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Monthly Archives: December 2014

Back on Track: Human Now

So, in my working life, nobody knows I’m trans.

I’ve never been one of those people who came out easily. Every time I’ve done it (because it’s a never-ending process), it’s come out arse-backwards in one way or another.

It might not come as a surprise that trans people don’t exactly get treated well in a professional setting. When I asked to change my name at university a few years ago, my request was treated with ignorance, hostility and, most cuttingly of all, the assumption that I would come to regret my decision.

So, I’ve been more than a little reluctant to unveil the real me.

In my personal life, things haven’t been smooth sailing either.

I first came out as trans to a small group of friends when I was sixteen. Their responses ranged from “I knew there was something different about you” to “I have an aunt who used to be a man”. This was briefly reassuring. But then there was a¬†lack of response.

My preferred name and pronouns were ignored completely. I began to realise that the people I had surrounded myself with had seen my tortured admission as nothing more than a passing whim. When I left school, I lost touch.

If someone comes out to you, never ignore it. Sure, it might not matter to you. But bloody hell, it mattered to them. They probably replayed every single way that conversation could have gone wrong in their head. They’ve probably spent weeks building up to it. And after they finish telling you, they’ve got to go and tell someone else. Then someone else. Then someone else. And on it goes- for the rest of their lives.

So, I saw what little value I had to my friends.

I had no intention of coming out to my family. My mother believes sex outside marriage is a sin, being gay is a choice and that “transgender” is a noun. My father was more easy-going, but would have insisted that my mother needed to know, and that I couldn’t upset her.

I upset her when I cut my hair. I upset her when I mentioned changing my name, let alone doing it. I upset her by deflecting even slightly from what she wanted.

I couldn’t let her know I wasn’t a girl.

So I moved away from my family, tried to be more like myself. I was closeted still, but I felt, this time, like I had surrounded myself with the right sort of people.

Admitting my queerness came easily at first. Some knew what I meant, had always wondered, and were willing to buy me a drink, talk over it. They were good friends: they were there when I needed them.

Others outed me to other people, stopped inviting me to things. They were bad friends: I’m glad I had the chance to find out when I did.

I had a partner of a year and a half. I told him.

It was bad. It got worse, stagnated and never got better again. To him, my life would be easier if I just sucked it up and pretended to be a woman.

I was a decorative object for his arm, and that was an end of it. I had upset him by telling him how I felt, and although he couldn’t forgive me, he would at least accept me as long as I made more of an effort to grow my hair and wear makeup.

It sickens me now to think I put up with that for two more years. But being “other” has a funny way of screwing with your self-worth.

It wasn’t the only relationship my being trans had buggered up. My dysphoria with my first girlfriend was so bad I couldn’t have sex with her. My emotional difficulties made it impossible¬†to handle being in a relationship with someone else when I first started college.

All the trans people I knew were in relationships with other trans people, or were poly, or ase. I had no idea how to approach relationships from a trans perspective.

I tried the internet. I declared myself non-binary transgender on my OKC profile, and was subjected to daily microaggressions. People opened a conversation by asking what genitals I had, whether it was just a “cool” way of saying bisexual, or by expecting an in-depth political discussion.

I nearly managed to make connections with people. But it either ended with me realising that they were taking everything too seriously and were no fun, or were having too much fun and weren’t taking me seriously.

Then, without wanting to, I met someone.

I was trying to get a girlfriend. Pretending to be a woman and trying to get a girlfriend, in the hope that a queer woman was more likely to “get” it than anyone else.

But then when I started on my PGCE course, I met a really nice arse.

The really nice arse was pleasant enough. I like a good arse. The person it was attached to was a bit of a busybody, mind. Kept turning up and asking if I was going to be doing Sociable Things. The owner of the nice arse became irritating in that his constantly being about made it kind of hard not to think about the nice arse.

Things came to a head when the owner of the really nice arse tried to buy me coffee. I insisted on paying for it, but the damage was already done. I spent the next hour and a half desperately trying not to think about not only the nice arse, but its owner. Also, the fact I didn’t drink coffee, but had still accepted one from this arse-owning moron was slightly bothersome.

The owner of the really nice arse captained a sports team. I joined the sports team. I went on a social with other members of the sports team. Consumed beverages. Ended up consuming a few too many things with bubbles in, and said I was going home. He offered to take me back to his for whisky and conversation.

Of course I went. And we had the whisky, and the conversation, and things got shared. He has AS. He’s been watching me and cataloging my stims (repetitive actions that people use to calm themselves down or otherwise feel good). Talking to him was exposing and frightening and honest, and told me that he wasn’t just the owner of a really nice arse. He was a person worth speaking to. Let’s call him J.

It got late, and I got tired, and he ordered me a taxi. As we said goodbye, he stood on the doorstep.

“I don’t really know, but were you wanting a kiss?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Sort of, yeah, but it’s not that important. It’d be nice, but if you don’t want to, that’s fine.”

“Okay. You should know that I don’t really do one-night-stands or anything.”

He said something else. It was one in the morning and I’d had quite a lot of things with fermented sugars in. I wasn’t, if I’m honest, listening. I looked as attentive as I could and came to the conclusion that I would not be getting my kiss.

“Okay,” I nodded.

I got my kiss, which was a surprise. Again, I wasn’t paying attention to begin with, but I got there. Then I went home.

It suddenly occurred to me that I should have been listening to him before I (unknowingly) accepted that kiss. It was somehow contractual, and I hadn’t read the Terms and Conditions.

