Filtering Out The World

I was bullied throughout my school years. Well, most of them, anyway. The war of spite, put-downs and vicious mockery started when I was about nine. Not so coincidentally, about the same age I started self-harming, but that’s another post. The bullying continued whatever school I went to, so I reached the seemingly obvious conclusion at an early age that it was me that was doing something wrong, and that other people were justified in whatever they were saying or doing to me. Not good for a little head.

After a few years of that, I think my brain started putting up a filter, so that I was able to go about my business in some ignorance of what was going on around me. An example of this is one occasion where I got off the school bus, aged 14 or 15, and someone I knew asked “Are you ok?”. I replied that I was fine, and asked why. She looked at me a little oddly and explained that throughout the journey a group of my schoolmates had been shouting comments at me, laughing and joking at my expense, with an audience of the whole of the lower deck of the bus. I genuinely hadn’t heard a thing, and there’s not a lot wrong with my hearing. Thank you, brain, for filtering that one out.

Whilst I was still having problems with bullies when I left school at 18, adult life brought relief. Over the years, as my self-confidence reasserted itself, and I didn’t need the filter any more, it gradually disappeared. And I grew to miss it, as I once again became aware of the negativity that goes on everywhere.

A lot of people hold strong views about trans people, and all too many of them think it’s ok to direct their venom at us as a community, and at individuals. I am fortunate in that people I know and mix with have either had the courtesy not to say anything hurtful to my face, or at least lacked the guts to.

However, without my filter against the world, I am very sensitive to whispering and stares, but with the wonderful advent of MP3 players, I have managed to create a reasonably effective filter for myself – music. By creating my own personal white noise, I find myself much more able to zone out others around me, and help the Paranoia Monster lay down and sleep for a while. I firmly believe that all the people who go through life with earphones permanently attached are probably doing much the same thing as me.

Sadly, I can’t do this all the time, particularly not with social networking, the internet generally, and the media skewing and attacking wherever it can. The trouble is, I tend to take criticism of my community generally very personally, and this snaps me straight back into being a child.  If someone somewhere in the world posts an article claiming that parents who decide to transition are selfish and disgusting, I start wondering if they’re right, despite being a logical(ish) intelligent person who knows that’s just a personal opinion, and a bigoted one, at that. Reading that another trans person has been vilified by their family fills me with fear that the acceptance I have been offered by my family isn’t genuine. The more ‘evidence’ I see that very many people consider my path in life to be wrong, the more that I feel everyone must think that about me. And so the Paranoia Monster operates.

There are a couple of logical solutions to all of this – firstly, put things in perspective, and secondly, don’t read it. To look at the second first (!?), I do try to limit what I see online. I ‘hide’ stories or pictures on Facebook that set off an unwanted emotional response, and avoid the Daily Mail Online like the plague. It’s actually not all that often that an online newspaper says anything so stupid it can’t be written off to lousy journalism, but the comments below any article to do with LGBTIQ stories are often horrendous. So much hatred and mockery, directed at people like me, or like those I love, is far too triggering, so I leave well alone.

But I am an “out” trans person. By writing this blog and making my own YouTube videos, as well as contributing to a collaborative channel (details to the right of this page) I am putting myself to some extent into the public sphere. I don’t want to build myself a little cocoon and hide in it forever, as I feel it is important for me to fight for the rights of people like me (and those unlike me, too). To do that, though, you need to know what’s out there, and respond it it. Otherwise, the haters really will win the battle and scare us into submission. To face up to these challenges, though, you need to have some sort of filter in place, or you’ll fall apart. Just as my childhood brain recognised.

So, perspective must be important, and it is this that I am working on, as my adult-style filter. You know that saying “It’s not all about you”? When seeing things online, or hearing them on the street (if they’re shouting loudly enough to drown out the Red Hot Chili Peppers) or reading them on Facebook, I have to reaffirm that it’s not all about me.

Funnily enough, some recent trolling on one of my videos bothered me not one bit, despite the comment reading something along the lines of “People like you shouldn’t be allowed to make videos. You’re disgusting, you f****** f****t”. Why would that not upset me, but someone commenting elsewhere online that ‘trans people are clearly mentally ill and should be locked away’ make me feel attacked?

I’ve a long way to go on this one, and I’d be interested to hear how other people keep their heads when all around them are losing theirs.

The Pregnant Man

No, I am not. Nor do I ever plan to be. However, some transmen do, for a variety of very valid reasons, choose to bear a child. Whilst this is rare, it’s not actually that rare. We only see those cases where the man in question has come under public scrutiny, either by choice, or through media intrusion. Other transmen and their partners have chosen not to seek out media attention, and so the public at large are still inclined to believe that That Sort Of Thing only occurs once in a blue moon, and far far away in heathen countries.

