Transgender Day of Visibility

  • Posted on March 28, 2016 at 8:48 pm

March 31st. It’s the end of the year of accounting for many, when all the bills and income are balanced and reported. Profit or loss, tax overpaid, or tax overdue; was value added, or was it just a taxing time. My ambivalence about this date also being assigned International Transgender Day of Visibility is unsurprising. It is the mental battle between ‘Why should I need to be visible’ and ‘Thank goodness enough people were visible for me to come out and go through my transition’. This blog by itself leaves me highly visible. It could have been anonymous, but four years ago it was a way of speaking to people who knew me as much as those who did not. Now it is out there, it is a reminder that whilst from day to day being trans is not on my mind, it is on others’, and a simple Google search reveals everything.

I am not going to join any procession, or indulge in online selfies though. I do believe that trans people should be active, not hidden, but I think that being present is more useful most of the time, than being something special. The selfies inhibition cuts both ways. If a huge splash of selfies shows that there can be no expectations of what any trans person should look like, and also avoids an impression of anything other than ordinariness, well and good. I don’t want my ‘passing privilege’ to become anyone’s paradigm, but neither do I want too much bizarre devil-may-care to make being trans seem like a wacky lifestyle decision, because it is not.

And so on International Transgender Day of Visibility, I shall not be hiding. In fact in all likelihood, I shall be seeing some old colleagues for the first time in a few years, some of whom have shown visible disquiet when my LinkedIn profile threw up the switch-over in 2012. I shall just be there in continuity of friendships, not to make a point.

Visible as not invisible

I have watched over the past weeks and months as US states have thrown up House Bills on what they call ‘bathroom protections’. The situation is entirely absurd. They are creating laws that oblige bearded, muscular, testosterone-dosed trans men to enter women-only toilets or sports changing-rooms, whether or not they have a vagina or a penis. And trans women with ample cleavages, similarly, to stand in line with men grasping their penises. Why? Because enough ignorant people spread the rumour with a zero evidence base, that transwomen (not trans men) are predatory or paedophile. Partly, it is a matter of common sense, partly pure ignorance, and partly malicious. There’s no point, really, rehearsing the ridiculous situation of examining the genitals of one person to protect the apparent privacy of another. Nor the situations that have already arisen of cis women who don’t look feminine enough, or men who look too feminine. Nor indeed the oversight that women don’t pee in fear of a lesbian in the next stall, nor men in fear of the next penis in line belonging to a gay man.

If trans people are invisible, this kind of stupidity will persist. If they are hyper-visible, they will be misunderstood as choosers of their destiny, where trans women are presumed clothing-fetishists, and trans men are, well, probably butch-lesbian. And it does no favours to the very many people who are androgynous, gender queer or simply gender fluid. Why does anyone have to be something specific in order to go to the loo? I see more gender neutral loos these days, and they are very welcome. Providing men don’t pee on the floor, and treat the facilities with respect, it’s no different to the loo in any family home.

Oh, so you want to be a voyeur, and spy on people having a pee? And you like going around in disguise, to get away with the attempt? And you are neither gay nor lesbian? I suppose you know that this is already illegal … It has bugger all to do with the one to two percent of the population being transgender, and any new ‘bathroom bill’ can only place these people in danger.

The moon was visible last night. Well, actually I was asleep, but it must have been. No; wait; we had storms, so probably it was cloudy. But maybe there were breaks. Did you see it? Ah! The astronauts in the International Space Station can vouch for it, because they had no clouds, and went round fast enough to catch it several time. The moon didn’t come out specially to prove anything, and I sort of know that the moon was still there like yesterday. Visibility means that no-one is pretending the moon does not exist, so whatever time of day or night, you might see it. Under the right conditions, it won’t be obscured, and even a new moon shows a pale disk to the careful eye. Some trans people are a full moon, some a crescent, some behind clouds, others scarcely noticeable at all. No-one should be obliged to hide, and none should be obliged to reveal all, as if we were all completely unambiguous anyway.

What is visibility?

