Joanne Skywalker, but No Jen Kenobi

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today I met my friend of five years Joanne for the first time. Joanne was a rare exception in a world where you can have 5000 Facebook "friends", in that  our initial chat-room friendship became real.

Jo has just reached a pivotal time in her life. Over Christmas she came out as Transgendered to her wife, family and friends. Touch wood, it seems to have gone really well for her, and I am proud and impressed by how she has handled it. Well, today was our first chance to meet, so up with the earliest of larks I headed north into a Shepherd's Warning sky  to the Meadowhall shopping centre in Sheffield.

I think we were both a bit nervous about meeting. Nervous because unlike meeting some blind internet date for the first time our friendship is actually important to me, and there is  always the danger that my oft misjudged jollity and unavoidable dizziness can grate after, oooooh as long as 5 minutes.

We spent a lovely 3 hours wandering fairly aimlessly around the centre, nattering away, only interrupted by my sudden diversions to impulse buy the Secondary Phase of H2G2 on CD, and other such essentials .

As a veteran Jedi of Transition, I intended (probably arrogantly) to dispense occasional words of wisdom to my young Padawan. To be honest though, I was no Obi Wan to her Luke. Jo looked fabulous with flawless makeup a naturally female presence and a figure to envy, compared to my usual shambling appearance. She is a natural with little to learn from me. It was hard to believe that this was still one of her first daylight outings.

My waterloo came with a visit to the ladies loo (see what I did there!). I strode in with the nonchalance of familiarity, and Jo swiftly followed. When I was done, I waited by the sinks wrongly believing she would be a bit nervous. As I stood there I realised I had left a bag of shopping in my cubicle. The problem was that I couldn't recall exactly which cubicle I had used and they were by now all occupied. As Jo passed me on her way out I mouthed "I've left my stuff in a cubicle". Mind you it could just as easily been lip read as "I've lost my snuff on a barnacle", but I think she got the point. I managed to narrow down the possibilities to 4 loos. So for the next 5 minutes I had to linger outside each candidate until each occupier de-occupied, whence I would dive in to search for my precious Douglas Adams CDs. Of course, it had to be my very last choice that was successful. By the time I had recovered the bag my strange lurkings had garnered a small crowd of sniggering teenagers. Way to go Jen in a demonstration in how not to be read !!

Hugs and final photographic evidence over, we went our ways north and south, the force going with us.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  "These are not the droids you are looking for"

Pressing the Press

I

 

 

My assualt on the world of celebrity. First the Staffordshire Evening Sentinel, next the World ! (or perhaps The Cheadle & Tean Times!)

I was going to entitle this post "Papping the Papps", but I should avoid derogatory epithets. People in glass houses and all that! 

I did my bit for the local newspaper on Wednesday.

First up was a charming and inquisitive young photographer called Alex. After going through my various photographic neurosies. He assured me that I would be fine, mainly that he would take so many pics that we would be sure to find some decent ones. Well, we shall see. Taking me outside he found a spot and had me trying all manner of poses, mainly leaning on one arm or leaning on the other arm. He even had me in action mode walking towards the camera. It is amazingly difficult to walk like a human being on instruction, and I ended up with an over wiggling pastiche of a woman's walk. He seemed happy though. He was less happy when I asked if I could photograph him for my blog citing his needing a hair cut. And I thought I was a diva!

The second wave of the assault was an affable hirsute journalist called Allan. I was arrogant in thinking that with my blogging media savvy, I would control the interview to put across my finely honed message. However, his relaxed style and kindly inquisitorial skills soon had me totally off guard and off message, but I'm sure on a more interesting story. I ended up so relaxed, that immediately after the interview I could not recall what I said. For all I knew I espoused the deportation of trans people back to Transylvania, or The Transvaal. So after a restless night's tossing and worrying, a follow up call to the journalist has reassured me that I didn't make a total Gerald Ratner style screw up!

I'm now looking forward...ish...ly to the Tuesday print day. I just hope that I had something different to say other than the usual cliché of boy wants to be girl, boy hides being a girl, boy meets girl, boy marries girl, girl divorces boy, boy becomes girl

An Audience with the Fourth Estate

I've had a flattering but scary offer from the local rag, the Evening Sentinel, to have a feature on me in their woman's pages the wittily titled Sentinelle.

Against all my natural inclinations to decline such an offer I have accepted, and tomorrow afternoon I am going to meet with a feature writer called Alan and an as yet unnamed photographer I just hope it turns out to be (insert famous photographer that is not dead).