Which brings me to the point of this post. Somewhere in the UK, a transman has given birth recently. The press in general, and Sun journalists in particular are desperate to find out who that person is. Desperate to the point of contacting Trans support groups and asking if they know him, desperate to the point of nosing around trans organisations, and inviting members of the public to ‘out’ the man in question. A large box is displayed on The Sun’s online article about the issue saying “Do you know the man? Call The Sun newsdesk on 020 **** 4103″ The paper also kindly provide an email address for people to contact them with the name of the man they’re looking for. I’m not that well versed in press practices to know if this would be rewarded with money – what’s the odds?

Now let’s get this straight – this man isn’t a murderer, rapist, paedophile or Great Train Robber. He’s someone who, to the best of my understanding, with his long-term partner, has made what must have been an immensely difficult decision. A new parent, who must currently be terrified. Natacha Kennedy of Trans Media Watch compares the behaviour of some journalists with their own claims following recent action over controversial methods used to gain information: “The Sun…claims that its journalists are subject to a witch-hunt. If this is not a witch-hunt par excellence, I don’t know what is”.

Whatever your feelings are about a transman giving birth, and mine are very mixed, that isn’t really the point. I believe passionately in an individual’s right to choose their own path. Some people choose to go about their business in the media glare, others do not. This transman has the right to respect, privacy and protection.

To paraphrase Kennedy, as trans people, supporters of trans people, and just plain old supporters of a human being’s right not to be hunted down, it is important that the press are told nothing, so that this man and his family can get on with living their lives.

Anybody being hounded by any journalists on this issue can contact Trans Media Watch for support and advice or call the Press Complaints Commission (PCC) 24 Hour emergency advice line on 07659 152656.

Does this face look bovvered?

When I first started to transition, not being seen as a woman was EVERYthing. After all, before testosterone started to work its magic, and even before I was taking the stuff, it felt like the only things I had to *prove* I wasn’t a woman were clothes and attitude. Oh, and my name, of course. But even as I introduced myself, I knew that people were not thinking “Oh my goodness, he’s called MARK, what a fool I was to think he wasn’t a man!” More like “Mark? That’s weird, she’s got a man’s name. Oh well, I’ll go along with it…”

So I worked hard to try and present myself in a way that would ‘point people in the right direction’, and, let’s be honest, got a bit upset when people persisted in misgendering me. I guess part of the problem is that I knew myself that I was not a woman, and had very quickly disassociated myself from my old female name and presentation. Very early on in the process I moved headspace away from female. That’s not to say I have crossed some metaphorical canyon – I don’t believe gender works like that – but with self-acceptance, validation from the medical profession and a concrete decision to transition came a shift in something that I can’t even think of a name for. My ‘me-ness’, perhaps?

One of the upshots of this is that whilst the sensible person that I am realises that when strangers misgender me, it’s because they DON’T KNOW and CAN’T TELL, there’s another, big part of me that is genuinely surprised that they can’t tell! That sounds crazy, I know, but I now identify so strongly as not-female that it honestly seems illogical for people to call me ‘she’ or ‘the lady’. However, that’s my problem, not other people’s.

Armed with this knowledge, I have moved on from a point where I wanted to tell everyone how mistaken they were, in some bizarre antithesis of David Walliams’ ghastly “I’m a LADY” sketch. After all, there’s not a lot to be gained from embarrassing a stranger, and really, if I’m not going to see someone again, I’m unlikely, these days, to bristle too much when Will and I are referred to as “you girls”. Though actually, after nearly a year on T, I’m tempted to suggest someone referring to me as a girl needs to go to Specsavers.

Perhaps I am more mellow about other people these days because I do ‘pass’ a lot better, and fewer people use feminine pronouns or words to refer to me. It does still happen, though, and probably always will. I’m unlikely to ever look like The Rock, so a certain amount of ‘sucking it up’ will probably always be needed.

However, and this is an important however, I am talking about strangers here, not colleagues, family or friends. I think it’s reasonable to expect that the people who know, love, live or work with trans people do need to make the effort to think about the language they are using, and what it says about their attitude to the trans person in their life. Sure, mistakes happen, but as I’ve said in an earlier post, a quick ‘sorry’, correcting the mistake and moving on works wonders. Just remember how powerful a small mistake can be for the recipient.

Back to my strangers. People on the street will use gendered language without thought (and hopefully without malice), but I do have a particular bugbear with people in shops/service industries/professional customer facing environments using ‘lady’ and ‘gentleman’ to refer to people. In an ideal world, I would like it if people in shops and so on learnt not to refer to others with a gendered word. For instance, I went into a shop a while back, and had to see the manager and I was asked to wait whilst they were called. The person serving me, when the manager arrived, pointed me out and said “This lady needs your help”. Of course I sucked it up, but really, how difficult would it be to substitute the word ‘customer’ – just as polite. And I don’t just mean using more neutral language around people whose gender you are not sure of, but for everyone.

