My life, complex, complicated and comely.
Aaaaand, here we go!! Blog one!
Ok, my first blog post. It’s not something that’s easy to write, not due to any specific trauma or internal pain, more down to starting now, at this advanced age.
To confess, yes, I am transgender. It’s not something I chose, it’s not something I would choose, and it is not something I would wish anyone to be. Life for me would have been infinitely better if I had been born “cis”, but, we don’t always get what we want in life. Thankfully, I’ve put in effort over the years, working towards transition, and any progress whatsoever keeps me positive. Otherwise… I can’t honestly say what state I would be in now. Treasure being cis, being happy in your own skin is stunningly underrated!
Advanced age… yup, a child of the 60’s, I am an early Gen X. That meant growing up during the 70’s… in Glasgow! I had a complex journey to and from school, a combination of bus/buses and subway. The days of “No mean City”, sitting on buses with my mother, terrified by the state of some of the men, half bottles visible in the pockets of greasy brown pinstripe suits. Sometimes, on the bus coming through Govan on our way home, we overlapped with Govan Shipbuilders ending their shift. The siren being sounded, and the big gates being opened, with a chaotic surge of toxic masculinity rushing towards the bus like a military charge. I remember the 70’s as a mixed smell of sweat, brylcreem, whisky and cigarette smoke. Not a time to be honest about myself!
Before that though… what was my earliest memory… complex, as it actually changed a few years ago, after a regression, something else came to mind, and I’ll have to note down the regressions at some point in the future, as whether or not you believe in such things, I had a lot of interesting questions that arose. I’ll circle around eventually!
For the moment, I remember being carried by my father into the family home, via the back door. Dad was smiling down at me, wearing a mid-blue suit with a navy tie. I was in a Moses basket. I asked my mother about it eventually, as I had no other memory of a Moses basket. She was slightly shocked, as apparently, that was us coming home from the hospital after my birth! I have a lot of toddler memories and can actually remember my first steps. During the preschool years, I felt even then closer to the females in my life. I remember being fascinated by my mother applying her fuchsia lippy prior to going out in my pram, the excitement of the occasional visit by the Avon lady, and I suppose, given the era, with men at work, and mothers at home, spending the vast majority of my time in female company… It felt comfortable. 😊
Then nursery! Segregation at tables, boys at one, girls at the other. You only go to the wrong table once! I was an only child, and that tended to make me solitary. I was, and still am quite happy on my own. I read within the last year, that some people don’t possess an inner monologue. Personally, mine is a continual torrent, occasionally being dominated by stupid tunes. As I type this, apparently “We’re caught in an trap”🙄😄Even inside my head, I’m out of tune! However, I digress… I was quite happy not playing with the boys. It just didn’t feel comfortable.
It was though, a shock to the system, suddenly being forced by the staff to play with boys… but by comparison to primary school, it truly was a breeze!
Day one of primary school. Mrs McDonald. It was a “selective” school, effectively receiving a placement after an interview/exam. Personally I enjoyed it, they had really lovely coloured wooden blocks for the exercises😀
So, day one, being left with these other four and five year olds. I was in a navy blazer and shorts with a cap! What an utter palaver. However the girls were wearing their Summer dresses, white and indigo stripes, I was so envious, they looked so glorious!
For playtime and lunch, we were paraded out. As the bell rang, Mrs M would say “girls”, and all the girls would rise and form pairs by the door. Then “boys”, and all the boys would form their own crocodile behind the girls. We would be walked to the playground, led by Mrs M. God forbid if a boy wasn’t thinking and stood with the girls. We had a boy who was from somewhere in central Africa, Robert, whose father was a diplomat. He stood early, and what followed, was five minutes of psychological torture for him. The mocking voice of Mrs M, and her actually tying a ribbon into a bow, which she made him wear in his hair. He was beside himself, and no one ever made that mistake again. Even me, despite my inner monologue screaming at me to stand up. Self preservation is developed very, very quickly. 1970’s Glasgow was not a place to be gender challenged! It was a savage and cruel education.
My social education was disrupted within the first couple of weeks however, as I was suddenly ripped from school, to go into hospital to get my tonsils removed. That was something else! Mearns Kirk Hospital, south of Glasgow was a red brick series of buildings. I’ve attested to having a good memory, but I don’t recall any proper discussion or explanation. I was traumatised for years. I can still remember them coming for me, then wheeling me on the gurney to the theatre along corridors open to the elements. I was beyond terrified, especially as the rubber mask was literally forced over my mouth, and the strange sensation of the anaesthetic. During the stay in hospital, the matron told my mum and dad they couldn’t visit me, as I had screamed the place down after they had left me there. Poor mum had to make do with coming to hospital each night, and looking at me being miserable, from the nurses office at the end of the ward. 1970’s NHS… Interesting!
A cheery end to blog one! Join me next time for the joyful primary school years 😄
Thanks to RB, whose suggestion I’m following… yup, therapeutic! 😄