I’ve written another book tentatively titled Womb Man. And I like it. A LOT!  I think it will help a lot of kids (and the adults in their lives) who are struggling with gender identity issues and misconceptions.

 

The working title was F****ED UP OUT LOUD because it was a lot more fun to write to that title, and I wanted the book to be as lighthearted as I could make it while also throwing a spotlight on some super-serious points. But no one would  list that title–and how could I go about doing an interview about it without mentioning the title? So alas, I had to rename it…

 

Womb Man will debut in 2017 because this year, Star Trek’s 50th, I’m focusing on promoting the various editions of  DeForest Kelley Up Close and Personal: A Harvest of Memories from the Fan Who Knew Him Best. (One marketing campaign at a time! Sheesh!)

 

In Womb Man is one chapter about a conversation that Carolyn and DeForest Kelley and I had. I’m sharing it with you here… exclusively, since we’re in De Mode this year…as an extremely-early preview!

 

CHAPTER SIX

There were a lot of conversations that Carolyn and DeForest Kelley and I shared that didn’t make it into my book DeForest Kelley Up Close and Personal: A Harvest of Memories from the Fan Who Knew Him Best. Among them was a conversation that took place while I was serving as De’s personal assistant, advocate and caregiver.

 

Both of the Kelleys were confined to the same hospital toward the end of his life; I took De out of it occasionally for doctor appointments and so he could re-visit his home.

 

The conversation that follows happened in De’s room at the hospital. Carolyn had come over from her room for a visit. She was sitting in a wheelchair and had her broken, immobilized leg propped up on De’s bed.

 

I was puttering around the room, busily doing something for De, not paying a whole lot of attention to what they were doing except to answer any questions or comments they had for me.

 

Suddenly, without a preamble, Carolyn commented to me, “You don’t act particularly feminine.”

 

De, possibly feeling uncomfortable with Carolyn’s abrupt assessment, added, “But you don’t come across as butch or dyke, either.”

 

Whether this had ever been a topic of conversation between them before that moment, I will never know.

 

I turned to face them and responded, “I think I’m pretty androgynous.”

 

De confirmed, “That’s it—exactly!”

 

Of course, this happened in 1999, a full decade and a half before I knew there were anything other than male and female gender designations. I had never been told anything about a “gender spectrum” in school, had never read anything about it in mainstream media, and had never even conceived of anything other than the notion that I was just “different” somehow. I knew I didn’t “fit in,” but I thought I had managed to keep it under wraps—until this moment.

 

But what happened next is what helped me forever afterward.

 

What happened was…nothing.

 

The Kelley’s didn’t recoil in horror.

 

They didn’t treat me any differently than they had before.

 

They never mentioned it again. It was just a conversation, a curiosity, a conjecture confirmed.

 

They just both agreed that yep, sure enough, I was androgynous!

 

“That’s it—exactly!”

 

Nothing scandalous. Nothing escape-worthy.

 

(It is what it is. We still love you.)

 

I am androgynous.

 

Merriam Webster’s definition: “having both male and female characteristics or qualities”.

 

Thesaurus: “Genderless, unisex.”

 

Native American: “Two Spirit.”

 

Except for one thing. My mind is male.

 

So if my body were male, would people still view me as androgynous?

 

Maybe so! And that would be fine with me, too!