The way we refer to people doesn’t have to be gendered – have a look through some of my blogposts: whilst I don’t always manage it, it’s very rare that I refer to someone specifically by their gender. That’s not the way I think about people…but that’s a whole other blogpost!

 

Get primped and pretty at the Butterfly Beauty Shop!

I have always loved Lego. I remember I had a big flat box full of Lego goodies when I was little, with an actual working engine that you could make stuff move with. I also had a big toffee-tin full of Lego bricks. They were great.

It’s quite easy for people to assume that as a transman, I must have been a really boyish child, refusing to wear skirts, skinning my knees all the time and playing with my cars and toy construction set. Not true. I had a few dolls, and an amazing dolls house my Dad made. It had little electric lights, carpets, and soft-furnishings made by my Mum. Very cool. I was musically minded and fond of reading, so you’d be more likely to find me practising my flute (I started young) or sitting with a book than setting up a teddy bear’s picnic or trashing a Hot Wheels car. Then, as now, I suppose, I was a little bit of everything.

It has always disturbed me that catalogues such as Argos actually had a “Girls’ Toys” and a “Boys’ Toys” section, but to be honest, it was only reflecting a similar segregation in stores such as Toys ‘R’ Us, and just about any conventional toy shop you’re ever likely to walk into. These days, Argos no longer labels its toys by gender, but by type. A small improvement, but you’ve only got to flick through the catalogue for it to be blatantly obvious which products are aimed at which kids.

Now fair enough, I know that playing with pink stuff occasionally did not turn me into a raging feminine Stepford Wife-type. Equally, insisting that my daughter had a wide variety of not-particularly-gender-specific toys when she was growing up did not stop her enjoying so-called ‘feminine’ things as she grew older. Hopefully, as parents, we can bring up our children to realise that whilst pink is a lovely colour, toys can be fun whatever the colour, style and what section of the shop/catalogue they have come from. In an ideal world. But children learn fast, and a scarily high percentage of what they learn is not from us parents…it’s from Out There. The majority of kids want to fit in. I’m sure a sociologist could explain better than me why this is, but I’m guessing it goes back to cave-dwelling days and the need to be part of the group for survival. Hence if a boy gets it drummed into his psyche by media, marketing and his peers that pink is for girls, that’s going to stick, however much he might wish to go against the flow.

Surely if companies insist on making toys that are explicitly aimed at girls pink, encouraging girls to play with them in a stereotypically ‘feminine’ way, then however we try to educate our children, they will think that girls and boys *are* those stereotypes. Children who believe that are, I believe, far more likely to find it difficult to accept people who differ from the gender binary, and will undoubtedly struggle if they find that they themselves do not feel comfortable trying to fit into the gendered roles that media and marketing are trying to slot them into.

So, back to Lego, my favourite childhood toy. One of the things that has made it so lasting, I believe, is its total flexibility. With my toffee-tin full of bricks, I could make absolutely anything I wanted, even adding, say, a working windmill with my little Lego engine, or a Lego car. Did I make stereotypically ‘girl’ or ‘boy’ things with my Lego? Who knows – my memory isn’t that long. But at least I had the choice to make ANYthing I wanted.

Lego have just brought out a new range: “Friends”. It’s aimed at girls. How can I tell? Well, apart from the general pastelly purply pinkness of the colour schemes and the Bratz-like, slightly sexual female Lego characters (yes, I did say sexual…did YOUR Lego characters have make-up on and short skirts when you were young? Oh, and ‘lipsticks’ that look suspiciously like…well, you check out the picture) the blurb that describes the toys online could never be accused of gender neutrality. You know, if I try to deconstruct this any more, I may cry, so here’s a taste for you to look at yourself:

It’s a busy day of beauty fun down at the Butterfly Beauty Shop! Emma loves this posh little salon at the center of Heartlake City! Shop for lipstick, makeup and hair accessories! Emma and all of her friends will look fabulous with bows, sunglasses, a hairbrush, mirror, lipsticks and new hair styles. Get the girls ready for any event with the salon where you can rearrange the interior! Includes Emma and Sarah mini-doll figures.

• Includes 2 mini-doll figures: Emma and Sarah
• Features fountain, bench and salon furniture
• Accessories include a money brick, hair elements, lipsticks, a purse, bows, sunglasses, a hair dryer, hairbrush and a mirror
• Give all of the LEGO® Friends makeovers
• Gossip out on the bench by the scenic fountain!
• Shop for makeup and hair accessories!
• Pay with the money brick!
• LEGO Friends pieces are fully compatible with all LEGO bricks
• Collect all of the LEGO Friends sets for a whole world of LEGO Friends fun!
• LEGO mini-dolls are LEGO minifigures made especially for the world of LEGO Friends with thousands of customizable hair and fashion combinations
• Measures over 4” (12cm) tall, 6” (16cm) wide and 6” (16cm) long

I do not believe that questioning gendering of our children’s toys will turn those children into super-accepting adults, willing to embrace the sexuality and genders of themselves and others with joy, peace and understanding. I do, however, believe very strongly that whilst we continue to accept the ruthless gendering that is being forced on our children, we are potentially making it very difficult indeed for children and young people growing up and questioning their gender identities to accept themselves, and seek and receive acceptance from others.