Visibility, I think, is not about clearing the clouds away, nor about being bright and shiny. Visibility is about opening your eyes and doing your best to see. An International Transgender Day of Visibility should be about saying: ‘Hey, didn’t you know that millions of people are transgender, it is inherent not acquired, and it has absolutely nothing to do with sex drive, mental illness, criminality or predation.’ Almost 100 percent of that is down to heterosexual, strongly gender-binary males. And transgender women, whatever we are on a gender scale, are not that!

What they day needs to portray and be reported as, is that transgender identity is only partly about trans women, the majority is about trans men, gender queer, androgyny, gender fluidity …

Unfortunately, it is a religious right-wing that has taken it upon itself to assign predation, spread fear, and place us instead in danger. They infect parents and schools, and force trans people into invisibility, fear of discovery and hatred, and for too many, to suicide. Yes, dear loving-god-loving kind people: your bigotry and narrow-mindedness has zero to do with protecting anything other than your own stupidity. We are visible, we are here, and you simply refuse to see it.

So if you remember on March 31st, or see a news report, reminding you of the International Transgender Day of Visibility, it isn’t about the big personalities, it isn’t about fetishists, and certainly nothing about sexual mores, or perversions. It’s about human beings with small differences, who, if only your eyes were open, are already living among you, and always have. It’s a day for opening your eyes and seeing what is there instead of acquiring false fears from stupid people who should know better, and who, if they do believe in being loving and protective, would do better to shut up and sit down.

Happy ITDoV!

My transgender regret

  • Posted on February 27, 2016 at 8:15 pm

I was looking through some photos from not so many years ago, of a band I play in. I think I was being a bit curious, because anything more than five years ago feels like a lifetime ago. It wasn’t of course, but two things have happened: first I transitioned, and second, I have had to find a new relationship with that old self. I do sometimes want to dip back as a way of marvelling at how I am now. They aren’t pictures I want to hide, but similarly not ones I want to show. The relationship with that old self is a very private one.

I don’t see myself. I see someone I know was me, but somehow I can’t find myself in their skin anymore. I remember the places, I remember what I was doing, even who I was with or talking to. But I can’t put myself in that skin, in my mind. I wonder whether it is a kind of denial, or a kind or protection, or just an impossibility because I feel so differently authentic now. I feel uncomfortable looking at that old self, and I know that I never liked what I saw in the mirror all those years. I look at the haircut, and I remember that it was like that because it was pleasing someone else. Coming back from a haircut was a feeling very similar to putting on an overcoat. I never liked wearing one. I did own three over the years, the last was virtually unworn, expensive, and was given afterwards to a friend. Each time I wore an overcoat, I was putting on someone else’s desire to be something, and each time it was uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. That the hair or the coat pleased someone I loved, never made it good, though maybe it was a comfort and a kindness to them to play the part.

I am sitting at the back of the band, in Belgium. I don’t want to be this person. I want to remember that time as I am now. I want the white blouse, band scarf and short black skirt. I want long blonde hair. It isn’t what I see, and I want to push it away, but I want to have been there still.

This is what transition regret means

It isn’t the tiny percentage of people who interpret their gender discomfort inadequately. It isn’t wishing I could have been comfortable as I was all those years. It isn’t wishing I was not born with all that conflict ahead of me, able to be a fully normal boy, brother, man, husband, father. It is wishing that I could have recognised and been able to find authenticity from the start. When I wrote ‘I love me’ on my school pencil case, I wish someone had said: ‘Fantastic! Go and be fully yourself, express yourself, because then you will be able to love securely and honestly without fear.’ Instead, I was strongly reprimanded for arrogance, for pride, for putting myself first, if only for a moment with a felt-tip pen and a pencil case and a thought.

I see a picture of myself now, and wish that this album hadn’t started so far on in life. I look at myself in the mirror and am filled with a profound gratitude still, that I feel and look so right. The shoulders are too broad, the waist not slim, the hips too narrow, the hair too thin – but I recognise myself and I see myself fully as a woman. This, really is me, not the person in the not too old photos. Who is that person, if this is me?

