Becoming Jen (Part 20) Harry Potter and The Lost Parking Ticket

Well congrats for sticking with my rambling story. It has has whizzed about a bit in the last few chapters. I really wish I had thought more about a structure, with some sort of surprise reveal. Perhaps the final chapter could end up with me confessing to be the real Keyser Soze or something. Sadly I think this tale will end up just petering out in a rambling mess of asides (such as this one) I think I would benefit from a kermodian (I'm doing my bit to get it into the dictionary!) critique of my writing style. So where in my ever shifting timeline had I reached?

If my memory serves me at all, I had got to the point where, had completed my first few weeks as a working woman. The first flush of euphoria was over. The weeks soon turned into months. It was now Spring 2006 and the honeymoon period with my work life partners had gone relatively well. Though like many newlyweds the amount of sex never quite lived up to expectations. Looking back now I wish I had taken move care about my transition rather than just blundering into it like an elephant in heels. I realise looking back over this period I did make some fundamental rookie mistakes.


The first mistake revolved around was my chosen name. I have said before that I hadn't given my new new name more than a moments ponder. I just went for something phonetically close to my old redundant male one. There was no real logic far this but once chosen felt toothed to change again. I don't regret the name itself. I think Jenny sort of suits me The big mistake was that I asked collages and friends to "just call me Jen" That was what I had ended up being called by my friends, so it felt comfortable and accepting that everyone used this (insert) The problem that soon became apparent was that Jen was too close to Geoff As soon as the Je sound left someone's lips then their brain just followed, with unconscious thought, the finishing Eff sound. It I had said from the beginning call me Jenny then perhaps the incidents of "Jeffs" would have been fewer. Who knows, perhaps I should hare chosen a name that could never be confused such as Delilah or Rapunzell !!!


The second regretted mistake, was not to late myself seriously enough. I've said before that I often used humour to put people at ease. For instance, I made fun out of my homemade Rice' n' Tights breast-forms. This was fine at first, but months down the line, and they were still being referred to as the "Uncle Ben's" I started to regret my levity. It just didn't help everyone lose those thoughts that was still a man pretending to be a woman.


The third was that I totally underestimated hour much time was needed to prepare myself for a working day. If everything went to plan I uses five, but it only took a mistimed sneered to smear mascara goo all over my painstakingly applied makeup, setting me back half an hour. Similarly laddering three consecutive pairs of tine cost ill afforded minutes, not to speak of expense! I was never more regularly late for work than this period of my life. Actually thinking now I have been more tardy, and that was when I lived in the Nurses Home at my place of work Stallington Hospital (aside alert!!!). I have figured that my promptness for work is indirectly proportionate (or is it directly?) to the distance I lived away. Ergo the nearer I was, the later I was. The only explanation I could think of was that when I lived on site, work is only a couple of minutes away so lets have another 5 in bed.


Other Rookie Schoolgirl Errors from the first couple of months: Unwearable high heels, doh!Peep toe shoes/ tan tights, doh! Black trousers just that vital inch too short, double doh! and White blouse / Black bra debacle, double doh!

Still all things considered my transition went really well, better than expectations (if I'd had any). I still count myself lucky that I work in such an accepting liberal working environment, I can't imagine how tough it must be to transition in a male dominated workplace, such as the building trade for instance. That is not to say I didn't have the odd hiccup. I remember once when I corrected a colleague on referring to me as he, the response came back "At least I didn't call you It".

It was during this time that I suffered my only incident of street level abuse. Now of course I'd witnessed the odd titter and occasional snigger, and on one occasion a car full of neanderthal unevolved testosterone heckled me, but to be honest their grunty shouts were barely distinguishable as English. These were thankfully rare occurrences that have almost slipped from memory. The one incident that does persist was a day shopping in Longton (one of the famous 5 towns described by Arnold Bennett. Bad luck Fenton!). I was sat on a bench in the spring sun, staring blankly at my mobile thinking of somebody to text when a wet splat hit my right cheek. Looking up I just saw 2 teen aged lads riding past, one of whom shouted "scum of the earth" at me". I was so taken aback I wasn't sure what had happened. Slowly a dawning realisation was that these 2 cycling Asbos in waiting, had spat at me before yelling their witty retort! To be honest I was too shocked to be as upset as I should have been, but the incident is now indelibly inked on my mind.