There are 3 things that are filling me with dread.

Firstly, I am really keen for this to be a positive article and not one of the usual victimised stories of a man trapped in a woman's body. It's a difficult balance to convey the fact that there are so many positives to being Transgendered and to Transitioning while stressing that this is an important issues worthy of NHS funding etcetera. I always worry that If I don't say I was suicidal at having to live as a man, then it is countered with the opinion that spending scarce NHS resources is not necessary. I can only tell my story, and as I've said before that if I couldn't have transitioned, then I would have survived as a man, albeit I would have been a much less rounded and settled human being (and probably a bit smellier!!). The point is, that I don't have to survive anymore, and now I can live. So I am trying to gather my thoughts about what I want to say, and I only hope I just don't end up gabbling and waffling incoherent psychobabble!!

Secondly, duh duh durrrrrh the photograph. Well I am terrified about this as I am about as photogenic as a very ugly thing, standing on landfill... in a bad hat. Of course, my biggest worry is my now oft posted about, wonky right eye. Anytime I look directly at a camera, my right eye decides to wander off towards my nose with utter disinterest in the camera. Hence my failed attempts yesterday, to hurriedly get an optician to fix the problem. So, I am now reliant on some creative genius from the photographer, or at least some expensive photoshoppery.

Thirdly, my outfit. If I am to be plastered across the centre pages of a middling local newspaper then my outfit has to be just right. I'm looking for something that portrays a professional image, with cheeky undertones. Something that is bang up with fashion but is timelessly classic. I want to look mature but youthful; playful but stable; sensual and sensitive; with just a hint of drop dead sexy..... think a black jumper and black trousers will do!!

Fourthly,  and most of all, I am really going to have to bite the bullet and pluck my eyebrows.

A Deeper Shade of the Blues

One of the 5 points to this blog is to coaless my thoughts, with a view to a better level of self awareness (or disappearing up my own backside, you decide!). There is one thing that still plays on my mind, and at times gets me down, even 4 years post transition, and that is whether I will ever truly, really, deeply perceived and understood to be a woman. Of course, everybody tries to say the right thing, and most of the time they succeed, but the very fact they have to try shows that they struggle with the concept of a changed gender. When this is coupled with visual and audible cues that give those telltale indications that I was once male, then it is understandable.

I remember an episode with one of my psychiatrists (and I've have had a few in this process). Now he is a wonderful man, really supportive and with a deep knowledge of Gender Disphoria. Well, I had seen him a couple of times and in one session I related a story of being in my GPs waiting room when they flashed my old name up when my turn had come, and this had upset me. Now, I had met my psychiatrist well before my change, through the odd work meeting. From that momentary reminder of my old name, he has twice used it by mistake in consultations. He was very, very, apologetic when I pointed it out, but it just shows how once the synapses in your mind have made a connection that someone is a particular gender then it is really hard to shift those connections. Even I have struggled to call my cat she once I realised I'd been calling her, he by mistake (or is it; he, her by mistake? see it's tricky!).  This ability to override the mind's gender perception is no measure of intelligence, nor is it possible to predict who will cope best. It's just one of those things.

It's not just use of language that friends, colleagues and acquaintances have to overcome. Body language and social niceties are small hurdles to. For instance long standing male colleagues always pause before holding a door open and then accompany it with a nervous half laughed remark. I too have struggle to ignore 30+ years of male conditioning. If another woman and myself enter a building, I still have an inner urge to defer to my companion, and hold the door open for her. Now, of course this is only me being polite, but it is also due to those synapses that have been trained that I should hold a door for a woman. Admitting this may leave me open to the criticism, that I do not truly feel a woman inside, but I counter that I have undergone half  a lifetime of masculine brainwashing. I do still want to hold doors open for people, but as an equal not through an innate outdated gender orthodoxy ( my gawd, that sounds pretentious even by the standards of this blog!! but I hope you know what I'm getting at).

Another social nicety that becomes a hurdle in my mind is the affectionate kiss goodbye or hello from a male colleague. I know that some male colleagues who knew me before I modernised my gender, struggle with this aspect, although they may not admit it. They will quite happily peck goodbye on the cheek to the other women in any social situation, but you can see the hesitation (almost fear) in their eyes when it comes to me. After all, for some heterosexual males, the conflict that my appearance gives, against their historical knowledge of me is challenging. I stress some, because I by no means wish to over generalise. It has got to the stage that sometimes when leaving such situations, I will manoeuvre myself nearer the door to leave first, so not as to put anyone in the situation where after kissing goodbye to other women, they are faced with the decision to either treat me differently or do something they feel uncomfortable with.