I am loved. I have someone who tells me I look pretty, who forgives the shoulders, waist and hips – who doesn’t think of me daily as trans, because it really doesn’t matter. I don’t hide the old pictures from her. I don’t have to hide anything anymore. I don’t need permission to express myself, like the person on the photos.

This is what transgender regret means

It means knowing that life has been spent less than it could have been. That for so many years no-one else could see the real me, lived as I feel. Regret that I had to lie, to pretend, and to play a part, about things I didn’t understand myself. Regret that all that spent life is discreet, put away, not fully spoken about, owned more by others’ memories than my own, much of it in albums on bookshelves elsewhere, not here. Like my medical and official records transferred to a special place, so that no-one need know that there was this other person, with a different birth certificate, known by another name and title for all their qualifications.

Transgender regret for me means a life divided. Half with wishes unfulfilled, a person disowned. Half released into myself to be who I am. It means my past not being freely part of social conversation with others. Being guarded against slips that might suddenly change the conversation, and make me a curiosity. Nothing repairs that, ever. I don’t want that other person to be thought of as a sad figure, as hiding or deceitful. I don’t want that person to be remembered as what I used to be, as if that was more real because it was for so much longer. I don’t want people to feel privileged by knowing, and being able to tell others gleefully: ‘don’t you know, she used to be a …’.

Nothing ever stopped, life was never suspended, and there is no single point at which I was not the same person. But there certainly was a period of a few years, when lots of people had to make up their minds about what to do over me. And nothing has even for a moment made me wish I had hung onto who, where and what I was. The regret is not in the losing; that can happen to anyone. It isn’t a way of saying my life was wasted in any way, because it wasn’t.

No; transgender regret for me means having to have built up a history, a life of memories, that was always less than it could have been, for want of recognition that I could have been this, authentic, self. It means that I do not want to drag that person out of my history to challenge, recall or compare with all that I now am. Yes, the photo is of me, but I don’t want it to be part of my conversation, and that divides my life into the spoken and unspoken.

I can do that; I know, as I look in the mirror, that I – the same I – have found my true representation, and that it is good. I can know. But I don’t want to offer that comparison to anyone else; it can only be dealt with privately. Not because I feel in any way insecure or indecisive, but because others won’t feel my gratitude, only the wonder that this was how I used to be and isn’t that amazing?

So if you thought that Google had thrown up this page to tell you that transgender people have regret about transition, then it isn’t in the way you thought. You have a history in one volume, fully cross-referenced. I am only offering you volume two, and I don’t want to open volume one except in particular, selective circumstances.

Sex and Gender; two troublesome words

  • Posted on January 24, 2016 at 2:29 pm

I read an academic article about centring gender identity this week, that was interesting, not least because it assumed a clarity about sex and about gender that in most circles doesn’t exist. And then this morning I continued reading about sex and gender in more feminist circles, on serious blogs, not TERF rants. I always try to understand because I also expect a degree of understanding. We are all human, we all deserve respect.

We all relate more easily our bad experiences than our good, and whenever someone has faced abuse, met a very male-acting trans-asserting person, or simply really opened their eyes to this patriarchal society and culture of ours, they will rightly feel defensive, and the incidents will be key to future expectation. I too feel much safer in women’s spaces, I too feel insecure where there is testoserone around. And whilst I may have been brought up and taught as a boy, I do not feel totally socialised in that way, because so much of it went against the grain. I guess I did mimic it a fair deal to get by, but it was always uncomfortable and I was ready to see the impact of it on women, socially and in the workplace.

This world suffers from patriarchal rule. I mean suffers, not just needs greater equality and fairness, but suffers. Our planet groans more because of it, and we tolerate its destructiveness. There are women who play into it, take advantage of it and imitate it. But it is what it is, and it is bad for us all. And none of this is a basis for debating the rights of humans on grounds of self-identity. Not every culture and language even has ideas of sex and gender in the way English-speaking people do. Yet we get tied up in mutually defensive, and sometimes aggressive, dialogue over sex and gender as if they were something as absolute as mass and energy.

Probably most people have never ‘met’ a trans person, because we just don’t all look, sound or behave obviously so. Which means that most antipathy towards us is based on bad experiences of an unrepresentative few people who stand out for their inauthenticity or bad behaviour.