Transgender Day of Remembrance

20th November 2011 is the 13th Annual Transgender Day of Remembrance. It is a sobering day on which we remember the hundreds of trans people across the world who have been killed because they were transgender. According to statistics summarized in a 2010 report by the Transgender Europe (TGEU) Trans Murder Monitoring Project, every second day a homicide of a trans person is being reported. According to the same group, 116 transgender people were murdered globally in the first nine months of 2011.

Reports of the deaths are often horrifying. Trans people have been raped, stoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, burned to death, because someone somewhere did not like their gender identity or presentation. More often than not, someone they knew, even a family member.

Many of these people’s murderers are never caught. Sadly, in a lot of cases, not a great deal of effort seems to go into finding the perpetrator, or charging them appropriately. If they are caught, some are proud of their actions, others claim that they have restored family honour, and more again claim a “trans panic” defence. In this, a defendant claims that when discovering that someone was transgender, he or she acted in a state of violent temporary insanity because of a little-known psychiatric condition called “Trans Panic”. Give me a break. Fortunately, this defence is rarely upheld in court, but the fact that it even exists as a defence in the first place sickens me to the core.

You want to know how many trans people have been reported as murdered since 1998 (when records were started by concerned organisations)? Please spare a couple of minutes to look at this list: Remembering Our Dead 1998-2011

Now bear in mind that these are only the murders that have been reported. And that it doesn’t include suicides. Thousands of trans people globally have committed suicide over a similar timescale. Because of fear, harassment and lack of understanding from their families, friends and those they come across day-to-day. Because of rejection, sexual abuse, violence and being made to feel that they are perverted, freakish and crazy.

We need to see an end to the objectification and villification of trans people. We need to see an end to the idea that being transgender is just about your genitalia. We need to see an end to the idea that somehow some trans people deserve to be killed, for crossing whatever social or religious line someone thinks they shouldn’t have. We need to see a radical change in police attitudes towards the deaths that are going on, and the seriousness with which reports of harassment, abuse and threats are treated.

More to the point, people need to realise that it’s not just the murders that are the problem. It’s the trans people who are afraid to leave their homes because of threats of violence. It’s those who lose out on work when people realise they are trans. It’s those who are beaten because they don’t fit in with society’s rules of what it’s ok to look like. It’s people who are rejected by their families for being honest about themselves. The ones who have names shouted at them by people who think that’s ok, because they’re not, somehow, “proper people”.

People like me are being victimised, abused, murdered and left believing that the only way out is suicide, every day. We are just people, like anyone else. The senselessness of these crimes is that a lot of people actually think they’re justified.

For more information about the Transgender Day of Remembrance, please take a look at the TDOR website.

So how ARE you? IN YOURSELF?

Do we look unhappy?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those of you who know Peter Kay (the best thing to come out of Bolton since Reebok shoes and spun cotton) may remember his sketch, that goes something like this:

Concerned person: How ARE you?

Other person: I’m fine.

Concerned person: (Looking meaningful) Yes, but how are you IN YOURSELF?

This sketch continues when talking about someone else:

Mr Curious: So how’s your son? IN HIMSELF?

With the latter part of that query accompanied by a screwed-up face showing concern, tenderness, and not a little meddling nosiness.

“In yourself” (or “him/her/themself”) implies ‘inside’, ‘emotionally’, and generally on a level not adequately covered by the answer “fine”. It is a way of implying that there are Deeper Things to be uncovered and discussed, whether or not the person being asked really wants to spill their guts. I find it’s also often a way for people to be dead nosey, hidden under a veneer of concern. But then, I’ve always been a bit cynical, and transitioning hasn’t made me any less so.

My partner and I get this kind of thing quite a lot. People no doubt have the best of intentions, asking me, perhaps, how my transition is going, or how my partner is dealing with my changes, but if they’re told “fine”, or a longer equivalent, things sometimes get a little too personal.

With me, it sometimes doesn’t seem to be enough for things to be going ok. Which they pretty much are. 46 blog posts later, I don’t think I can be accused of holding back on how I feel, but, you know, sometimes things really are just fine. Sometimes they’re not, but can anybody honestly say that they don’t have their downs as well as their ups? You may just catch me on a day when I don’t feel like explaining something that’s troubling me in detail, particularly when 9 times out of 10 people assume that anything that’s wrong must be because of My Big Decision.

