My parents wanted their first-born to be a boy. Then I came along. Two years later my brother emerged and he was very definitely a boy.
At the age of 4 i had vague feelings that my brother and i were different. As we grew, and became aware of the world and each other, we seemed to form some distaste, antipathy for each other. Perhaps not so much each other as it was for those things that we enjoyed – they certainly differed. My brother’s loud, boisterous ways simply were not compatible with my shy, quiet demeanor. I was reading at the age of 4 while my brother was destroying furniture with his toy trucks. Later we shared a newspaper round – i read the papers as i delivered them, my brother just shoved his bundle into a storm drain and demanded the payment to get his chocolates. I would skip or dance, he would trudge.
If it was just the two of us, it would have been easy – he would have beat me up, i would have cried and run away. My parents complicated matters. They insisted on some form of civilization in my brother’s behaviour. And they insisted i should set an example as their first-born son. I tried to deliver. I had ideas of honour and chivalry and fair play – i read about them in the stories of princesses and castles and unicorns that i loved. Of course I knew i was different, but in the 1950’s the labels we use today were unknown. My father, so opposite to my mother, spent hours lecturing me on my deficiencies and my stupidity. He was my father – i believed him. But i loved my mother, she was everything i admired and everything i wanted to be. Both loving and brave, she would intercede on my behalf and by doing so, become the target for my father’s cruel mental abuse. I would cry out “I’ll be a good boy!” but i was never quite good enough, and when the arguments and lecturing and sobbing went far into the night, I knew it must be my fault.
At an age when i should have worn the dresses and hairstyles my friends happily showed me, I wore a boy scout uniform. I even earned the Queen’s Scout badge, trying to be that ‘good boy’. And then at 16, because my father had been a British officer, I joined the local regiment and wore the same scratchy battledress that my father knew. He probably didn’t know that pantyhose took out the worst scratchiness. During summer months when workers had holidays and schools took breaks, training exercises took place. The regiment went to some forested training ground. We put our kit into tents and marched off to be fierce. I forgot my detested rifle and ran back for it. And a huge corporal shouted at me. He sent me off to a cleared area where his bellows wouldn’t disturb the officers. And i cried. The corporal pushed me down to the forest floor and i curled up expecting a beating. I was shocked to find myself gently lifted to a powerful kiss. I thought i had died and gone to heaven. Then he let me down in a heap. “You had better see the officer about your future in this unit.” Later he claimed he had expected me to fight back and be a proper man. But from then on i knew my preference was always for big masculine men. And i did see the major, and shook like a leaf as i attempted a salute. He invited me to sit as i tried to explain how i’d never be fit to be a soldier. Kindly, he offered to send me for more training but i insisted it just wasn’t in me, I was afraid of weapons, i wasn’t brave or any good thing. So he asked about any other job I could do for the regiment – chef? clerk typist? And my reply was either brave or panic “I’d love to be a nurse.” He looked at me sadly “that’s a woman’s job.” “Yes sir.” And so i was discharged.
So i thought i had the label for my difference, for my unease. I was gay. And Stonewall meant i could be proud of it. I thought i hid it well at home, but in Toronto weekends i was OUT. i even went to a newly formed ‘gay church’, met some queens who invited me to a party we would attend in drag. That idea made me feel uncomfortable. I had very few friends and they were straight women. I didn’t like to degrade or denigrate them, i wanted to blend in with them. I had found an apartment in downtown Toronto by then, my girlfriends would visit and i’d catch them staring. We’d established quickly that i had no sex interest in them, or for them. So i thought maybe they stared because they didn’t know any other queer boys. Finally i was asked if i had ever tried makeup? And they had a lot of fun with me. One fluffed my hair as well. The impact of my image in a mirror was huge. I gasped several times then burst into tears. And i never wanted to feel so shaken again.
But of course I did want to see that image. It was so right. My job was in a sport store opposite two major department stores, so each lunch break found me with one of their bags and some makeup item. Until the sports store was sold to a chain that didn’t feel faggots suited their image. Jobless, i traveled to the UK to visit my grandparents. And then i discovered swinging London – Carnaby Street, Bibas, Oxford Street, so much colour, so alive and exciting. And I found a cheap room in a Knightsbridge B&B. Soon i was at parties most nights. Some led to further invitations to special parties where my androgynous appearance found favour. I would dance with the guys, and cuddle with men who soon found that a feminine gift or compliment was enough for my affection. In makeup, and a robe or dress, with curls in my hair, I’d see my reflection in a mirror or darkened window and my unease, my dysphoria, vanished.