We have several essential problems that we fail frequently to acknowledge.

The first of these is behaviour

What we expect from people sharing our society is certain forms of behaviour. Some make us uncomfortable: a homeless beggar; someone gesticulating unexpectedly through mental disturbance, brain injury or non-development; drunken loudness; crowd-generated fervour. Some behaviour is distanced, such as influential voices, or merely online trolling, down to simply abusive or ignorant comments on a news article. Discomfort easily becomes fear, and we can distance ourselves, fight back, join a group for mutual shared strength, or face it and deal with it in other ways.

Some behaviours are associated with sex and gender. Some are causal: hormones create drives and emotions, for example. Some are correlated but not causal: group behaviours to belong to the in-crowd, or not to stand out. What we cannot say is: ‘women behave like this’, or ‘men behave like this’, or ‘lesbians behave like this’ – or even ‘trans men (or women) behave like this’.

Because they don’t. There are violent women, effeminate men, femme lesbians, aggressive trans women, asexual non-binary people, quiet introverted pansexuals. Everything you can assume as defining any sex, gender and sexuality, is defied by countless atypical people. Some people are kind and nice to know. Some are lazy and otherwise harmless. Some are psychopaths running global organisations, and some are lurking around a corner to do you harm.

And probably none of these behaviours is defined as being entirely due to sex or gender. Being male can derive philanthropy just as it can (though more frequently perhaps) misogyny. But for goodness’ sake, bad behaviour by some individuals describing themselves as transgender does not make being transgender a bad or threatening thing. It is the behaviour that threatens, not the underlying sex, sexuality or gender identity.

The second thing is expectation

Expectations are cultivated socially. We develop them from experience, which means we can nurture bad expectations from bad experiences. We share and cultivate these, because it feels more safe and comfortable when we have shared experiences and expectations. Then we have group thoughts from which it is harder to escape and disagree. Sometimes we must have a bad experience, develop an expectation for safety, then relocate the expectation in reality so that we can be both safe and open to new and more positive experiences.

Sometimes expectations become assertions, rules, dogmas, doctrines, even laws. And sometimes – may be a lot of the time – this is good. We come to have an agreed floorplan for constructive, safe, mutually supportive living together, and we call it culture. And sometimes that floorplan has mistakes, or cracked tiles, and slippery rugs.

We embody these expectations not just in our legal frameworks, but in other socially-cohesive ones. I am still surprised how much of my readership here pulls out the blogs on the role of religion in LGBT phobias. I have been through the experience here, from dragged-to-church, to skeptical, to thorough-going evangelical, to even more thorough university biblical analysis, to reasoned atheist non-materialist. So I know what it means to live as male, as female, as almost fundamentalist, and atheist. I think I know myself and many things from the inside, rather than hearsay. And just as I assert that there is a fundamental role in testosterone creating the world we live in, so I assert that there is a fundamental role in the religions we have created. Both T and R are imprinted on everything we do and the way we do it, and in my view, we need to be much more aware of this, of its impact, and its consequences, as well as be more wise to moving beyond both as defining our contemporary civilisations.

Without these religious-ethical expectations even our laws would be different in many ways, not least in those relating to sex and gender expectations. Countries in the world where being gay, lesbian, trans, or simply a free woman, are proscribed by law, do so on the basis of some ancient religion. The religion lays down expectations, resists reason, and fossilises attitudes. So much so, that secular cultures like this in the UK, carry an unconscious tradition rooted in christianity with attitudes and expectations, and beliefs about unethical behaviour that focus on specific things. We have a greater antipathy towards anything to do with sex and gender, than we do towards anything to do with power and connivance.

The third thing is language

Just as money began as a means and became a commodity in itself, so language did the same. We talk, write, think, using words for a substantial part of every day of our lives. We rely on words meaning something fixed in order to communicate clearly and efficiently. Languages, sadly, are not like that. They do not translate as easily as we would like, one to another. Sometimes five words in one translate as just one in another, losing vital nuance, or becoming ambiguous. Sometimes the culture behind a language does not share the concept. When one language dominates, so a concept can therefore also dominate. It’s never that my language represents an erroneous or superfluous concept, always that your language is impoverished because your culture is ignorant or less refined.