(Quick note to any other trans people reading this – how often do you hear “Wow, that must have been a Really Big Decision”. No sh*t!!)

As for Willemina, people assume that she must be going through emotional hell and is just hiding it because she is brave, and doesn’t want to upset me. Now, she has assured me that’s not the case, and we have sufficient love and mutual respect going on that there’s enough honesty between us for me to believe her. But other people sometimes seem to find it hard to do the same. We’re not Super Couple, but we’re plodding along through life just the same as we always did, and whilst it’d be stupid to assume there’s been no impact by my transition on our relationship, it’s a shame to assume that either Willemina or our life together are about to fall apart. You know what? We’re fine.

Which brings me to another, more personal area. When was the last time you enquired about the sex-life of a couple you know? If a couple you are friends with have had a lot of things going on in their life, did you ask them if they are still sleeping together? If that couple went through life changes of whatever sort, did you ask one of them if their sex-life was still satisfying?

There can be an assumption that because my transition is based around gender, that somehow it is also connected to sexuality (via genitalia, I’m guessing?). This leads to the further assumption that because I have chosen to transition very openly, sharing areas of my life that you don’t often learn about, that I don’t have boundaries. Of course I am open about my gender identity, but that really does not make it “fine” to ask us about sex, or our relationship, or to assume that these might be under attack by my transition. Or that if we say things are “fine” we must be hiding something. Just as I have maintained in the past, and still maintain, what is in my pants is my business. In the same way, what my partner and I do in each others’ pants is not up for discussion.

To quote Hillary Clinton, hopelessly out of context:
“I believe in a zone of privacy”.

 

In diversity there is beauty and there is strength.

Only three days now until my chest surgery. I’ve set the Out of Office message at work, palmed all my outstanding cases onto a lovely colleague and made sure there’s nothing that’s going to go rancid in my locker for the next couple of weeks. On the surface I’m pretty well organised – I have a long ‘To Do’ list for tomorrow, including pyjama buying, hair cut and library raid, and I’ve read every bit of paper relevant to my hospital visit at least twenty times.

I am terrified. Not least because I have had a breast reduction previously, so have an approximate idea of the pain to come. I’m scared, of course, of the ‘What Ifs?”. What if the anaesthetic goes wrong? What if I end up a really weird shape? What if I lose a nipple, or both? What if the scars end up a mile wide and florid scarlet? And many more.

I think the terror is a good thing. I’d hate to go into this thinking everything’ll be just rosy. There are all sorts of risks involved in what I’m doing,  life-threatening, aesthetic and practical. They say a little adrenaline is a good thing to get you through a hard time, and I sincerely hope my fear is just the thing I need to get me through the days and weeks ahead.

People have been very kind in their good wishes, a little surprisingly. After all, let’s face it, what I’m doing is voluntary, and also, I’m not totally convinced that people really know what’s being done. One recent friend did look at my tightly bound chest and say “Well surely it’s only a small op – there’s not much there”.

I’ve heard FTM chest surgery described as a number of things, including ‘cosmetic’. I appreciate that in purely linguistic terms, this procedure could be described as ‘cosmetic’. People have all sorts of things done to try to achieve their own vision of how they wish to look. I seek to have my breasts removed in order to look more masculine; to bring my body into line with how I see myself. ‘Cosmetic’ is a word that should be used carefully, though, as the reasons that this surgery is so vital to me run far, far deeper than looks and surface gloss. Can I point you towards my posts Take my breasts awaaaaay and FTM Q&A for further discussion of how my breasts have shaped my happiness (or lack) over the years.

Another word I have heard recently to describe this type of surgery is ‘mutilation’. To be precise, I have read it once, and also been told the story of someone using the word when told about my surgery. Props to the member of my family who put the person she was talking to right on this one.

Mutilation is a strong word. It implies violence, force, malice, gore, lack of consent, darkness and wrongdoing. My chest surgery involves none of these things. It is sweet, longed-for relief from both a physical and a psychological burden. I find it interesting that nobody ever suggested my earlier breast reduction was mutilation. I can only assume that some people might see what I am undertaking as such because of the connections in their own minds between a transman removing his breasts and a woman being de-sexed. They are not the same.

Far from being a dark destruction of some aspect of my gender identity, I feel that this surgery will be quite the opposite, helping me to be grounded and confident in my own body for the first time in…well, since puberty, probably. As easy as it might be to see this as losing my feminine, I view it as a joyful gaining of my masculine. My breasts make me unhappy. They make it hard to function socially. They embarrass me, make it impossible to enter masculine spaces and make it necessary to put in a super-human effort to be accepted as who and what I say I am.

Part of that super-human effort has been to bind my breasts. I have now been doing that for over a year. Binding makes me hot, breathless, sweaty and uncomfortable. My skin is showing all too clearly the effects of being encased in nylon every day. My breast tissue is starting to suffer and break-down. I long for freedom and comfort. I long to put on a cotton shirt and actually feel cotton against my skin. I long to be able to move freely. I long to just be me.

