Vote Hope Not Hate

 

Saturday was the Love Music Hate Racism Festival at the home of the Mighty Potters, the Britannia Stadium. 

We (Unison) had a stall there amongst the other Trade Unions, Pressure Groups, and sellers of colourful things. It was a scorching hot day coupled with a blustery wind left me regretting my choice of summer dress for two reasons. Firstly a couple of Monroe style incidents of billowing skirt. Love Music hate Flashing. An secondly my telltale sunburned shoulders and décolletage (always wanted to use that word). The mainstay of activity on our stall seemed to be the supply of Helium filled balloons. I wondered why all these supposed cool teens were so into balloons, but it turned out that they were actually into inhaling the Helium. Made me feel just a bit like a drug pusher. By the end of my stint on the stall I was highly proficient in the balloon inflating department developing a two handed technique that could surely see me through in next years Britain's Got Talent, failing that a sideline as a children's party clown, Jolly Jenny and her Amazing Balloons…or something

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We didn’t get to see the show, but certainly heard it. If the cheering crowd was anything to go by it was a roaring and whooping success. The one person I would have bitten off a small finger to see was the TransFather Himself  and all round comedy god Eddie Izzard, who was doing a spot of comparing. I love Eddie from the first time I saw him on the Royal Variety Show, with a routine that involved monkeys, trees and French. I can still remember the day when I heard he had announced that he was a transvestite. Somebody famous that I liked, was like me (I identified as a transvestite back in those days). He will never know it, but he had a profound effect on me at a time when I was struggling for self acceptance.

 

Anyway enough of the Fluff. There is only one real reason why  this important event was in Stoke for the first time and that is the insidious presence of those cloaked fascists the BNP (British National Party).

They currently hold 9 seats on our council, more than the Tories and its not beyond credibility that they could take control of the local authority in the medium future. I have a BNP councillor, and lets get this straight they are not only racist but homophobic and haters of anyone of difference. I love my idiosyncratic city, but I can only feel ashamed of the current state of its local politics. If these nasty hate filled bile mongers ever do get control it will not just be a stain on my city but it will give them a power base to spread their infection throughout the country. If you don't believe that, then just look at France and the rise of Le Pen, who eventually stood for president. Europe’s history is peppered with examples of what happens when these racists gain a the veil of credibility and as the quote sort of goes, “Evil prospers when good people do nothing”

So at the risk of being preachy (understatement alert!) I come to my main point and that is the upcoming European Elections on June 4th. Hands up who is not intending to vote (gotcha, you voted now!). Turnout for the Euros is poor enough at the best of times, but right now after all the expenses kerfuffle the major political parties reputation ranks below even that of Bankers, Spammer’s and Loan Sharks  but maybe. However, this must not stop us from voting. Everyone, but everyone needs to vote for someone or something, just as long as its not for the BNP (or maybe UKIP too. If the BNP are bad the UKIP are their mad cousins). Of course as a lefty Trade Unionist I hope that people vote for progressive parties, but even if you are misguided enough to be a Tory, just damn well make sure you vote. Every vote not cast is sucker to the racists. They only need to few percentage points more to get a couple of seats in the West Midlands or a seat in the North West or Eastern region. For every seat they gain, will mean a chunk load of money from the European Parliament. Now we know they are not interested in Europe at all. Nationalists as Internationalists just doesn’t work. The money however does. They may well use this to fund paid organisers in cities like Stoke. Indeed, I understand that if Nick (Holocaust Denier) Griffin gets elected in the North West then he intends to buy a house in Stoke on Trent. What is happening in Stoke could be coming to a council ward near you.

If you have never had to fight the BNP locally, then you do now. Everyone gets to vote in these Euros and every single vote matters. These elections are important, they do matter.

Anyone says they “Don’t do Politics” is wrong. Life is Politics. An uncast vote in the Euro elections is doing politics, a politics that sees the fascists prosper.

Vote Hope not Hate… Vote on June 4th

http://unison.org.uk/stopthebnp/doing.asp

Preaching over…normal service will resume with more tales of my misadventures (mainly falling over)

The Full Essex

I was down (or up, never sure which) in Southend again this bank holiday, visiting Lucy.

This time it was an altogether more planed affair than last time, without the need for any emergency blood transfusions (though i did draw blood in one overenthusiastic plucking session !).