So what level of improved self awareness am I left with. Well not much really, but reading back, it could be levelled at me, that some of these issues are more in my mind than in other people's. That the whole thing is almost self fulfilling, and that my own social awkwardness is the real obstacle.

Or... Do I just have to find an inner peace in the acceptance that although I may never be as fully and deeply perceived and understood as I wish, I am still lucky to have had the opportunity to become a woman, to be a woman and in all important matters, to be treated as a woman. If I had been born at another time, or in another place, this is a gift, I may never have had.

On that note, in the words of the barely missed Steps : "Into each life some rain must fall, I didn't know I would catch it all".... or something.

POST SCRIPT

Just to demonstrate how difficult it is for some people to turn around the supertanker that is their mind.

I've just been trying to arrange an appointment with an optician to fix my wonky eye. I ended up talking to a call centre. Naturally, hearing my voice he referred to me as mister. I gave him my name, and corrected him that it was actually Miss. He initially then called me Miss, then in the next breath Sir and by the end of the conversation to my exasperated laugher on the other end of the line, said "Thank you Mr Harvey".

 

pic thanks to

Mr Smith goes to London

A bit of free time in London last week left me wandering aimlishly ( = not quite aimless, as I was going in the general direction of my hotel) north. Its quite liberating strolling though the city not intending to hit any tourist attractions. I started in Piccadilly Circus and as I passed through Leicester Square, with the appropriate goodbye and hello, I overheard someone saying Will Smith was coming to town. Can't think what gave them that idea. For you Hitchikers Guide geeks this must be the antidote to the Total Perspective Vortex

 

Getting it wrong '09

....Or, Pride Comes Before a Fall.

....Or, Skirting the Issue,

What's black and white and read all over?

Answer: Jenny in a bad choice of outfit (except my top was rust coloured and not white but you know what I'm getting at.)

Now that I've lost a bit of weight, I can squeeze into clothes that were previously deemed undonable.  So Monday, feeling rather good about myself, I opted to wear a particular skirt that had been previously out of reach. I think it used to be one of my ex wife's, else I bought it as an impulse some time ago, because for a couple of years it resided in a pile marked one day maybe. Well today was the one day. So with a self satisfied spring in my boot step, I left for work.
It didn't last. A colleague while genuinely trying to be helpful, commentated that the skirt didn't help portray the right female image. I decided not to inform him strongly, that I wasn't trying to portray a female image, because I am female. I just wasn't up for an argument. My point would have been that he wouldn't have been said this to any other woman. I know I should challenge misguided comments but sometimes I'm just too weary, and he is a friend as well as a colleague. I must be in a sensitive mode because this played on my mind all day. 
Well putting that aside, on my way home I stopped off at Tesco's for some emergency rations (cheese) and some . Striding out of the store I spied a phalanx of teenage girls. My old Spidey Senses tingled, that I was about to be read. I hadn't had to call on this peculiar sixth sense for some time now, as I generally walk the planet as a work-a-day woman with little thought to my past gender, and despite my physical disadvantages don't seem to turn heads. However the old nerves came back and... Lo, it came to pass, that I came to not pass. I strolled past the girls to a chorus of sniggers, with the muttered low notes of "It's a man", while I totally failed to look nonchalant and unaffected.

As I said, it's a good while since I really had a problem with the being read/passing thing. I point my finger of blame squarely at the skirt. Actually it's not the skirt's fault. Sometimes a piece of clothing and me just doesn't gel. I got carried away and forgot the fourth rule of post transition living. Just because something feels good it doesn't mean it looks good. The whole trick to not being outed when you are 6 foot 2 and 20+ stone, is not to draw the second glance, and on that damp, dank, cold January evening I just got it wrong, and as a post transition woman getting it wrong is not an option.

The thought for today is : Complacency is the mother of humiliation. 

He was not a number, he was a free man

Sad to hear of the passing of Patrick McGoohan, of The Prisoner fame the other day.

Back in the day I got  obsessed in reruns of this slice of 60's spy surrealism. You can see the legacy of The Prisoner even now in shows such as LOST, which revel in confusing the viewer. Even The Simpsons have paid homage.   

The bit everyone remembers was the strange security method that kept the prisoner, well a prisoner. It basically consisted of a huge pink weather balloon that bobbed after any escapee to strains of a weird sixties sound effect. However odd, it was always effective in rendering its victim unconscious. I'm surprised it never caught on as a measure. It's probably cheaper  than CCT and requires less tending than a guard dog.