So really, which is the mutilation? Where is the darkness, destruction and wrongdoing? It lies in being unable to live as I wish, to enjoy the freedom of my body as I see it. It certainly is not the surgery I face on Monday.

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It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength.

Maya Angelou

Love Is A Weird Thing

A year ago today I entered into a Civil Partnership with Willemina, who agreed to sign the dotted line with me despite my being what I optimistically term “an interesting person”. Or as an ex put it, “you’ve got so much baggage you need a Pickford’s van”. For those of you not living in sunny Britshire, a Civil Partnership is a legally recognised union between two people of the same sex. It affords same-sex couples the same legal rights as a heterosexual marriage. Weirdly, nobody’s thought up a good verb to describe this act. There’s no equivalent to “I married Willemina a year ago”. After all “I partnered Willemina a year ago” sounds a bit silly, and just a touch smutty.

Amyway, semantics aside, that’s what we did. A terrific day was had by all, with skulls and roses, vegan deliciousness, balloon twisting, a bit of crying (me) and 5 inch stillettoes (Willemina and my daughter). After entering the ceremony room to the tune of “I Am The One And Only”, we solemnly promised to love each other whatever life might throw at us.

And boy, has life done some throwing. I knew in my heart that I was transgender long before this ceremony, and Willemina and I both knew, when we promised to love each other, that I would soon start to formally transition. It actually didn’t occur to us once to call things off, because we saw what we were doing as our way to tell the world how we felt about one another. And if I’m honest, we just wanted to be that little bit closer to one another, by sealing it in ink, swapping rings, combining our names, and having a damn good party.

When we felt the time had come to tell family and friends about the changes I was planning to make, we sent out lots of letters, emails and messages. We wanted people to hear from us, not through the grapevine. We were very, very shocked when an old friend wrote back to us and said the following:

“I think you are making a mockery of the fight for equal marriage rights by having a Civil Partnership, then deciding to go ahead and have a sex change [sic] anyway”.

My initial reaction to this was write a two page missive making it perfectly clear what I thought of this person and her ideas. Fortunately, my second reaction was to save that missive, and leave it for a few days. We actually never replied to her. There were just so many things to be said that ultimately silence was the safest response.

For a start, this misguided notion that I might “decide to go ahead with a sex change” is kind of laughable, until it hits home that a lot of people really do think that’s how it works. Maybe life over the last few years would have been easier, if it were simply a case of waking up one morning and deciding “Today, I am going to be a man”. Ha! I am a big fan of Family Guy, but was shocked speechless by the programme’s portrayal of a man walking into the operating theatre, and coming out a statuesque blonde. Who then goes on to revolt all in her acquaintance. All in the one day. As you do. The issue of how long, both emotionally and physically it takes to transition, and the naivete of the idea that identifying as trans is simply a one way street with ‘woman’ at one end, and ‘man’ at the other, deserve more space on this blog than I feel I can give today, but please, if you ever hear anyone referring to someone “deciding to have a sex change”, do me a favour, and do a little educating. Or punch them.

But on to whether we made a mockery of the fight for equal marriage. Willemina and I are both legally female. At some point in the dim and distant future, I may (or may not) choose to apply for a Gender Recognition Certificate. This, amongst other things, would make me legally male, and therefore able to marry Willemina in a heterosexual marriage. This all assumes a lot of things. It assumes I will ever decide I wish to apply for a GRC. It assumes that Willemina and I actually want to be seen as a heterosexual couple. It’s a really complicated issue, and not one that is likely to be resolved in the near future.

We entered into a Civil Partnership because that’s the only option available to make our partnership legally recognised. We also did so because we wished to validate same-sex unions, and make our friends and family aware of the commitment equal to marriage such a partnership brings. Being trans doesn’t suddenly make me immune to feeling passionate about the rights of same-sex couples, and whilst I acknowledge that I did not actually identify as female when we became Civil Partners, we made the most of what we had, and tried to fly the flag for what is still a fairly new institution. Is that us making a mockery? I hope not.

A year on, our passion for each other burns strong. Our tolerance for each other’s farts, bad jokes and general stubbornness is just as strong as it ever was. Our Civil Partnership has made a definite, but hard to quantify, difference. Our year since the ceremony has been peppered with change, some hardship and having to deal with the prejudices of others. We’re not perfect, but I can say with hand on heart that without Willemina, this year would have been impossible.

One year on, we are being truer to ourselves than ever, and if a loving, ever-blossoming relationship between a staunch lesbian and a queer transman is really making a mockery of anything, it’s making a mockery of other people’s perceptions of how relationships should be. And in many cases those perceptions deserve all the mockery they get.

 

That’s Not My Name!