I spent the next few days trying to figure out what they were. There was always the possibility that he didn’t remember the fact we’d kissed. So, I invited him over on Saturday, and we talked it through.

There was someone else. Not in a meaningful way, but in a he’d got stupidly drunk and it was before he even thought I might like him so they shagged kind of a way. I was like, “But it’s me, though, isn’t it?” and gave him the option to go for a beer and let things take their inevitable course.

They did.

So then, almost out of nowhere, I had a boyfriend. Which was good, because J is awesome and a nerd, but bad because he may have been under the impression that I was his girlfriend.

Three weeks later, walking through a shopping centre, we were talking about a friend of mine, who J had assumed to be female. I just tended to avoid pronouns when talking about him, because at that time I wasn’t sure how he identified, as his presentation was very fluid.

J went on a rant about how people shouldn’t get upset when you use the wrong pronouns if they haven’t told you. I felt, as you might understand, like this was particularly relevant. So I grabbed him by the shirt-front and turned him to face me.

“What’s the mattter?” he asked.

“I’m not female,” I replied, desperate. “I’m not male either, but I’m not female.”

That was the moment. That was the moment I would look back on as the one where everything fell apart. I knew, because I’d been there before.

“Okay. I sort of knew. I like it, in a way, that you’re not female.”

No refusal, no condemnation, no stupid questions, no denial. Just accepting my gender identity like it’s the most average thing in the world.

He doesn’t know other trans people. He never identified as queer. He’s just a decent human being who accepts he can never empathise, but isn’t going to treat me as something I’m not.

I’m not saying J is special. It’s early days. But he helped me realise that I am worth something, not dressed up to look like something else, not as an accessory, but as who I am. He treats me like a human being.

I don’t want to be treated differently. I understand why NBs get called “special snowflakes” but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to torch the morons alive for saying it. Because I’m not special. I’m ordinary, just like everyone else. And I’ve finally found someone who makes me feel ordinary.

If J feels like that, he can’t be the only one. Good people who don’t expect a cookie every time they’re nice to a queer person.

Trans people don’t have to choose between being authentic and being loved. I know this now.

Back on Track: An Attempt

So, the last anyone heard of me, I was moving to Manchester to train as a teacher. That was over four months ago now, and I should really explain why I went from posting daily to simply dropping off the face of the Earth.

It’s going to take a lot of doing. Things have, unsurprisingly, changed. I did move to Manchester to begin my PGCE (a teacher training qualification). I moved into a flat in the centre of the city with an old school friend. We had no internet for a month and a half.

By the time we had rejoined the 21st century, I was commuting daily to a school in Stockport. I was up at 4am every morning and in bed at 10pm. By the end, I was so tired I no longer knew how to cry.

My writing has suffered. By which I mean I have, utterly against my will, stopped writing. I never noticed it happening, but then it did. First went the novel, then the blog, then the poems, then the idle notes on throwaway scraps. I had no words left.

To say I was anything other than miserable would be a lie. But I remember why I’m doing it.

I’m doing it for the child who came back from three consecutive suspensions and never gave me a bad lesson.
I’m doing it for the quiet child who had struggled, but found the confidence to teach the rest of the class about something she finally understood.
I’m doing it for the child who struggled to trust new adults, and who ran away from my lessons, who eventually managed to look me in the eye and smile.
I’m doing it for the lowest attaining child in a top set, who managed to impress an inspector so much they thought he was Gifted and Talented.
I’m doing it for the child who was kept separate in primary school Numeracy lessons, who got into a number of fights from the ages of 11 to 14, who was so disruptive in Science lessons that from the ages of 11 to 16 they were either excluded from them or able to leave as they wished– who went on to get a degree in Physics.

Yes, that last one was me. Because no matter how much some teachers (Hanley, Smith, McKenzie) neglected to veil their disgust in me, there were others (Sanders, Bell, Pothecary) who were actually the making of me.

I’ve already made an impact on some students. I’m not even a good teacher. But I was there when one boy, who’d just calmed down after becoming distraught said, “I don’t know if they’ve told you about me; I’m autistic.” I was there to smile and say, “me too,” and watch the grin on his face as he got to see an actual adult who could do things and have AS.

Representation, as we know, matters. If I’d known that real, functioning, happy people could have AS, I might not have been so frightened. If I’d known that boring people like me could be transgender, that might have saved a lot of stress as well.

I’m not out at work. Mostly because, as it’s not “work”, I don’t have any rights. I’m not going to tell anyone older than 11 that I have AS either (though considering how stressed I’ve been lately, it’s frankly been obvious). The UK is still transphobic, homophobic and ableist and there’s no point in denying it.

I went for a job interview while still living in Liverpool where I admitted to being transgender. I didn’t much care for the job in the long-term, and thought it would be a good idea to try and see what attitudes were like.

She frowned at me and asked me to explain further. She got me to stand up, smooth down my shirt so she could see my body better, see what I had done to it. Asked me to turn around. Frowned, said she would have to speak to her business partner, “to see if it would be alright”.

I never heard from her again- nor did I want to.

I was humiliated.

So, in the classroom, I endure being called “Miss”, and fail to notice when they call me “Sir”. They’re kids, and they’ve been told to behave a certain way on pain of detention. It’s all fine.

Grown adults, meanwhile, should learn to find out someone’s name.

But there’s another reason why going back into the closet (again) doesn’t hurt so much.

I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.