I particularly loved the opening titles and the theme tune has pride of place on my iPod

Where am I?
In the Village. 
What do you want?
We want information. 
Whose side are you on? 
That would be telling. We want information... information... information. 
You won't get it. 
By hook or by crook, we will. 
Who are you? 
The new Number 2. 
Who is Number 1? 
You are Number 6. 
I am not a number, I am a free man

Hotel Hobbit

Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors
Bell boys checking out the hookers in the bar
Slug-like fingers trace the star-spangled clouds of cocaine on the mirror
The short straw took its bow

The tell tale tocking of the last cigarette
Marking time in the packet as the whisky sweat
Lies like discarded armour on an unmade bed
And a familiar craving is crawling in his head

And the only sign of life is the ticking of the pen
Introducing characters to memories like old friends
Frantic as a cardiograph scratching out the lines
A fever of confession a catalogue of crime in happy hour
Do you cry in happy hour, do you hide in happy hour,
The pilgrimage to happy hour

 
New shadows tugging at the corner of his eye
Jostling for attention as the sunlight flares
Through a curtains tear, shuffling it's beams
As if in nervous anticipation of another day

Hotel Hobbies by Derek W Dick (Fish)

I'm not quite the tortured writer Torch, of Marillions Clutching At Straws, but I am sitting in a soulless, chain hotel in London trying to find some blogging inspiration. Instead of cocaine I have scotch eggs and my whisky sweat is more likely caused by chocolate milk, but hey we all have our own drugs. Speaking of my particular chosen drugs, I haven't been able to kick my unnecessary gadget buying habit. Yesterday I totally convinced myself I needed a new more whizzy digital camera. So I popped over to my dealer, and queued up with all the other junkies, crumpled Argos order form in one hand, a roll of cash in the other. I've pretty much exhausted this catalogue now, so I will be glad when they "Re-Up" in a few days time.

I'm down here for a two day unison seminar on pay strategy. Must admit the my first thoughts were that discussing pay claims in this recession is akin to discussing umbrella sales figures in the Sahara, but we have to look at the long game. There is a worry that whichever flavour of government  comes next may hammer public sector pay as a blunt tool to curry favour with the Daily Mail et al.

Jenny and the angry inch

Mind you I may struggle to concentrate on the issue as I am currently suffering from PTHD, Post Traumatic Hairdo Disorder. I visited my hairdresser on Saturday and with an inches worth of foolish bravado I told her to take a bit more off than usual. Well I now remember why I have always favoured such a long and thick fringe, both avec and sans wig, and that is to hide my neo Neanderthal forehead. In particular the two lumpy protrusions either side which are like a poor version of Hell Boys horn stumps! To add to the horror I have died my hair black again so my shortened bob style is helmety (this should be a word) and uncannily like Edna from the Incredibles. Well apparently my hair will grow back to normal eventually. Now where did I chuck that old wig!!

Why Hotel Hobbit ? Well I've be trailing round most of Camden with my suitcase and when I got in the bath my feet had a certain Hobbity quality. That, and I adore a bit arbitrary alliteration !

Clearing The Decks

After 2 weeks seasonal festivities it has been good to get back to the routine of work., and lets face it in the current climate a job is a precious thing indeed.

My holiday period consisted of the following, in chronological order :

Papal bigotry, Miserable flu, Surprise Prezzies, Sibling Bonding, Diet busting excess, Woolies Pillaging, Disappointing Sales, Car Re-glazing, Failed Resolutions and finally too many Lazy lie ins.

All in all I end up starting the new year in about as good a mood as an City Banker, who invested in Woolworths and bet on a white Christmas who's trying to sell his house to pay his debts.

I think in consideration the conflagration of Christmas and New Year prolongs the agony. I think separating these two days would have distinct advantages. As New Year is pretty well set then it should be Christmas that shifts. Now can we really be sure that Christ was born on 25th December. After all Easter seems to veer about randomly each year, and lets face it how reliable were Bethlehem's Registrars at record keeping. So how about moving Christmas day to mid July, we could even go for 25th. This would mean that New Year would be distinct with its own identity, instead of a Christmas afterthought. We would then have a nice summer Christmas to look forward to. No longer would we have the disappointment from the expectation of a white Christmas. Carol Singer would serenade with calypso songs. The last minute, late night present shopping would take place in a pleasant midsummer evening instead of a freezing dark winter's night. Kid's would be able to play outside with their new bikes, skateboards,,, knives, or whatever it is they get now. 