Anyway enough of the dark side of a life in transition. I know everyone really wants me to get back those stories of my own folly (ie falling down and all that!). Well I have another example of How Not To Pass.

Well, I bored one day I decided to make a solo trip to the Flicks. I was by then pretty cocky about my ability to pass while out and about. After all I was now a working Girl. I plumped for a visit to the Warner Brothers Cinema in Newcastle under Lyme, mainly because they had more comfy (wide) seats. I cant fully recall the film I saw. I wish I could say it was a deep foreign art house opus, but it was actually one of the Harry Potter films. Leaving the cinema I first had to pay for my parking ticket at the machine, just inside the foyer. Duly done, I made my way via the lift to the multi storey car park beneath. Driving down the two levels to the barriered exit, I pulled up to insert my paid up ticket into the barrier machinery, but of course I had now lost it. Somewhere between the foyer and this barrier I had secreted my ticket but couldn't for the life of me remember. After a good 10 minutes of frantic rummaging I abandoned all hope of exit and reluctantly reparked my car. I needed another ticket which was only supplied on entry to the car park. So, I made my way back to the Paystation in the foyer.

When I got there there was a newly formed queue of cinema goers waiting to validate their parking tickets. The machine had a sign saying Press here For Assistance. I pressed the button and a voice boomed out of the speaker situated adjacent "Can I help you?". I looked up at the queue of impatient car parkers who up to this time had taken little notice of the suspiciously tall woman in their midst. "Ive lost my ticket" I spoke softly into the mic, not wanting to draw any more attention. "Sorry you will have to speak up", came the response. "I've lost my ticket" I replied at fuller volume. "I will be with you in a couple of minutes SIR" came the answer even louder out of the machine. By now the whole queue was either staring at me or whispering to each other about me. Either way any semblance of passing had gone. Right then I could have used Harry Potter's invisibility cloak. I then had to stand there in solitary uncomfort as I waited for the Parking attendant, as the queue filed past, the more discrete of which at least attempted to hide their sniggers. Eventually a rather bemused man in a security uniform arrived looking for a man who had lost his ticket. I caught his attention and confessed it was me he was seeking. I made sure I kept hold of my ticket all the way to the barrier. Sometimes you just have to shrug and accept that however well you think you are doing the world will find a way of of bringing you down to earth.

Becoming Jen (Part 19) Charing Crossing

Today I had my third appointment at the Gender Identity Clinic, Charing Cross Hospital on the Fulham Palace road in sunny London. Yet again like many other experiences, it just proved how I can misjudge people and situations. Ever the revisionist I now greatly respect my consultant and the work of the clinic Let me explain.

My first visit was as far back as Sept 07. Not knowing what to expect I trailed my way via train, Euston tube and Taxi to the clinic. It took some finding as it was not on the hospital grounds.I eventually found it on a back st tucked behind a convenience store. The plain but solid looking brown oak door, only distinguished from its neighbours by a small blue NHS sign instead of the "Speedy Loans" and such. I guess its an advantage for the clinic to have a low key appearance, but it does give the whole experience an air of back street naughtiness. Anyway after buzzing my way in I made my way up the stairs and found myself in a modern spacious reception area. I checked in and waited for my appointment with Dr Barrett. I rummaged through the cliched pile of outdated magazines with nothing grabbing my attention. There was only one other girl waiting. She was perhaps in her late teens and dressed in a short denim mini, a deliberately ripped off shoulder t shirt and long black goth style black boots. To my eye she was totally passable and if she hadn't been in the gender clinic then I would never figured her to be transgendered. I felt really dull in my black and white office wear. I had really struggled to know what outfit to choose. Ultra feminine or dress down casual girl look. In the end I just went in what I would have worn to the office anyway. I thought it would have given the impression of being in control of my life. I felt wrongly that I had to give a really good impression, else the doctor could turn me down for treatment. Just a dose of my usual neuroses.