The main reason for coming.. no the second main reason was that it was the weekend of the Southend on Sea Air Show, the first obviously was to see Luce again. Lucy looked so much better than last I was with her, which I accept is not difficult as she was lying in a hospital bed at the time. Since then, she was discharged and has had some tests the results of which are that her acute anaemia may be caused by…well that's up to Lucy to tell you . Anyway Lucy is really positive, not just because she is feeling a whole lot better, but at least now something is being done to fix her. Whatever fight she has coming I know she will face it with the same courage that has been writ throughout her life.

The excitement for the weekend didn't end with the air show, because on the Saturday night Lucy's sister was coming down to see her. Not a big deal in the scheme of things, 2 sisters going out for the night, but Lucy had not seen Jeanette for over 3 years. Its seems like my life is becoming an extended episode of the little missed show, Surprise Surprise. Now I’m no Cilla, although I can belt out a mean, but frankly disturbing rendition of “What’s its all about Malfoy”. Here I am with another reunion hot on the heels of the last one. What’s next week? I meet the midwife who delivered me !    

But back to the point. I can’t really know why Lucy and Jeanette have kept apart do long. What I do know that they had a tough upbringing, and that unresolved slights in the past can become so magnified and distorted through the lens of time that they become unrecognisable from that they once  were. I’m not saying this is exactly case for them, all I know is that the older I get the more important family are to me, I guess you start to realise that someday there will be no tomorrow to get back in touch.

That Saturday night after hugs and wine we set off for a night out on the town. This was going to be an authentic Essex gal night out, so I had to go for my sexiest and most unbearable heels. I will try not going to make any disparaging or snooty comments about Essex, after all I like in Stoke, The Basildon of the North!! In 3 trips down I have developed a fondness for Southend on Sea. If America and Britain are 2 nations divided by a common language, the Essex and Staffs are 2 counties united in their lack of pretension. It was a fun night and worth the agony of heel induced lameness. All said, it was heart warming to be just a small part of L&Gs reconciliation, and I feel I’ve made a good new friend in Jeanette.

So on to Sunday and the Southend Air show. A brisk (plodding) walk down to the seafront then a rugby scrum along the promenade to find a good spot for Plane Spotting.

“Choose Life, Choose Essex, Choose sisters for ever, , Choose Saaffend,  Choose squeezing through the crowd to find a tiny rocky spot to sit on,  Choose waddling home with a very sore bum.

The show was utterly brilliant. I’ve seen air displays before, mainly at a Grand Prix race at Silverstone or Brands, but they had nothing on this. The hot hot early summer weather, a huge joyful throng, the shimmering sea and a stunning display of flying bravura, combined to make this a day of days.

We had 2 Apache helicopters facing off against each other, wing walkers defying gravity and common sense, The Red Arrows synchronised swooping, The RedBull Air Race chaps touching wingtips and the majestic Battle of Britain Memorial Flight

“Never… in the field of human sunbathing… have so many gawped so much…. at so few”

We rounded the day off by buying a bags load of pseudo perfume from a lorry trailer market trader. Apparently I had bought £300 of scent for 20 quid. I’m sure its quality stuff that I can at least use on Gammo’s litter tray. What with the heels and deals, I was really getting the total Essex experience.

It was sad to see Jeanette have to return to her big smoke, but that sadness was dwarfed by the joy of their renewed sisterhood. My mind turned to my bond with my brother, stronger than ever despite that most of the time he is in some far flung spot or near flung pub.

2 weeks, 2 reunions and maybe 1 lesson: Always keep talking. However long has passed 22 years, 3 years or a few days ?  Its never to late or too soon. Just keep talking

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Ashes to Lashes

I am writing this on an evening train back home from London after one of the most intense but ultimately wonderfully strange days of my strange transitioned life.

The story starts in the depths of the early eighties. Two lads in their early teens, a year apart, bond over Sir Clive Sinclair’s computers. More over, the older one, who we shall call G was impressed with the one we now know as A’s, Spectrum compared to his G’s ZX81.

