I grew up in Moline, Illinois, which is right on the border of Iowa. At the time, it was a town of only 35,000 people and sat in the middle of mostly farmland. The biggest employer was the John Deere tractor company. In such a place, and at such a time (the 1930s), it was natural that there would be old-fashioned values dictating the ways in which men and women treated each other. Specifically, when it came to women—or girls—there was an understanding that men—or boys—were superior. My own family was no exception; my older brother, Bob, was the recipient of most of the attention that my parents could muster. They didn’t have much money, but whatever they had went toward my brother’s future. At one point, in fact, money they had put aside for my education was given to my brother so he could attend military school.
All of this made me want to become a boy. My mother would put me in beautiful lace-trimmed dresses, and I would come back inside from playing, my clothes completely torn and covered in dirt. I would get into fights with the 11th Avenue C Boys, a gang of tough street kids, and could not only take a punch but also deliver one. My father purchased a pair of boxing gloves for my brother—I put them on one day and knocked my brother out. I was determined to be no little princess waiting for her prince to come and wake her with a kiss.
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My plan to be another “son” to my mother and father completely fell apart when I was ten years old and experienced a very early puberty. I was ashamed of the bleeding and burned all of my underwear. It was clear that I was going to be female the rest of my life, but that didn’t stop me from continuing my drive for independence. My father wanted me to become a teacher, but I had discovered something that would become my life’s passion: acting. (Ironically, my father was a professional actor when he was younger, and he’s the one who gave me my love for the theater.) When my parents finally decided to pay for my education, my mother offered to send me to St. Catherine’s, an all-girls school. I would have none of that; if I was going to be a great actress, playing great women’s roles, I was not going to play male roles as might be required at St. Catherine’s.
When I was about to enter high school, my father took me down into the basement and told me that he couldn’t afford to send me to college. He said I would have to earn a scholarship. And so I worked diligently at my grades … and graduated as valedictorian. After graduation, I wanted to go to New York City to study at the prestigious Neighborhood Playhouse, but my father wouldn’t allow me to go there by myself at the age of eighteen. And so I enrolled (with a scholarship) at Northwestern University.
I finally made it to New York four years later, filled with confidence. I picked up the want ads and found jobs, and from the start I made it clear to my bosses that I would not put up with any kind of misogyny or harassment. For that reason, some of the jobs didn’t last long. But I didn’t care, because I had a sense of my own worth and knew there would be something else. In 1955, I landed my first big role and was earning $1,000 per week (this was a huge amount of money then), but I still couldn’t change the attitudes of the men in my Moline family. My brother shocked me by saying, “You aren’t worth more than $75 per week, just like any other secretary.” And I could never win my father’s approval. In spite of my success, he still thought I should be working as a teacher until I could produce babies. (I’m sure there was also a lot of jealousy over the fact that he was no longer acting.)
I WAS DETERMINED TO BE NO LITTLE PRINCESS WAITING FOR HER PRINCE TO COME AND WAKE HER WITH A KISS.
I PICKED UP THE WANT ADS AND FOUND JOBS, AND FROM THE START I MADE IT CLEAR TO MY BOSSES THAT I WOULD NOT PUT UP WITH ANY KIND OF MISOGYNY OR HARASSMENT. FOR THAT REASON, SOME OF THE JOBS DIDN'T LAST LONG.
I continued to work very hard at my craft and eventually became a TV star. My struggles as a girl came in very handy—even when I found myself at the top of my profession, I still had to stand up for myself. I remember vividly a producer who made promises that he broke, and he only changed his mind because I argued with him—loudly and passionately the way a man would. The argument wasn’t about money—I never felt secure enough to ask for more money—but it has to be noted that women in show business have never been paid as much as men. The greatest actress in our profession, Meryl Streep, is still paid less than male stars.
As I write this, I’m in my eighties, and I continue to work in film and on television shows. I’ve been acting for sixty years, but looking back, the happiest times of my life were as a mother. When you’re a mother, no one can really tell you what to do—you find your own way. I didn’t like being forced to be “a girl,” but I certainly enjoyed becoming a woman.