There was Hercules, a '68 powder blue Grand Prix that withstood countless attacks but still rumbled on, its headlights dangling from loosened sockets, its bumpers flapping like wounded limbs; and of course Cupid, in whom I'd found my first love and love triangle. Roto Rooter just plunged through traffic on fumes that made everyone sick, including me, and Mother Superior warned me continually that I'd pay a penance for the forty-six parking tickets strewn on the back floor. None of my cars, however, loomed more ominous, more sinister, more imposing than The Black Arrow.

I was twenty-seven, but my old Arrow looked like a high school student's first car, with dents so proportionate they seemed like part of the car's natural body. The eight-track tape player had been yanked from the dashboard, leaving a dusty hole that harbored the dark and joyous secrets of previous owners. The radio only worked if you rubbed the wires together, and if you could put up with the static, you might enjoy a choice tune from the single AM station it picked up. Oh yeah, you had to climb through the passenger door to get to the driver's seat, black like the exterior, with just a few bulging yellow scraps, easily hidden by any size posterior.

One summer morning I nestled into that old Arrow, eager to get to a teacher training orientation at a rural university. The Arrow grudgingly took me over Pacheco Pass, the highway from California's central coast to the sprawling agricultural valley, where vast plains and flat lands stretched eternally, underneath an oppressive agricultural haze. Here, my Pacific Ocean seemed forgotten, its salty breeze a wistful memory.

It was July, so drivers, in a hurry and overheated, were in danger of having their thinking muddled, unless they had the good fortune of air-conditioning. Others found cool comfort in a roadside haven at the junction of I-5, where two miles of fast food restaurants, gas stations and truck stop motels begged for business. This sliver of civilized land even had a name, Santa Nella.

Beyond that The Arrow and I chugged past orchards of neatly-rowed crops of walnuts, almonds and peaches along a two-lane road. I stuck my head out the window, surprised at the new feeling of dryness and dust particles, foreign to my years of ocean-side living. I didn't have a lot of experience in rural areas, but here lay my opportunity, or the weight of my dreams: for nine months I would study in an accelerated teacher-training program, and return to coastal Santa Cruz qualified for a job that not only would improve my financial life, but that would serve society. I believed I had values and beliefs, and ways to communicate with students, that would touch the whole of their beings: academic, social, and personal/emotional.

The question was, would I, as a minority subjugated to periodic acts of prejudice and discrimination, feel comfortable teaching the mainstream student? Could I be enough of my authentic self?

At a green road sign, Turlock 12 miles, I turned north and considered my outfit: men's navy blue tailored pants and a buttoned-up white shirt adorned with a silver cross (hey, it was the early nineties). A thin leather belt matched the big black loafers below me, size 9 men's. For a moment it occurred to me that I may look, well, different from other women at the Orientation for Teacher Credential Candidates, but I shook my head to squelch fears of strangers scrutinizing my appearance, and memories of disapproving remarks. I reminded myself that my hair was curled and hung below my shoulders, that I was smart and funny, and that this was, after all, liberal and progressive California. Certainly Cal State University at Stanislaus--Turkey Tech--would measure up, so I should have nothing to fear there.

The university was small, maybe six by six city blocks, with classrooms centrally located in a handful of gray buildings, surrounded by large patches of dry grass and parking lots. The flatness sprawled endlessly, parallel to the sky.

In the central classroom building, credential candidates stood in a hall, shuffling papers or primping and grooming one last time. All of the women wore dresses or suits; even an athletic-looking P.E. candidate wore a skirt and blouse. I looked for a connection in her eyes, but she turned away. Maybe she wasn't gay. I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt, but the attempt to feminize my appearance and to cool myself down was useless.

I sat at a desk in the hall and pretended to be absorbed in paperwork, but I was really eyeing the huge loafers beneath me. I felt alone, too many feet of waxed floors separating me from the human bustle at the end of the hall, and yet I felt exposed, my cheeks weighted down by a frown brought on by self-consciousness. The first stanza of a poem that affected me deeply in third grade came back to me now:

The girlchild was born as usual

And presented dolls that did pee-pee

And miniature GE stoves and irons

And wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.

Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:

You have a great big nose and fat legs.

A large nose and legs weren't my nonconformities, but even in third grade I knew I didn't reflect the icons on TV, or even the attire and interests of most girls in my class. Presently, I looked at no one, unwilling to let any judgmental stares penetrate my skin, unwilling to look to see if they existed, all the years of feeling different in appearance seated with me in the familiar pressboard desk.

Finally we were summoned inside the orientation room, small like a high school classroom. I quickly slid into a chair.

"Laura Stapleton?" the program director asked.

"Laurie, yes." I raised my voice an octave higher than its usual depth.

"Are you Laura?"

As she peered over black granny glasses, I felt she was ensuring I was really A Woman Called Laurie. "Yes--Laurie."

"Laurie?"

"Either. Laurie's fine." Both are female names--did we have to make a scene out of this? My voice might betray me; I could not keep it this high much longer.

After the orientation and paperwork were completed, we were privately interviewed. I relaxed, safe in a small room with three professionals older than me. Maybe the difference in my appearance was all in my mind. A professor of multicultural studies asked, "How would you deal with students from multiple ethnic backgrounds in your classroom?"

"Most California classrooms are comprised of students from a variety of cultures," I said, and suggested that teaching literature from all ethnic backgrounds helped students develop sensitivity, tolerance, and appreciation of diversity. "I would celebrate the differences in cultures, as well as the commonality of the human experience."

The professor smiled and nodded his head just a little. Gentleness traveled from his eyes, connecting with my own. I felt that he sensed goodness in me, an ability to work with students of which I was not yet completely aware.

But later, in the halls and outside the building, credential candidates laughed and talked like old friends, or like new friends about to begin an exciting journey together. I walked past them, conscious that some of my future colleagues were trying to make sense of my clothes, and me. I knew those kinds of glances, and I knew the language behind them varied, but too often said, "Guy or chick?" or "Holy shit, a dyke!"

I walked slowly towards the parking lot thinking, I will no longer wear these black loafers that I love and trust; I have been oriented. I climbed into The Black Arrow through the passenger door, and slowly drove away. At the last red light before the two-lane highway, I smiled at two teenage boys. "What the hell is that?" one said with a sneer and the other shrugged and laughed, but no smiles were left in me. Was this who I would share a classroom with?

Twelve miles outside Turlock, as I turned west towards Santa Nella, I considered how I became re-oriented to an image, the kind on TV and in malls to which I couldn't relate. I owned no clothes that fit that image, and I didn't know how to buy them. In fact, the spattering of shirts and slacks hanging in my closet would, I knew, be judged as masculine by mainstream society. I drove away from the flat valley, past the damned California Aqueduct, and began the climb towards Pacheco Pass. While shiny sedans and SUVs sped powerfully past The Arrow, I drove without noticing the oak trees or the views from the peak, burdened by the utter significance of desirable looks and a familiar feminine appearance, by what was all too familiar to me.

I remembered being noticed as one of few girls in Catholic school who wore the uniform plaid pants instead of a skirt. I remembered that in elementary school, athletic ability had little to do with your order in the line-up, or whether you were picked for a team at all, but had more to do with popularity, or how closely one matched the standards for girls and women set by magazines and television. Even some of the teachers seemed a little warmer towards girls with long hair and white-white skin, who weren't too athletic--or who if they were, were femininely athletic. You were encouraged to be yourself, to keep smiling, and not to worry because soon you'll fit in just fine. But maybe change your clothes and the way you walk, just a little.

I remembered the first time I was called a dyke, and the second and third, and each time being myself seemed less possible until finally my shield was so strong, and the language behind my own eyes said, Go ahead, say something. I dare you!

In fact, I'd worn these navy blue pants, this white buttoned-up shirt, these black shoes often while teaching at an alternative high school, part of a prerequisite field study. I wondered now, had there been glances of judgment there, too, and had I just failed to notice? Had I long ago stopped looking too deeply into people's eyes, afraid of what I might see there? Or had I simply had enough support around me, in both gay and liberal-straight Santa Cruzans, that my own code of appearance never relegated an issue? Whatever, I certainly didn't expect to see the bumper sticker Straight But Not Narrow in The Valley.

