Those who know me—friends—call me “Ro.” Dakota North, my cousin and best friend, chose to call me by my moniker, Rochelle. She felt “Ro” was not gender-specific and Dakota wanted me to own my femininity; something I earnestly tried to do but found challenging most times.

Part of the challenge was overcoming my looks. Being born Rochelle Jackson meant little or nothing when I looked exactly like Rodney Jackson, my dad. Coming into the world a woman—not man, but looking every bit the latter was a bitter pill to swallow. Five feet eleven inches in height, with hands the size of a six-foot man and feet that require size eleven shoes to house them did not spell feminine! At my height with no hips, no waistline and 32-A breasts, it was difficult to embrace the womanliness I obviously lacked. It’s fair to say I had a hard time liking what I saw in the mirror day in and day out, especially when Dakota had the flip side of the mirror that declared her the “fairest of all.” Growing up with Dakota shaped my life. I lived in my cousin’s shadow, never knowing what it felt like to notice women pull their men close when I walked into a room. Envying her, I obsessed about feeling like “Cinderella” at least once in my life. But the one time I tried to fit that “glass slipper,” I realized the fairy tale was not written for  size eleven feet!

Life for me was at a very low point when I decided to make the effort to get to know Dakota better. That decision may have saved my life. Prior to that, things had not gone well. A rear-end collision from a milk truck, shortly after healing from an unexpected emergency surgery to remove a fibroid cyst as large as a tennis ball, and the infections that followed the surgery, left me unable to work.

Plans to move out of my parents’ home after thirty years were once again on hold and my zeal for life had completely faded. At times life was so painful I found it difficult to go on. Suicide was never far from my thoughts and something I contemplated with more and more frequency during this time.

Rodney was getting on my last nerve, controlling my life as he had done since I took my first steps. Now a grown woman, I wanted and needed to experience life without his jealous interventions, which surfaced whenever a man showed interest in me. Added to this equation, Val, my wanna-be-diva mom, continuously attempted to live the life she never had through the life she tried to force me to have.

Nothing about my life made my parents or me happy. Many were of the opinion I needed to see a professional—a shrink! But who wanted to admit that there were serious issues in the first place, then subsequently have to deal with the stigma associated with having been diagnosed with a “psychological disorder”? 

It was easier to hide behind extravagance; a trip to Canada every Christmas to purchase a new fur to add to my collection that now expanded twenty; shopping trips to Atlanta and California, twice a year, to purchase the latest St. John knits; First and Last Call at Neiman’s to find shoes to match those St. Johns, and a new luxury automobile every other year. Even with all of this, I was never happy! Finding someone to talk to who would understand and accept me with all my issues drifted on the side of impossible until I really got to know my flesh and blood, Dakota.

With my life in shambles and nothing to lose I decided to look past the things I’d heard whispered about her throughout our lives—egotistical, bourgeoisie, prima donna—and find the truth for myself.