Very late one night as i returned to the B&B in a bedraggled state, I was invited for tea by the owner’s wife. She warned me that i might soon burn out if i kept partying as I did and i replied that i didn’t care. She said that she and Mike did care and then surprised me by saying that she had been a lot like me until Mike sorted her. And i challenged “What would you know?” to which she replied that when she said a lot like me she meant she had been a boy too. I was stunned – no way this woman was ever a boy. She offered a photo album, documents. And i gasped “How?” So she took me to the gender clinic at Charing Cross (Fulham) Hospital and a very superior looking shrink Dr Randall, who insisted that i bring a letter of referral from my family doctor when I returned. I said i didn’t know if i would return. And Dr R looked down his nose and sniffed.
Yes it took a while to get the courage. Not like now when young people are getting proper diagnosis at earlier ages, and support from family. My father’s disdain for me included my gender and my sexuality, though he did try to accept, once the deed got done. My mother recently expressed her attitude: “You killed my son.” Mum is right – the boy she loved ceased to exist as i transitioned. Mum has not been able to fully accept the daughter who took his place. I feel that the daughter was always there, but at some point it became too much of a strain for her to keep pretending to be a boy.
As I came to terms with myself, I met lovely women waiting for Dr R, and a few at parties. We would argue that we knew who was in Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side (no we didn’t, they are all American) and then we’d all claim to be Bowie’s inspiration in Rebel Rebel.
During this time I met Malcolm. I was in boy drag – leather fringed biker jacket, jeans, boots. Still trying to convince myself that i was just gay, as it seemed more acceptable than being transsexual. But unlike most queer boys, i could not stand to have my genitals touched. I hated them, wanted rid of them, they were just wrong. I’d prayed so often, right from childhood, for god to take them off me. Malcolm seemed to understand me even when I would not commit to him. He committed to me. Taking me to the gender clinic, supporting me through university studies (my RLT real-life test). He even brought me a take-away kebab after my surgery – much better than hospital food.
But Malcolm is gay, and not at all attracted to the woman i had become. I had this weird attitude that said Malcolm’s rejection of me as a sexual partner kind of affirmed my gender; his rejection was my validation. We became companions. We survived bankruptcy, homelessness, major health issues. During better times we shared the joy of buying a new house, a yacht. At one low point, a visiting officer from DSS (the UK welfare office) told us i couldn’t claim because Malcolm was working and we were a couple. I delighted in telling him i was, according to UK law, a bloke. And he couldn’t force one single man to support another. This all changed in 2004 with the Gender Recognition Act, so that the next year I received a corrected Birth Certificate saying i’m a girl. And having that, I was a spinster of the parish and able to marry. So we did, in a registry office on 30 July 2005. My BFF Sue organised almost everything. My Mum, neighbours, work colleagues, and friends gathered to honour us, and i was so very happy. Malcolm enjoyed it too but spent much of the time at the bar with his workmates and buddies. There was none of the night-time happenings everyone expected. It was important to me to be accepted as a straight woman – being married, having a man reinforced my community’s perception that way.
At work, Malcolm found increasing difficulty with leg pain, and blamed an old knee injury. But at hospital he was diagnosed with arthritic hips. Within a few years he had surgeries to install titanium hip replacements and to have pelvic reconstruction. And he developed cataracts due to having frequent pain medications, so he had plastic lenses installed. My bionic husband tried but failed to cope with his job, and soon it was my turn to be supportive.
I was working at the same DSS offices where i had been a client, and rumours and suspicions were abundant. Senior managers had my file, and somehow i was overlooked during promotion rounds. As my retirement approached (I could claim pension at womens’ age 60 instead of men’s age 65) we found that becoming British pensioners would return us to poverty. It was much cheaper to live full time in Turkey, where we had a holiday home. My retirement day at the office saw colleagues and managers gather around my desk as my boss described how wonderful I was (Irony alert). My speech was “Good bye.” And a day after my 60th, we were Turkish residents.
And I was happy, in my lovely home with a lovely garden, with weekly trips to get wonderful fresh food at market. In the UK, i went to great lengths to avoid groups of youngsters. In Turkey, identical groups in similar fashions offered a different prospect – they were respectful and helpful. Perhaps being foreign was ‘cover’ for my gender image differences? One young man offered us so much help and support in those years that it was incredible. Nothing was too much trouble. Bayram ran the bar and kitchen at his family’s hotel during tourist season, in winter he did decorating and remodeling and construction in homes owned by ex-pats. He did a lot of tiling and repairs for us, and called Malcolm “Daddy” and me “Mummy”. That felt like such an honour. I have always regretted not having children in my life – we could have adopted but never tried. Bayram is a handsome, happy young man with a wife and three delightful children – my grandchildren in my heart.
Now, my marriage has failed, my homes have been sold, and my experiment in re-inventing myself has been disastrous. I am rotting away in an attic room, afraid of loneliness and afraid of socializing. Fantasizing about having a proper man coming to rescue me and take me to his comfortable home. Dreaming about being a proper wife
Paraphilosopher 