"Have you come far" was my opening gambit to my fellow patient. "Cornwall" came back a nicely soft feminine voice. "God, that must be quite a trek" I said, softening my voice to almost a whisper, in an attempt to sound as good as her. "Pardon, I didn't catch that" she said. I repeated but this time in an audible normal voice. I really have to work harder on this speech thing I thought. "Who are you seeing?" she asked. I told her that it was a Dr Barrett. She informed me that she thought that Dr Barrett didn't like her because he had previously made a comment about her wearing a mini in winter. That made started me off. How dare a middle aged male doctor tell a girl of her age how to dress (I was guessing at his age, but aren't all doctors middle aged). It made me wary of Dr Barrett and put me on guard even before the consultation had begun.

I was called in. Sat down in his small consulting room overlooking the high street, he kicked off the session. He informed me that this would be an assessment to see if I was suitable for treatment. Well Ive been living and working full time as Jen for 2 years and have been on hormones for a year so I will be screwed if he decided I was not suitable. He told me that I would have to have a follow up assessment with another doctor in order to get a second opinion.

First off he wanted to talk about my weight. Now I already understood that this sort of elective surgery was only possible if I got my weight down and I was already dieting. However once I gave him my weight and height he made a point of tapping away on a calculator for what seemed like minutes to work out my body mass index. I could have told him straight away. The answer was too bloody much. He did give me a target weight, which I feel is a realistic goal. Then the questions started. First up were the usual ones; "Any history of mental illness?", "When did I first start dressing as a female?", "Did I used to masturbate while dressing?", yadda yadda yadda and so on. I answered absolutely truthfully and avoided the temptation to tell him what I thought he wanted to hear. Then the questions got progressively more irrelevant. "Do you have many friends?" "A few I suppose" I answered. "Would any of them lend you £20?" Took aback I said "I suppose they would, but they are generally more skint than me". I was getting irritated. What bearing does this have on my gender identity. Then it got a bit prickly. "Do you have any debt?" he asked, stone faced. Tempted to tell him it was none of his bloody business, I capitulated "I have some debt I suppose. The usual you know, mortgage, loans etc". That was not enough detail for him "How much?" he said pen poised to record my answer. Tempted again, I gave him a round figure answer. I so wanted to challenge this question but I thought discretion the better part of not screwing up my consultation. To me he was really flippant in his manner. When I said in response to a question as to my marital status, that although I was still officially married, we were separated for over 2 years and the divorce was going through, he barked back "You are either married or not". The session ended after 20 mins when I was packed off to the hospital for some blood tests. I presumed he wanted to see my hormone levels, but I wasn't given a reason. Not only was I perturbed with some of the questioning, I failed to see how anyone could make a reasoned judgement in only 20 mins. Surely I was more complicated than that.

Travelling back on the train I started to get angry and frustrated with the whole experience. I thought that he was testing me and I was upset. I couldn't imagine that any other NHS patients would have been treated in such a manner. Why the hell should I have to disclose how much debt I was in. As transgendered patient we are totally reliant on these medics for our treatment. They have the total power to block the treatment we need. This means we will generally not complain or question our treatment for seen as being awkward. I was frustrated with myself that I hadn't complained. In hindsight my views are probably unfair on committed medics who could have chosen a more sexy and high profile specialism, but on that day I was pretty down on the whole thing. All day off work, an expensive and long journey for just 20 mins of questioning. I was not impressed.

The consultation did produce some positive results. A referral came through for speech therapy and my hormones were changed to ones that were less likely to have the side effect of death.

My second appointment was January this year. It was with a different, younger doctor who asked me more questions though this time with more obvious relevance. I did say to him that I was a bit unhappy with my previous visits. He assured me that Dr Barrett was very experienced and would almost certainly support my treatment. I immediately got on well with this doctor and did my usual talking at him until the session overran.

So we now come to today's visit. I wasn't relishing another session with Dr Barrett, not least because my diet had gone a bit wobbly (like my figure) for a while, although I am now back on track. This time it was standing room only in reception. There were at least half a dozen girls some with partners, and a couple of Trans men. The common link was that they all looked pretty miserable. It wasn't a great advert for a transgendered lifestyle, but I suppose it is a stressful time and aren't all waiting rooms designed to make you sad. Everyone seemed to be avoiding eye contact with each other, which was difficult in a crowded room, so we mostly looked at our feet. I think there must be a correlation between unhappiness and shoes. Sad people tend to spend more time looking at their feet as also tend to spend more on shoes (well it's a theory, and would account for the vast number of shoe shops in Stoke-on-Trent!)