Sex and gender are conceptual, and not the same in every language, even in Europe. We neglect semantics, because we take language for granted, but worst of all, we assume that the word creates the thing, and that one use for a word makes it definitive. Learning how a word came about does not give it its contemporary meaning in use (gay and queer are two obvious relevant examples), and frequently a word becomes more important because its use becomes too burdened by conceptual disagreement. It isn’t just a heliocentric and evolutionary science that shakes society and religion, but contemporary observation of gendered roles. I recently replied to a friend who asked if there was any test for either sex or gender, with some quick thoughts about this.

I think that ‘sex’ and ‘gender’ are words given to poorly defined concepts. The initial concept of sex derived from observations about the means of reproduction and was simplistic and basic. It divided those who gave birth from those who did not. Thus many creatures tend to carry natural roles (though sometimes opposite like seahorses) where one stays safe with babies while the other gets food. As societies developed in sophistication, so the roles became formal expectations. Put basically, sex ensured survival and required no nuance.

Roles, however, confer different privileges and empowerments. Hunters also defend and acquire territory, and adopt authority as a result. Thus begins patriarchy. Within this, unfairness, coercion and advantage are noted, and as society becomes more complex, equality rears its head. Society and culture develop as philosophies, which in turn are questioned. Ultimately, sex as a division is no longer satisfactory. Female is not necessarily mother, male not defender/aggressor, but husbander, in agriculture for example.

The words and ideas for this alternative layer to sex are different in different cultures and languages. Thus it is a construct centred around sense of place in culture or society. It is regulated by norms which are informed by established notions of what sex currently means. The words don’t help us in any way. They are misused to discriminate and advantage, perpetuating, for example, patriarchy.

Sex as a concept still tries to distinguish biological capabilities, while gender tries to counter this absolutism and explain how people are dislocated from it. Sex tries to maintain traditional rules, gender to create new ones. Both superimpose contemporary ideas on the simple origin of species perpetuation. What we lose in this is that we are all the same species, developed socially sufficiently to live equally rather than divisively such that child-carrying doesn’t define social place, nor physical strength and drive.

There is no scientific test for gender because there can be no simple definition. Feeling trans has two components: being socially mislabelled and misplaced, and feeling that the child-bearing or physically powerful aspect given by the body doesn’t agree with the inner awareness of how the mind feels that should be. There is no scientific test for sex because it can be indeterminate.

What is important is that it should not be so important to find a definition let alone enforce it, for either sex or gender. Both exist only so long as we keep words for them. My argument is that we are dealing in semantics rather than tangible realities.

I think sex and gender aren’t just ‘physiology versus social construct’, but are two troublesome words in need of care. Talking spectrums isn’t necessarily the let-out we need either. I still find tomatoes in the vegetables section of my supermarket. Fruit and veg aren’t a spectrum, but some are badly misrepresented by what we have become accustomed to. But we like them all the same.

Summary

Behaviour, expectation and language all bias us in all manner of ways towards and away from others. Much of the time it is unconscious bias, but we too easily define our ideas about other people in our own terms, reinforce each other’s biases, and end up disrespecting individuals and thrusting them into unsafe places. It may be a trans woman with no refuge, a trans boy being bullied, a feminine feminist being excluded, or a butch dyke being shoved out of a public women’s lavatory. Or all too often, a trans person being pushed by expectations, to suicide.

We must be careful what we assume from our experiences, or what we have read, or been taught or cultivated into. In protecting our own ideas, however precious they are to us, and however many others share them, we may be making the world a less safe place for someone else. Whether you are a trans blogger, a feminist essayist, a frequent article-commenter, or just sharing on Facebook and tweeting, we must recognise that we are all just using language as a proxy to relate our beliefs and best understanding, biased by our experiences.

