was a boy. My parents were adamant and immediate about correcting that assumption. ‘She’s a girl,’ Ruth would inform the erroneous. To ‘What a darling little boy’ Eric would rebut, ‘Girl. Girl. This is my daughter.’ They were acutely bothered when folks got it wrong.”

“You can’t possibly remember all of this,” Peg said in a tone a bit scornful. Peg is abrupt and impatient; she often seems scornful when she’s just being brusque. Paula is slower and more gentle, and made one of her little hums as we three kept hiking.

“Of course I don’t remember this part,” I countered. “But I have some vivid recollections from about age two to five, and stories from my parents, and I’ve extrapolated backwards.”

Peg persisted. “ I can’t believe you can remember that young,” although she wasn’t doubting my honesty. “I don’t think I have more than three memories from before high school.”

I do. I remember. I think it’s what helps me change.

I don’t have many clothes, but what I have range in size from 6 to 14. I’ve been 5’7″ for the last 35 years, but my weight has been every number from 140 to 190. My hair is usually curly, most often short, and may be any color from its natural salt-and-pepper to whatever shade my conservative colorist selects. I have a lot of looks.

Then, for example, I weighed 175. I’d picked up some stressy pounds. I was wearing my hair dark auburn, about chin length, with enough products on it that it fell in waves and ringlets instead of bushing out in frizz. But six months before I’d weighed 155 and had darker shorter hair, showed my belly more, walked younger. That felt better. I was turning the vector around…unh…aw but it’s unwieldy…inert…unh…there!

I’m a (shape)changer but no mistress of disguise. No quick-change artist, me. It takes me awhile to translate me. But I do it all the time.

I was into it then, among the curly-edged spear-leaves of pittosporum, amid the coin-leaves of a big oak, while the white sky peeked through at my effort. I was changing while hiking. On tour.

Not so my friends Peg and Paula. Each keeps coloring her hair the same shade of blonde, wearing the same professional garb, marrying the same type of man, longing nostalgically (gaack!) for romance (oh lordy…)

You may wonder why I’m friends with them, thinking of them as above. The answer is they’re nice women (Paula is, anyway), and being with them sometimes is better than being alone. They’re not always boring.

The thing about Peg and Paula that amazes me most is they have no memories. They don’t remember their childhoods, or how they felt about sex when they were 12, or when they stopped loving their husbands.

Then I said, “I’m telling you: I have some memories from before my brother was born – from before age three – and I know they’re real because they were too mundane for my folks to make photographs or reminiscences. And I very much remember events from age five and six, when I first noticed gender bias.”

My oration was mud-interrupted. The grade we walked had become steeper and wetter, and the ground had enough clay to be slick, enough ruts to be muddy. Peg’s foot slipped and she went down on her left knee. Paula tried to keep her upright and got a wrenched arm for her attempt. I was a bit ahead of them; I stopped talking and turned to see Peg kneeling on her left knee and Paula standing by her with a hand near Peg’s shoulder. I stepped back to them, slid a little myself, and helped Paula pull Peg upright.