Just think of the day. Early morning sunrise, followed by a continental breakfast, opening presents on the patio to the strains of Summer Nights on the stereo. Instead of a bloated overcomplicated dinner, we could have quiche, salad, jelly and Pimms. The Queen's speech could be delivered from Buck House gardens with her crown replaced by floppy sun hat and shades. After lunch, Instead of  Julie in The Sound of Music, we could watch  Cliff's Summer Holiday...(OK I think that's enough now!!)

Anyway I needed a bit of a kick start to '09, so I joined Vix in a spot of Spartacus walking along a frosty trail from Oakamoor along the Churnet valley towards Alton (of Alton Towers fame.)

 

As I strode (ambled) along, I snapped away and the thought that I needed a better whizzier camera started to infiltrate my brain. I know when this happens I end up obsessing until I've spent ill affordable cash on a new gadget. This got me thinking. I decided that there was no real point in my making any New Years Resolutions as I am about as likely to stick to them as Dougal could give up sugar-lumps (although in the seminal Dougal And The Blue Cat he did manage to resist a room stuffed full of sugar), but what I do need is to find a new drug of choice. I am a woman of few vices, almost a Goody Two Shoes. W As Adam Ant put it " You don't drink, don't Smoke. What do you do?" Well I do have my own personal drugs of choice in shopping and food. When I'm down, or even when I'm up, I know these two things will give me the brief high of instant gratification. Now I'm committed to dieting that just leave buying stuff. Now this could be clothes, DVD box sets or my current fix, gadgets. I evidence my totally gratuitous purchase of an iPod Touch when I was supposed to be buying Christmas presents. Both these drugs come with consequences either on my waistline of dwindling bank balance. Therefore I have decided to seek out a new drug of choice. One that is cheap, slimming, legal and works instantly with a slow gradual come down. Any suggestions would be appreciated.

Footnote : For how long are we expected to wish everyone Happy New Year ? There should be an official cut off. I suggest 21st January...even better the 1st January !

2009....not as good as 2008

2009 has got off to a poor start.

I awoke to a knocking at the door. Now as a rule I avoid answering the door if I'm not expecting anyone. From experience it will be

A. Could be a debt collector trying to squeeze money from an age old marital debt.

B. A purveyor of windows/gas/electric/Tupperware.

C. Pedlar of some sort of religious dogma

D. Neo-fascist BNP councillor masquerading as respectable local politician.

and it is unlikely to be

E. a Pools/Lottery/win

F. Free cake

G. Hugh Jackman

H. Hugh Jackman with free cake

Anyway I figure on balance there is usually nothing to be gained from unsolicited knockers. This time however the knock had a particular persistency, so against my better judgement and wrapping myself tightly in my dressing gown, I opened the door a cracks worth and peeked out. It was a couple of neighbours with the news that persons unknown had smashed my car's rear window. Joy of joys, what a start to '09. The perpetuators did not appear to have stolen anything from inside, although I can't imagine they would have been interested in Unison literature or my dodgy taste in CDs. As my neighbours peered in I remarked "look they have made a mess and there have left empty take away cartons and Pepsi Max cans in the footwell. I'm not sure they were fooled as my car usually appears like a skip on wheels.

Through a combination of the internet, frustrated phone calls and stifled shouting, I managed to secure a spot at the local Autoglass who would be able to fit a new window by Saturday afternoon. They said if I dropped my car off they would lock it up till then. I set about covering the gaping hole for the trip to the garage. I managed to use about a dozen bin liners and a roll of neighbour donated gaffer tape and by the end it looked ok for the journey. This lasted exactly 250 yards before the whole mess was flapping away like a huge torn mainsail. I made the rest of the way at a crawling 20 mph for fear of blinding any motorists with a mix of black plastic, shattered window and Unison application forms. I got some puzzled looks from the windscreen man, as through my usual inability to sort these things out, my car insurance is still in my old male name (yes I know I am hopeless!!), so I found myself making the Trans explanation that I haven't had to do for 3 years.

So 2009 has not got off to a good start

Crime is up

Temperature is down.

Waistline is expanding due to comfort eating

Car is significantly more airy.

Main household expenditure is now bin bags, glass and comfort cake

Still, on the plus side:

Car air conditioning now unnecessary.

Now have parking space in front of house.

Oh, and Stoke City are unbeaten this year (valid until Sat 3rd January)