Minority report

  • Posted on January 17, 2016 at 9:28 pm

2016 turned around with reviews of what a good year it had been for trans awareness. Films, soaps, celebrities, parliamentary inquiries, public debates all made it seem like a breakthrough in awareness. Most of us would say that hatred and exclusion are the result of ignorance, sometimes willful. As more is said and seen about what it means to have (what is currently termed) gender dysphoria, surely ignorance will decline?

One can understand that when someone prominent transitions, they are snapped up by the media and made a spokesperson. That gives rise to backlash from more ordinary and struggling trans people, who don’t feel represented by someone more privileged and earlier on in the issues to be faced. So we accept that the celebrities make very public mistakes, which can damage as much as help the rest of us. But when the UK parliamentary Women and Equalities Committee presented its formal report on transgender services and equality to the UK Parliament, informed by 260 witnesses, it was criticised in just the same way as being a waste of resources for responding to such a minority interest.

It seems most people still prefer to regard being transgender as a curable psychological disorder, and that because only one per cent of the population experience it, it should be ignored rather than understood. Certainly, treatment on the NHS should be excluded, because it’s just pandering to a lifestyle choice. Fix my leg, broken by skiiing, but don’t fix this person’s hormones or body. Well, to that I say: you too are in a minority because you can afford to have ski holidays, whereas we are called a ‘lobby group’ with an agenda, though we cannot choose. You are free to join a minority, we just happen to share a minority condition, however non-minority the rest of our lives are. And we can choose to go skiing too, so we can be in the same minority together … so long as only our legs get fixed.

Where ignorance and closed minds lead

I don’t think we are a lot nearer social acceptance just because there is greater awareness. It isn’t about minorities really, it’s about a particular kind of minority. In all this growing awareness, there remains a lot of fear and intolerance. This week, I am as equally sickened by Richard Littlejohn writing in the Daily Mail (whose 2013 writing contributed to the suicide of Lucy Meadows), as by The Archbishop of Canturbury’s crocodile tears over LGBT attitudes among his African prelates. It was Christian missionary colonialism that imported homophobia into Africa in the first place, and protecting those who support or condone imprisonment or execution of people on grounds of sexuality, on the self-defined assertion that it is a sinful lifestyle choice, diminishes this powerful presence in the world to a weak and self-serving institution. I am as sickened by The Channel 4 interview (hardly a debate) between Jack Monroe and Dr Julia Long. It was like placing one scientist representing consensus over anthropogenic climate change against a single prominent denialist, as if the argument were balanced. The view by Dr Julia Long, that every transgender person represents a rape threat to ‘real’ women wherever they go, espoused and promoted repeatedly by Germaine Greer, is also rehearsed in The Conservative Woman (TCW) by Emily Watson, who writes: ‘it opens the door to potential sex offences. By opening single sex facilities up to the opposite sex, women are put at risk. Women have a real fear of being sexually assaulted or raped by men, and the sensible ones avoid places or occasions where they could be in danger. Women feel able to let their guard down with other women.’ She supports her case by a single criminal case of a rapist and an incident in a novel. (TCW is a right-wing conservative, Christian fundamentalist ‘family’ group.)

It is the classic statement: being transgender does not exist; some men like to dress up and pretend, and all of them are predatory. Trans women aren’t women; they are men, because god makes only men and women. We are dangerous. I am dangerous. We threaten civilisation and its norms. We challenge ideas of gender, but by identifying as male or as female, we support the patriarchy. And even acceptance of gender dysphoria is dangerous to children, so stop it!

Are we a million miles from anti-gay laws and condoned homophobia? I sometimes don’t think we’ve moved anywhere at all except in circles, the central anchor-point of which is Judeo-Christian religious.

It’s all about sex

Those of us disadvantaged by a birth condition have become regarded as a dangerous lobby of rapists. It’s all about sex. Innit? Just because a man could, if he wished, put women’s clothes and make-up on, with the sole intent of invading ‘women’s spaces in order to molest or rape, transgender women are all placed under suspicion of being sexual predators. So every woman in a burkha or niqab could similarly be a male rapist in disguise. This all echoes the idiocy in the USA of all those who would almost insist on examining the genitals of anyone ambiguous (child or adult) before entering gendered lavatory facilities. Cis women have been thrown out of female facilities for looking too male, and it escapes attention that bearded and testosterone-fuelled trans men having to enter female facilities would be absurd. (Testosterone-fuelled does not mean potential rapist any more than oestrogen-fuelled trans women, but it does highlight the absurdity.) Especially when everyone goes home to share a common toilet with all genders of their family and friends. And because more sexual violence occurs in familiar domestic circumstances than in public faciltities and venues. And because rape by transgender women is almost unknown.