G and A grew up together through that foreign land of, Thatcher, Royal Weddings, Miner’s Strike’s and death at football grounds. They shared a geeky passion for Dungeons & Dragons, painstakingly painting their lead (and probably toxic) figures of orcs, goblins and dragons with unnecessary detail. They sat in bedrooms listening to long deleted music, on flimsy plastic Amstrad Hi-Fis and clunky mono cassette recorders. Albums of obscure electro eighties pop and angry Thatcher hating bands of the Red Wedge generation (Faith Brothers in particular, were our favourite). That same cassette player would double as a Spectrum software  driver, as long as you could get the volume slider set just, just, just right.

G and A would spend hot summer days improvising cricket against the

garage door, and sweaty nights bouncing along at their first pop concerts.

Tears for Fears at the Vicky Hall in Hanley, with faltering sound equipment, having to repeat their biggest hit, Shout; An Ultravox-less Midge Ure singing “Feed The World” to a swaying crowd at the Manchester Apollo; Sting and band of Jazz musicians, covering more obscure The Police covers on his Bring On The Night Tour; Chris de Burgh in the “Cow Shed” of Stafford County Showground, dedicating a song to local train crash victims, before launching into Patricia The Stripper.

Then they turned 18 and trotted off to Universities (well G’s was actually a Poly) at opposite ends of the country, and that was that. They lost touch completely. The ashes of the friendship just strong memories and the odd gatefold sleeve album.

Fast forward 22 years. G is now J and living that life you read about on this blog. (yeah I know you  figured that already, but you know me, style over substance every time)

Losing touch with A was my biggest regret by far in a litany of lost friendships. In fact I blogged about it over a year ago, but after a brief unsuccessful foray trying to track him down I pretty much gave up hope of seeing him again.

Then, a month or so ago, I was travelling back at night from the G20 march when I checked the hotmail on my Blackberry, when amongst a list of emails that appeared to be spam I spied a name that tugged at me. I opened that email and was shaken out of my Motorway induced stupor.

As I sat on the dark snooze filled coach reading the email for my best friend of those far off days I could not hold off the emotion. My eyes filled with tears and my body quivered quietly. I thought that no one had noticed, but Vicky sitting opposite touched my arm and whispered, “Whats up”. “Read this” I said, and showed her A’s email. I couldn’t really explain to her the effect it had on me. 2 decades had gone with the click of that icon.

Well today (the today when I’m writing this) we met up again, and it was brilliant. We talked for over 3 hours,

before I had to get this train back up north. You know, even after more than half our lives we were essentially those same two friends from so long ago. I guess I may have changed a bit more physically what with the gender and all that, but neither of us were that different than we remembered. We slipped into conversation so easily, without a hint of awkwardness. That has to show how strong a bond we had. Apart from trying to précis the last 20 years, we mostly just talked about the same stuff we talked about all those years ago.

I had one of the best days I can remember in a long time (maybe 22 years). Sitting on this train home the rhythm of the track being echoed by the tapping of a dozen laptops, I cant help but look back on my life. For all that had happened in 2 decades I’m not sure I’m all that different from that geeky, insecure teenager. Back then I had no real idea where I was going, and even now I tend to live in the moment and struggle to make any plans more than a couple of weeks hence. The world is a significantly different planet in 2009 than it was in 1987. I am still the same alien creature I always was. 

Thank you A. A better friend than I deserved, then and now.

Video Killed the Trade Union Spart

Thursday I took part in my first ever video conference.

The meeting was Unisons Trans Caucus, which in a nutshell is the core of Transgendered Unsion activists opportunity to tackle those equality matters, that matter the most to us.

I did my bit from the basement of Unison’s Birmingham offices. When I say Basement, it is a well appointed meeting room, but it still had that characteristic muffled ambience and lack of natural light.

The meeting was to discuss the upcoming Parliamentary Equality Bill  in relation to Transgendered discrimination. I was a bit early so I sat and placed with the video camera, to try and get my best look on screen. After a bit I decided I looked best if I just sat underneath the table, but I guess hiding from view somewhat negates the point of a video conference. I then decided I ought to familiarise myself with the matter at hand, as typically I had failed to read the Bill in depth. All too soon the screen flashed up an incoming call. Guess I would just have to wing it, for a change! It took a little time to get used to this method on holding a meeting. The inevitable short delays meant it was important to try not to talk over each other, else we all just ended up saying sorry and excuse me to each other repeatedly.

