But the older I got, the more I developed, and the greater the number of conflicts that began cropping up in other areas too—not just how I dressed and combed my hair, but the way my body was changing. I had low testosterone levels, but not enough to hinder the typical down that grows in puberty, as it did for the rest of my schoolmates, and the other visible changes that took place as my testicles began producing semen. All the simple superficial problems like clothes and hair started to morph into deeper problems until finally one morning it felt as though I had woken up in full costume. The most traumatic thing was that I couldn’t remove the get-up that I had been forced to wear. Like the web secreted from the belly of a spider, these external inflictions had trapped me inside of something I wasn’t. But I had range of movement from my spot in the web: my tiny penis responded to the stimulus of my left hand. The little masturbating bug explored the advantages of its new apparatus. But with the pasty milk like the membrane of an aquatic bird making a film between my fingers, I asked myself if this climaxing was going to be enough.
One day I considered self-mutilation. Then I started thinking about it more and more often. The thoughts could have just remained at that stage, as a sort of fantasy. So I was glad when the bomb actually made it happen. It wasn’t easy to look at the scar, and I did cry for weeks over losing the penis I had hated so much. For a long time I slept on my back because I missed the feeling of that little appendage rubbing between the futon and my leg. I used to imagine it to be a lizard’s tail that had been severed and was thrashing around, trying to reattach itself to my body. It wouldn’t have upset me as much to imagine something charred, inert, turned to puree; but instead I saw it wiggling around somewhere, looking for me in the ruins of Hiroshima like an eyeless lizard. It’s a recurring nightmare now, that blind, bewildered lizard.
It’s been so painful for me, Jim. Ten years. For ten long years I’ve felt like a derelict reptile longing for the twitch of a shunned tail. My feelings swung between relief that it was gone and the ache of castration; I was in a netherworld between wanting to mutilate myself and wanting the tail to regenerate into a different organ. And on the outside, I had a doll’s genitalia—neither a penis nor a vagina. The detonation had also affected my testicles; they were half their size in my scrotum.
Then I had my first period. It thrilled me to think that maybe the bomb had actually turned me into a woman, infused me with this fluid I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl, a means of expressing my true self to everyone. But I don’t dare call that blood menstruation now, because what started as a tiny stain every couple of months turned into bouts of abundant prolonged bleeding that at times lasted up to three weeks and left me anemic from iron loss, making it impossible to carry out even the smallest daily tasks. Just bending over the sink to wash my face in the morning was a huge undertaking. My menstrual cycle never balanced itself out, and the constant swing from a negligible to an overabundant flow only reinforced the fact that my body remained undefined.
By then I longed for motherhood. You’re a father, Jim. I know your daughter is alive, but right now, today, she’s lost to you and you suffer her absence. I was overwhelmed by the need to be a mother, what I felt was the worst kind of presence: the presence of what didn’t exist. I can’t compare your situation to mine, but believe me when I tell you how excruciating it can be to lose something you’ve never had. I followed the news of a group of women called the Hiroshima Maidens; they were disfigured by the bomb and selected to receive free plastic surgery in the United States. They made public statements, announcing how they could now become mothers thanks to their operations. Their scars healed, they regained their figures, and a country that had suddenly become the land of good intentions offered constant social and economic support. The Hiroshima Maidens were celebrated with balloons and applause.
I remember an episode of a television show called This Is Your Life. You might have seen it. Just another example of the countless humiliations a defeated Japan had to endure, though it didn’t diminish how jealous I was of the Hiroshima Maidens, not a single bit. This time it was Reverend Tanimoto who had to stomach the disgrace, since he had chaperoned the maidens on this U.S. tour. As the reverend stood with a frozen smile plastered on his face, the program host recounted the events of his life story, all the way back to infancy. I knew Mr. Tanimoto was there as a hibakusha, and like the rest of the television audience, I was anxious to hear his testimony. But the host held the spectators in thrall, building suspense with each new chapter of Mr. Tanimoto’s life only to break for a commercial selling a brand of fingernail polish whose name, like the reverend’s, had an ecclesiastical tinge: Hazel Bishop. It seemed utterly sadistic to me that they would advertise a cosmetic product called Hazel Bishop to an audience awaiting the painful testimony of a minister and Hiroshima victim. Afflicted, the reverend waited for the young woman to buff her fingernails and show off the hottest shades on the market—look, no flaking! Another element of intrigue was added to Tanimoto’s story besides the abrupt segues from his life to nail polish: a few minutes into the show, they presented the silhouette of a man hidden behind a translucent screen. The host spoke to the reverend concerning the surprise guest, announcing he was about to meet someone he’d never seen before. The silhouette finally uttered a few words and stepped from behind the screen: “On the sixth of August, 1945, I flew over the Pacific in a B-29. Destination: Hiroshima.” Turns out it was Robert Lewis, the copilot of the Enola Gay who—according to the host—was on set that evening to shake Tanimoto’s hand before thousands and thousands of spectators, in a gesture of friendship.
The reason I’m explaining all of this is to help you understand how passionately I wanted to become a mother, that not even insults like these were able to curtail my envy of the Hiroshima Maidens. When I was finally able to leave my foster family, I started undergoing a few of the easier procedures: breast augmentation, which I had to repeat a few years later because my body rejected the first implants, and a potent hormone treatment meant to soften my appearance and make me more feminine. I’d have to wait ten more years to gather the money for a vaginoplasty and finally comply with the bomb’s verdict. Do you follow what I’m saying, Jim? I’m trying to explain—and it’s so frightening for me—that if after reading this you might still want to make love to me someday, it will likely be very different from anything you’ve experienced before. It’s terrifying to me. The idea that you might run away from me. I’m writing these lines because I don’t have the courage to wait for you to figure it out from my body.
I used up my savings on trips to Sweden for the procedures, since back then the United States was hesitant to authorize the kind of definitive operations I needed. I’ve already recuperated from the last round. Nothing hurts anymore. But I had to withstand a lot of pain, not only physical pain during the recovery period, but also just knowing that I’ll never have ordinary genitalia. I had to come to terms with the fact that penetration will forever raise questions about my sexual identity, and what’s worse, about my sense of self. The vaginoplasty was a complete success given the state of surgical techniques at the time, but not enough for a penis not to take issue with my vagina’s shape, texture, and size. Paleolithic penises wanted Paleolithic vaginas, holes with sizes and textures that fit.