Being transgender has nothing to do with sex, let alone coercive sex.

Becoming undangerous

There are many things about me that are minority. I play the trumpet. I write poetry. I own a flat. I have three university degrees. None of these places me in the category of lobby group or having an agenda, though each confers certain rights and marks me out as different. But these things are safe. (Well, the decibel rating of a trumpet may not be, and should I be writing politically sensitive poetry in China, that would not be.) They are also personal choices based on innate abilities. None causes me distress, and I am sensitive about the trumpet in the flat. Life is peaceful, you are safe, I am safe.

But any day I can read people online who go out of their way to make untrue assertions against my condition, that may lead others to fear me, disadvantage me or attack me. Living in Brighton, I am lucky. I can choose not to read hate, and I know it will always exist, and I live inconspicuously in a tolerant place. But many others are not so safe. How do we become undangerous, when we are treated as we are, so obviously, in social and broadcast media? When we transition and return from that traumatic passage in life back to ordinariness, we don’t all want to be labelled forever as trans. Only this week one person I know through social media said ‘Now that I am a year post-surgery, I am no longer trans’. Another said ‘I’m fed up with this; I don’t want any labels.’ A government minister came out as gay this week, and the point was raised: ’why does anyone need to come out any more?’ Being trans makes coming out unavoidable, but after that, many of us are done with it. We become able simply to live as we feel right. I have struggled with ‘being out’ in order to be an encouragement, when I feel I’ve said all there is to say, and just want to live inconspicuously. But then I feel hurt to read another person deny my experience, and add a reply to another Guardian comment trail …

One per cent of the population is quite a lot of people, and if we were all completely visible and getting on with our lives, perhaps we would seem less dangerous. But why should we be visible? It isn’t our lives’ mission to educate the world. Against us, is the propensity to cite the extreme, the singular. Whether quoting a celebrity transitioner, or a long-discredited piece of research, a criminal case, or a prominent ‘detransitioner’, the negative (like consumer dissatisfaction) is re-quoted many times more than the positive. I would like to see a headline like this instead:

NHS spends £17m per annum on gender care, including £4.5m on surgery, and saves £80m in social costs of mental health, impact on emergency services, loss of employment productivity and welfare benefits!

(I’m not sure about the £80m, because no-one has measured it, but if half of young people and a third of older trans people are suicidal, the on-costs for all of us must be surely in this order.) But I don’t think one is coming any time soon.

What really will make a difference, is when everyone who knows someone like me actively stands up for us, and refuses to accept the misguided hatred, the subtle discrimination, the careful sidelining, the nudge and the ‘understanding’ wink. If there really are about 650,000 of us in the UK, and we each have fifteen people willing to actively diffuse ignorant comments and jokes, that’s nearly ten million people making our lives safer.

So, dear Anglican Church, dear Pope, dear politicians, academics and experts. Dear journalists, panelists, and public debaters. Dear comedians, writers and critics. Dear family, friends and colleagues. When you hear or read someone declaiming people like me as potential sexual predator, rapist, subversive and moral disaster, speak up, speak out – not to me in my safe spaces, but where it may also cost you that cocked eyebrow, mild shock and surprise. Because every time you play safe and self-protective, you make it harder for us to lively safely and normally.

It’s not what you remember, but how

  • Posted on December 1, 2015 at 10:35 pm

A friend of mine has been writing what we hope to be a book, with some contributions from me, interleaving experience and reflection with research. It’s not about being anything, but the meaning there is in it, as it is. In some ways it’s a challenge. ‘How about a chapter on your experience of gender dysphoria?’ Sounds innocent enough; we both know that it isn’t a generalisation but a personal experience, just my narrative and my interpretation of it.