Being serious for a moment (at last !) The new Bill is an improvement but it typically does not go far enough.

There is not any improvement for the protection of children in schools from bullying and harassment related to gender identity, either their own or a relative.

There are also some worrying exceptions contained in the guidance around provision of services. Such as it may be reasonable to exclude a trans woman from a communal changing room in a shop if certain considerations are made by the proprietor. This is irrespective as to whether the woman has completed transition and has undergone GRS (Gender reassignment Surgery). Now there is nothing that would horrify me more than using a communal room to try clothes on, but as a woman I want that right. Any exceptions in legislation that set me apart from other women, lessen me by a degree each time, so unreasonable exceptions such of this are damaging. I see no need for this sort of exception and think it could be the slippery slope, thin end wedge type thing.

Anyway we had an excellent debate and found a sensible focus for our future campaigning.

Sheffield Sisters

This last week, aside from my getting lost in what’s been called the “vibrant, pulsating hub of the North West” (I Manborde, 2009), Manchester, I went trekking the length and breadth of the country (well up and down the M1 at least), to see good friends, Joanne and Lucy.

Sunday last but I headed North to Sheffield and the Meadowhall shopping centre.

I had arranged to spend a morning shopping and chatting with Jo. We planned to meet on Meadowhall’s car park at 10am, which was a bit daft, as the shops didn’t open till 11. I judged my eta very badly and got there at 9.30am. It’s a bit disconcerting sitting in the only car on such a huge carpark in the bright sunlight. It was like a scene from some distopian sci-fi zombie flick, think Dawn of the Dead crossed with The Full Monty (well It was Sheffield). I was eventually joined by 2 other cars, though this didn’t settle my unease as the cars screeched to a halt side by side, facing opposites, and the occupants got out only to exchange packages, before they screeched away again. I suppose they could have been handing over an Avon delivery, but for what I could see under their Burberry caps the two young men were pretty well moisturised already. Anyway, the speed of the transaction left me thinking that the customer was satisfied.

Eventually the car park filled and even more eventually Jo arrived. As before Jo looked annoyingly pretty, and slimmer than any friend needs to be, still it would be unfair of me to ask her to bulk up just for a shopping expedition with me. As we sat over coffee we shared tales from the road. I tried to impart some of my wisdom borne of 4 year post transition, but it soon became apparent that there was nothing I could teach Jo and the nearest thing I would come to Wisdom was when if I changed my toothpaste brand. As shopping trips go, we fared pretty badly, as our constant wittering got in the way of actually buying anything, that was until we were pounced upon by a lady from a stall selling Dead Sea beauty stuff.

Pretty soon we were rubbing some salt scrub into our hands and marvelling at the smell of some soapy stuff. The sales lady was charming, insistent and persistent. At one stage she asked our names. “I’m Jenny and this is Joanne”. “Are you sisters she enquired. This was clearly wrong whichever way you looked at it.

1) Did she not suspect that either of us was Trans and therefore both original born women? Flattering but unlikely, as she had both looked a

t me and heard me speak, and anyway even if this was the case we could still not have looked less like sisters.

2) She sussed that we were trans, and thought we were brothers that had become sisters. Possible but highly improbable

3) She sussed me and thought that Jo was my sister and I had decided to join her in sorority. Not flattering for me I guess, but possible.

4) She was just high on smelling patchouli oil flavoured soap, day after day.

5) She was just an overzealous soft soaping soap seller

Whatever the reason it worked on me and I left clutching a bag of way too expensive soapy/salty stuff that would transform me into a soft skinned temptress. The price to pay for this pleasure was the abandonment of my principles. I realised that I am supposed to be boycotting goods from Israel (see post passim), but doh! where in the world did I think the Dead Sea was. Jo just looked at me with bemused wonder.

It felt all too soon to be heading back to Stoke but time and Sunday lunch wait for no woman. As I drove back down the M1 my ebullience at an enjoyable morning turned to melancholy. The empty house that I was returning to felt just a bit more empty. Its funny the more time I spend with any of my fabulous bunch of friends the more lonely I feel. I guess the highs of good company exaggerate the lows of solitude. I despise regret, its a waste of time, effort and brain ache, but I do sometimes think that although when we transition it is absolutely the right thing to do, the sacrifice of future family is a high tax indeed. Anyway I had pulled myself together by Derby, just in time buy a pair of great shoes. Hey, I may be a moody cow, but I was a moody cow in 3 inch black patent killer heels.