Stopping at Casa de Fruta on Pacheco Pass, I walked into the women's restroom, where a woman looked at me and then at the blue skirt on the door. "You're in the wrong place," she said. I said, "No I'm not," annoyed at my deep voice. After the woman huffed out, I wished I had sung her a song, maybe "Bye, Bye Miss American Pie."

Ah Laurie, I told myself, don't make her the embodiment of American prejudice. She doesn't know any better. But when does one take on the responsibility to know, or at least to begin to learn?

I was tired and my car was rebelling against the long drive. We chugged through the rest of Pacheco Pass, and at last the deep blue skies of Santa Cruz appeared, calling out to me like an old loyal friend. I knew the ocean was near, too, and that its vast wisdom and calmness would wash my mind and clean my face of a newly-acquired hazy debris. But I drove past the exit, wanting comfort and connection, and headed for my girlfriend's house.

"You should have known you'd have to wear different clothes," Rachel snarled after I described my day.

"Can you be a little congenial here?" I asked. "Life's been hard these past eight hours. In fact, how 'bout cookin' some yum-yum dinner and setting the table with a fine red rose?"

"Would you be serious, Laurie? You're a smart, educated woman. I'm shocked you didn't know you'd stand out like a dyke on a daytime soap opera."

"Good one," I said, but thought I don't like to be called a dyke, and you know it. Still, I lowered my eyes, facing her dainty shoes. "I've been in Santa Cruz so long I forgot about that other world. In fact, I'm not even sure I knew it existed. It must be huge."

"Of course it's huge! It's everywhere in between Santa Cruz and New York City. What did you think? They'd welcome you like that?" She pointed to my clothes and I suddenly saw the boy at the traffic light in her eyes.

Et tu, Rachel? I thought, but just shook my head. Rachel looked me up and down, and so did I, and suddenly I realized there was judgment here, too, and that even with Rachel my authentic nature remained protected. Images of the ocean, the flat valley and Rachel's eyes clouded my head, depleted my energy, so I avoided her eyes when I asked her to go shopping with me. We drove to the thrift store to purchase what we could with my meager savings: beige pants, an old teal sweater, white pants, a gray silk blouse. Women's shoes were uncomfortable to say the least; they pinched my toes, rubbed against my heels, and left blisters where the sides of my feet slid against the leather trying to stay in a shoe designed for feet less substantial than mine. I ended up buying the most feminine-looking men's loafers I could find. Essentially I purchased plainness--clothes that would blend in with the buildings, sidewalks and trees, bringing no unwanted attention to me, no attention at all.

That night the pasta was cold and there was no rose on the table during dinner. We spoke to each other carefully, from a distance, and when Rachel said, "You'll live in the closet," I said, "Closets are subjective." And when she added, "I'm surprised you're going in," I countered, "It's only for nine months." I wished I could have told her that I no longer knew my own voice and needed to get away, to spend time with myself, to understand all the parts of my nature I'd covered up since I'd learned to read eyes and hear the language behind tone. I wished I could have told her that what she was attracted to in me was only half full, and I craved the parts that seemed dormant, aching to come to life. What I chose to tell her was the safer truth: "I'm tired of living in poverty; this accelerated program will deliver me from that--within a year."

But speaking half-truths leaves one feeling lonely and unheard, unseen. When Rachel fell asleep that night I lay awake for a long time, visiting the loneliness I'd so far in my life managed to stave off by running to different arms, friends, jobs and locations. Existing in stable turmoil had been familiar, related to my childhood, but my ability to continue acclimating to another's house, or vision, was running its course. I stared at the cold ceiling, aware for the first time of the extent of an archetypal loneliness I didn't want to name or own. I shut my eyes, trying to dream a dream in Rachel's house, because a sense of truth, of home, remained embedded in my imagination.

To lay next to you and touch without touching,

To feel in the sense of my fingertips and

The stomach that protects my soul

To have the courage to look into

Your sparkling blue eyes

For all that I might find there

Maybe I'll find myself,

If I'm lucky,

If You possess the answer.