What It Meant to Be Called a Sis

By Cathy Peterson

Stana hit the nail on the head with two questions in her recent article: “Are you a sissy?” and “What is a sissy?” Over the years, I’ve written to her when something she’s posted has taken me right back to my childhood. This time, I pulled out the old photos.

I grew up with two older sisters and a younger one, and the four of us shared a bedroom. After our mother divorced, we all lived with our twice-divorced auntie. If you’re keeping score on nature versus nurture, there was plenty on the nurture side. By three, my older sisters were regularly dressing me in girls’ clothes. By four, I’d stopped pretending I didn’t like it. By five, I loved dressing like my sisters. And by six, I could dress up whenever I wanted, whether my sisters were around or not. Mother could take it or leave it. Auntie encouraged it.

In the blue-collar factory and railroad town where I grew up in the 1960s, “sissy” was a word kids knew how to make hurt. I was skinny and shy, with smooth skin, long blond hair and blue eyes. I was probably as awkward as any other kid my age, but there was always something about me the other kids could point to.

We didn’t take pictures of everything back then. It just didn’t occur to us to reach for the Kodak Instamatic all that often. I have maybe twenty photos of myself dressed as a girl, and I treasure every one. Here are a few, along with what I remember from each.

Age 5 · In the backyard

That’s me in my older sister’s hand-me-down plaid jacket. The pants, socks and shoes had all belonged to my sisters, too. I had a mop of curls in back that went much farther down than you’d think once somebody brushed them out.

The mothers on our street would say, “You’re so cute,” or “You look just like your sisters.” Sometimes they’d tell me what lovely curls I had. I liked hearing it. The boys on our block, and some of the girls, would hear it too. Before long, one of them would come out with, “You’re such a sissy.”

Age 7, I think · A show in the kitchen

My younger sister and I were putting on some kind of musical show for our older sisters and Auntie. Mother may have been there, too. I can’t remember what we sang, but I remember what I loved wearing: pastel nylon panties, tights, buckle shoes, a ruffled full slip and, finally, the dress.

Sometimes one of my sisters’ friends or one of Auntie’s would stop by and see me all dressed up. When my sisters’ friends called me a sissy, I knew they meant it to sting. Some of Auntie’s friends said it so fondly you could almost hear them smiling. “Aw, such a sweet little sissy to have around the house.”

Age 10 · A princess in the fourth-grade play

We put on a medieval Christmas play, first for the whole elementary school and then for the parents at open house. There were more girls’ parts than girls. Our teacher barely got as far as “Would one of you boys be willing to…” before I put on my best show of reluctance and agreed to play one of the court princesses.

In the first photo, I’m on the left, beside Mary Ellen. In the second photo, I am looking up at Danny, our king, who’s standing on a box. The teacher said I could wear the jumper over my own red shirt. I added white tights and my sister’s old black dress shoes.

The boys in my class had plenty to say about that. The fifth- and sixth-graders were even worse. Most of the girls in the play seemed perfectly happy to have me alongside them.

Age 12 · Lady Rose in the sixth-grade play

Apparently, my reputation had preceded me. This time the teacher came right out and asked me to play Good Queen Lady Rose from the rival kingdom.

That’s me opposite Debbie and Ricky, our knight in aluminum foil. I had a paper crown, a pink turtleneck, a tan skirt, a black belt, black tights and black heeled boots. Mrs. DeMarco supplied the full, flowing wig. I had a lot of lines, and my voice hadn’t changed yet, so I could do a pretty good lady’s voice.

There was plenty of sissy talk from the boys and a few of the girls. Other girls fussed over my wig, my lipstick and my clip-on earrings. On the day of the evening show, I wore the whole outfit around the house. Our teacher was famous for holding one dress rehearsal after another. As far as I was concerned, she could have held a few more.

Age 12 again · Summer at the lake

Here I am at the city lake beach. I’m wearing my older sister’s snug red shorts and little striped tank top, along with her old white flip-flops. Mother said the red didn’t look too girly. I was happy to go along with that.

At the snack shack, someone in line would ask, “Are you a girl or a boy? I can’t tell.” I heard “You’re such a sissy” and “You look like such a sissy girl,” especially in the changing room. I could tell myself the shorts and tank top might pass for a boy’s outfit, but I knew how I looked in them. That’s why I liked wearing them.

At home, I knew exactly what to do with my slim frame and blond hair. I could style my own hair, pad a training bra with half a Nerf ball, and put on stockings, low pumps, a dress and a little jewelry. Around my family, I could enjoy getting every detail right. Out in public, even a pair of red shorts could make me wonder what somebody was going to say.

When I look at those photos now, I can still hear all the different ways people said “sissy.” I can also remember how good it felt to be Lady Rose, and how long I managed to stay in that outfit before anybody needed me to take it off.

Wearing Boston Proper

Alex Reid