Lost in La Manchester

With apologies to Terry Gilliam

Wednesday early evening, found me adrift on the mean streets of Manchester after representing one of our members. I hadn’t been to Manchester for over a year, and having 3 hours to kill before I was due at our quiz I decided to go on an impromptu shopping hunt. My quarry was the almost mythical Arndale shopping centre, and instead of “tilting at windmills” I wanted to tilt at the perfect fitting summer dress.

I wasn’t exactly sure where I was in Manchester, and I wasn’t exactly sure where The Arndale was, but I decided to trust my innate (and mostly misjudged) sense of direction. So off I strode down the narrow, mill lined streets with a confidence and hope. This turned to bewilderness and panic as the landscape turned from the quiet grandeur of Victorian industrial architecture to shabby sleazy “private” shops and litter strewn booze vendors. Between every other surviving business, was a boarded up, fly-postered relic, complete with huddled homeless person wedged in the doorway. I had lost faith that I would ever find my gleaming shopping dream, and was just about to turn heel and retrace my steps home, when I spied a large, friendly blue P. Where there is a car park surely there would be a shopping centre. And Lo, it came to pass, that I spent a happy hour trying my way through most of the summer dresses that my favourite (ie the only one that stocked my size) shop Evans, stocked. In the end I plumped (such an apt term) for a gorgeous full, tiered, print skirt. Buoyed and emboldened by my purchase, and with a little time still on my hands  I set out to explore a little more before heading back to my car.

Picadilli Gardens bathed in the evening sun was a pleasant diversion. I sprawled amongst my fellow travellers, taking respite on the grass, until my watch reminded me of my impending quiz appointment. So refusing to learn from my countless failures of a sense of direction I set off in the vague direction of my car park on Dale Street. After half an hour or of wandering where each street became less recognisable than the one before I made a firm decision. I was utterly lost. Lacking a Sancho Panza for a companion I scanned around for anyone who looked like they had a working knowledge of Manchester's geography. However the only people I could see appeared drunk, very drunk or were a bouncer at one of the countless clubs. I figured that the bouncer’s knowledge of the streets ended at how much they hurt  when they threw someone to it. The decision as to who to ask, was taken out of my hands by a mildly scruffy and deceptively young man who approached me calling “Could you lend me 75p so I can get to Rochdale, luv”. Well quid pro quo, I thought, or almost a quid anyway. I decided to give him 2 quid in the hope he would return my generosity with some clear directions. I enquired to where Dale st could be, but he just waved wildly in a direction that covered at least 3 points of the compass. Giving up on him as a guide I walked away with an insincere thanks. Not taking the hint he walked alongside me and then confessed that he really wanted the money for a couple of pints and if I gave him just one more pound he would reach his target, adding that I looked lovely by the way. His candour made me laugh and I declined this opportunity to further invest in him with a chuckle and a congratulation for his hustling style.

15 minutes and drunk hustler behind me I was now exactly 15 minutes more lost. I figured that I must have overshot my destination and turned back towards whence I came…ish. As it the light dulled my anxiety sharpened. At one stage I just stood stock still, utterly devoid of ideas and feeling just about as alone as I have ever done. I vainly searched for a hailable Taxi to provide salvation, but everyone I saw was taken with snug smug customers. The city that had been bright and welcoming on the grass of Picadilli Gardens was now just plain menacing. I passed a group of young male twats who shared bonding sniggers of hatred in my direction. Then just as I was about to sit down and make wherever I was my new home, a bell rang, a penny dropped and thingy thingyed (last one needs work). I had my blackberry in my black bag and on my blackberry in my black bag was blackberry maps app. Oh why oh why did I not twig sooner. I found Dale Street on my mobile. It was only a couple of streets away from Picadilli Gardens. I had spent the best part of an hour walking in the wrong direction, but thanks to my inabillity to stick to one path I was not an hour away from the car. My car stood alone on the now empty lot as if to mock my late return, but I cared not. I was just so glad to be back in one piece and back at peace.

Of course I was late getting to the quiz, and to top off a crap night we lost on a tiebreak.