I had a go. By the end of a day of hard writing and thinking, I wasn’t particularly satisfied. How many different ways could I have told the story as a chapter (not a whole big boring book)? Rather a lot of trans people have written their own books, and some are really good, and helped me. I have also seen some that are not so good, and are a reflection that many of us want just to tell our story, though we are not all writers. I guess if I were asked to tell my story to several people with very different backgrounds, I would tell it differently each time. So what matters most to me?

The more I think back, the more my story connects up, as I remember little things, the circumstances of the times, the pressures not to speak of certain things, the need to conform, and even the lack of sufficient understanding to think that I might not have been what everyone told me I was. On one level my story is a happy life. On another it is life characterised by a constant fear. On one reading it is very singularly my own, on another terribly familiar. But the reason that I have this story at all has an absolutely common thread, understood by every transgender person.

I am looking forward to seeing the file ‘The Danish Girl’, and have seen the trailer, and a few interviews with the key actor playing Lili Elbe, Eddie Redmayne. If the trailer made me cry, I’m sure I won’t make it through the film. The big trigger, I expect, will be that first unavoidable confession of knowing your gender is different. The way I phrased the feeling of falling into that realisation, was ‘it just feels perfect’.

The trouble with revisiting the story after several years, is that having settled very perfectly, you can still remember that there was real happiness in your life before too. I don’t want to lose that, but neither is it easy to embrace. If I look at photos of my daughter’s wedding a few months ago, or of my ex-wife looking really happy, giving the wedding speech, her being there and not me … or remember too vividly past Christmases … or holidays, or at pictures of happy homes we made and shared … and … and … Then I remember that but for one thing about me, everything was good.

The story of Lili Elbe, and of many other people who have transitioned, is one of devotion. Love somehow survives the hurt and carries on. Here, there will be pain and loss too, but something mattered too much to let it go. And this is where too much reflection and retelling the story doesn’t help. I was one of the majority who lost their marriage and family, and my deepest regret is that it was for no other reason than my gender. I still recall saying: ‘I can’t walk away from this. You can. Please don’t.’

Rage spoils memories

I was trying to remember something I said when writing the chapter, and from searching around, came across a few pages I wrote at the beginning of transition, when I knew it was all over with my wife and family. It was rage in black and white. Rage that I was not allowed to be angry, that I had to be the one who must understand how difficult this all was for everyone else. It was rage that this one thing that made me feel perfect at last made everything else fall apart. That I could come to a clear understanding, and that in doing so I was no longer wanted as a partner, companion, parent, even though I was still me, crawling out from under a blanket of fear where I had stayed for the sake of everyone else.

And behind that rage was a whole lifetime of tender loving memories that felt completely betrayed. Yes, I had to understand how difficult this was, how impossible for those closest to me to sustain. So every time I hear of love enduring through transition, I remember. Memories of rage? Memories of betrayal? Memories of happiness? Memories of love?

Just as I could think after writing my chapter, of all the ways I could have told the story, so there are many ways of remembering. And it is hard to remember how I had to walk away, not from my own love but from a door closed by others. I think it takes a lot longer than I had thought, to wipe the soot and dust off good memories, so that they don’t simply hurt, but become treasures. I struggle sometimes with talking about a good life that I had, as if by confessing their goodness I want them back. I don’t, because they are long past, and they were all a shared possession, not just mine. And I don’t ever want to live with fear again, least of all fear of my authentic self being a reason not to be loved or wanted. So somehow I need to become able to see photographs, read things and remember, in a different way, where the ending isn’t part of every moment. I will get there, but it has been a reminder to me that just as you can tell your story to other people in many ways, so you can to yourself. Mine is not a sad story, just a brilliant chapter with a very sad ending.

I really don’t want to live with any resentment or anger, and largely it has gone. I simply want to feel gratitude for everything good that has happened in my life. Right now it is good, I am grateful for the love that I share, for the life my partner and I are building together, and for all the new experiences we bring to each other. Life is all about learning, all the way, beginning to end, and after so much telling over the past few years, now I still need to learn how to remember well and safely, because the story continues.