I never liked my birth name. Even as a child I didn’t like the way it sounded, so soft, girly and weak. Sorry, Mum and Dad. I know it was given to me in love, but from a very early age I did not associate it with my Self. For years, though, it didn’t even occur to me that I could do anything about my name – I just assumed that your name was your name, and that was that. Around eight years ago,  I started using a shorter, much simpler, more androgynous name, a spin off from my old name. This had power for me because it was a name I had given myself, and it did not immediately label me male or female, weak or strong.It was simply a name that allowed me to be.

I used that second name for a long time, but a few people were never happy that I had changed, clearly not taking my desire to be referred to a certain way very seriously. I will never forget family coming to see my partner and I, and visiting the local village fete – full of old ladies, home-made jam and a flower arranging competition. Everybody there knew me by my chosen name. However, one member of my family told every single person she was introduced to “You know that’s not her real name, don’t you? Her real name is X”. It was destroying.

Yet again I have changed my name, to Mark. I chose it because it’s short, unassuming, undeniably masculine, and is similar to my Dad’s name. The majority of my friends and family have made a monumental effort to call me this, and I am more grateful than they can possibly imagine that they are trying their best. My choice of name is core to my being accepted for the person I am. I respect the fact that some people still think of me by my birth name, but I cannot stand it being used. What is worse is when people try to make a joke of it, or explain why they have got it wrong. Please, if you slip up and call me the wrong name, just say sorry, correct yourself and carry on. Don’t go into a long-winded speech about how difficult you find it calling me by the right name, or make an embarrassed joke. I might be smiling, and saying it’s ok, and doesn’t matter, but it does.

As I’ve said, most people are now pretty cool with calling me Mark, but pronouns are clearly more of an issue. I identify as male, and choose to be called he, him and so on. I’ve listened to far too many excrutiating statements a little like this: “Mark would like that new album. She’s into that kind of music, isn’t she?” It’s as if people can wrap their brains around the idea of me being called Mark, but somehow stall at using the correct pronouns. Look, even I get it wrong sometimes, when referring to myself in the third person (I can’t think of an example just now) but it’s easy enough to say “oops, I meant he” and carry on.

A friend of mine found that people claimed they “weren’t ready” to call her partner by the right name and pronouns when he transitioned, but I’m afraid that when the person transitioning asks you to call them by a particular name, and use particular pronouns, THAT is the time you should do it, not at some hypothetical future point at which you may be ready to. Sorry if this sounds harsh. I know that accepting my name change and choice of pronouns is difficult, but it’s been nearly six months, and I need the reassurance that the changes I am making are being taken seriously.

I have been asked by people who have only recently met me what my “real name” is. Here is one of the cardinal rules of treating transgender people with respect: Do. Not. Ask. Us. What. Our. “Real”. Name. Is.

Because my real name is Mark.

FTM Q&A

Thank you to those of you who sent me questions. If you read this and realise you have a burning question, let me know, on FB or in the comments here. I’ll do my best to answer honestly! Please remember that all FTMs are different and will have different views on these issues…I cannot speak for anyone except myself.

What does it mean to feel like you’re trapped in the wrong body? (Or do you even identify with that common statement?)

The simplest answer to this is that I really don’t feel this way. “I feel like a man trapped inside a woman’s body” may genuinely be how some transmen feel, but for a lot of us those words are merely the ticket to the medical treatment we need. However complex your self-identification, you cannot afford to be ambiguous in what you tell the doctor when you want to be referred to a Gender Identity Clinic. Perhaps especially so in the UK where treatment is free, and doctors are under pressure to keep costs down. Also, whether speaking to your doctor, or your friends, sometimes you have to say something that is easy for people to relate to. Resorting to a cliché can just make life easier.

People are often keen to ask “but how do you KNOW you’re transgendered”. My best answer is simply that “I just know”. Ask anyone, trans- or cis-gendered (non-trans) how they actually KNOW that they are whatever gender they identify as, and few could really tell you. If you strip away the physical characteristics, the socialisation and the way you are treated by others, what do you have left? Just the knowledge that you are who you are. So whilst I would only use the “man trapped inside woman” description in the most hopeless situations, where I really don’t feel the person I’m talking to will ever grasp the nuances of gender identity, I trust myself to know who I am, and to acknowledge that the more I shed the vestiges of femininity, the happier I am.

Don’t you make of your body what you want it to be? For example, there are plenty of very masculine women and very feminine men, so is it specifically the body that has to be changed, or do you think it has to do more with personality/trait characteristics?

I completely agree that we must make of our bodies what we can. Certainly one of my biggest issues as a transman is having a very feminine body, and for years I have done my best to work with what I have. I grew up believing that if life dealt you a particular hand of cards, you just put up with it and did your best to get on with living. However, the dysphoria that comes along with this is massive, and damaging. As an example, I cannot stand my breasts. Not in a ‘they’re really annoying’ kind of way, but with loathing. When I used to dress as a woman, I would try to hide my chest as much as possible. On the occasions when I braced myself to try to ‘make the most of what I have’ and be feminine, I showed them off. And felt like crying. And hated myself more.

These days I go to extraordinary lengths to hide my female shape. Not because I’m particularly vain, but because if I don’t I can barely go outside my front door. I wear a binder, which is a strongly elasticated vest-like garment which comes down to my thighs. It completely flattens my chest and compresses the hips to a degree. It hurts, overheats me, threatens to break down my skin in places and restricts my breathing, but is necessary for me to have the confidence to go out with my head high. Some transmen have broken ribs wearing binders. So why go to these extremes? As I was asked very early on in my transition “why not just dress in a masculine way?” If I didn’t achieve changes in my body, largely through hormone therapy and mastectomy, the dysphoria I feel towards my body would stay, whatever clothes I was wearing.

There are many ‘masculine’ women, and ‘feminine’ men. People identify in many ways on the gender spectrum. The Butch community is strong, particularly in the US. They may dress and act in what a lot of people would consider a ‘masculine’ way, but ask the average Butch if they are a man, and I guarantee they will say no. That’s the real difference between ‘masculine women’ and transmen. We identify completely differently. I could no more continue living as a woman than a Butch would consider themselves a man.

So yes, a lot of this is about physical change. With regards to personality traits, we are all who we are, and I am not looking to change my personality. Testosterone certainly produces changes of a less tangible nature than just moulding flesh, such as emotional response, and these do impact on one’s behaviour, but the longest battle I face is unravelling the effects of 39 years living as a woman, and being treated as such by the rest of the world. If I want to unravel it, that is. I firmly believe that it is possible to acknowledge one’s past as well as creating a more positive future, so this is definitely a work in progress.

I think gender is very fluid, with the exception of genitalia. So why is genitalia so important? Is it not rather insignificant? Couldn’t you be who you are today with breasts etc instead of no breasts and a penis?

A transguy’s genitalia are mainly important to the outside world. As mentioned before in my blog, people have a fascination with what’s in our pants. I have been asked yet again this week by a total stranger (another nurse – do they think that gives them the right?) “When are you having The Operation?” In truth, there isn’t a clear cut answer to The Penis Question, largely due to the fluidity of gender-identification and experience. To some transmen, the penis is some sort of Holy Grail. To very many more, it is just not that important. A lot of transmen transition happily and successfully leaving their genitals alone. It’s not all about the penis, nor is FTM transgenderism some sort of extreme penis envy. There’s a whole lot more to transitioning than a pretty piece of flesh.

Do you watch Hollyoaks? If so, what have you thought about the Jasmine->Jason storyline?

I don’t watch Soaps, though my partner does enjoy Hollyoaks and has kept me posted on the Jasmine/Jason storyline. Dislike of the genre aside, I have avoided watching any of this storyline very deliberately. I just can’t watch trans storylines on TV or on film for a number of reasons. Firstly, because TV producers so often screw things up. They are making their programmes to get ratings, and however sensitive they may be to the issues, drama sells. The process of a young transguy coming to terms with his own gender-identity, the coming out to his family, dealing with the impact this has on his (male) partner, seeking and receiving ongoing treatment, would normally take years, not the few months Hollyoaks was able to spare in its scripts.

I have read that the actress taking on the role of Jasmine/Jason had a lot of support and advice from young transguys at different stages of transition, which is definitely a good thing. Saying that, the few times I did see Jason on screen, he did seem to be wearing a woolly hat a lot and saying “I’m a boy” in a faux deep voice. Less good. The trouble is, you can’t actually depict the process of transitioning with any sort of realism. Witness Max on L-Word. Sorry guys, but we don’t suddenly turn into abusive, rage-ridden people, sporting “beards” that look suspiciously like gravy browning. If you’re going to do it, get it right.

Another reason I find trans storylines so hard to watch is that when they DO get things right, it can be very painful to watch. Transitioning, and other people’s reactions to it, can be very dark, and lonely at times, and seeing this on screen can be almost unbearable to watch.

I believe Waterloo Road has recently introduced a MTF character. I avoid Waterloo Road like the plague, being an ex-teacher, but it will be interesting to see what happens. Sadly, Soaps tend to ‘dip into’ an issue, then it sort of disappears. Like Jason’s storyline – lots of drama, then nothing: everything appears to have been resolved. Anybody remember poor old Sonia in Eastenders? She came out as a lesbian, was rejected by family, humiliated by her ex-boyfriend, got a girlfriend, was happy for about 3 seconds, regretted her “decision” to “become” a lesbian, got back with boyfriend, storyline over. Bada bing. Soaps need to learn that LGBTIQ storylines CAN be ongoing and dynamic, not just leading either to regret, or violence, or both.