Anyway in I went for Round 2 with Dr Barrett. He was really smiley and welcoming this time. This unsettled me a little as I was ready to give him all guns about his half baked assessment. I very soon put those guns on safety and holstered them (I strain analogies like I strain my tights!) After asking me how I was we ended up through some circuitous route talking politics, which for a Trade Unionist and a Blogger is manna from heaven. So for 15 mins we talked about the state of the country (and it is in a state!). I did say that I was surprised to be talking politics in a gender dysphoria session. He said that it was useful for him to engage in conversation to see what sort of rounded functional being I was (perhaps he gets bored talking gender stuff all the time). Anyway the upshot is he thinks I'm doing well and if anything I'm a bit tough on myself. He actually made me feel really good and used the analogy that as a woman I am now flying and that I will reach full altitude in time, whereas some struggle to take off. I made some bad joke about how many engines would be needed to get me off the ground. This kind imagery and the fact he commented that I looked really well led me to revaluate Dr Barrett, from thinking what a stuck up arrogant quack he was, to a generous empathetic gender identity visionary. It is a gift that I have such flexibility of opinion, although in truth it probably means I am just shallow and easily flattered. He did mention my weight, which was fine and reasonable (even if he did get his calculator again). He also mentioned my wonky right eye (he did use a more medical term) and suggested if I sorted it it would help my appearance (fair enough). I suggested a contact lens, but his idea of a monocle may not be up to current trends.

The result was a long journey home, feeling much better about myself and my doctor. So as I said at the top I am really not good at judgement at first sight. My next appointment is November at now I am quite looking forward to it. Wonky eye and all.

Becoming Jen (Part 18) - Jen's Not Mad

For anyone who remembers the documentary "John’s Not Mad", this title doesn't mean I am going to have a bout of Tranny Tourettes. Oh alright then “SKIRTS! SHOES! BAGS!”... Thanks, I feel better for that. I again move away from the linear nature of this tale. This post will cover my treatment locally at the hands of my employer the NHS up to being prescribed those vital hormones. Oooops I may have spoiled the surprise ending!!!

I had almost forgotten about my referral to see a Psychiatrist. In the end I nearly missed it. Tucked away under a pile of loan offers and debt demands was an envelope franked NHS. I ought to send the loan offers to the debt collectors and vice versa, so they could just work things out together. Anyway, I usually filed the exponentially increasing daily pile of junk mail directly into black bin bags. Well junk mail is referred to as direct mailing. It was unusual to get something worth opening, and I could have easily just filed it as usual.

My appointment was in a dept called Liaison Psychiatry. I wasn’t actually sure what that meant but I liked the idea of a Liaison. Perhaps it meant that the appointment was slightly furtive in nature, perhaps conducted on a Station platform after dark. Unfortunately it was nothing as sexy as this. According to the font of all knowledge that is Wikipedia Liaison psychiatry is the branch of psychiatry that specialises in the interface between other medical specialties and psychiatry. In (not very ) short because I maintain that I am actually female and to this end I need to change my body, then the medical proffession sees this as a mental disorder that has a physical impact….or something like that. Anyhow although I would argue that I am not in anyway mentally ill or have any sort of disorder, I was quite happy to go along whichever route was needed. The doctor who I was due to see, I actually knew. In my so called job I sat on a bewildering range of committees and I knew Mike from one such meeting.

I turned up at our Acute Mental Health hospital in plenty of time. I visited this hospital countless times in the course of work, but this felt so different. I was a patient, or service user as they, I mean we, are now referred to. It felt so unreal to be sitting in the waiting area in this role. I have to be ashamed to say I wore my staff id badge as if I was trying to demonstrate I was not here as a patient. That is terrible to admit because I guess it showed a degree of prejudice towards mental illness. In my defence, because staff coming in and out knew me, I didn’t want them all to know my business, which in hindsight is both wrong and futile. As I was the only openly transgendered staff member, sitting in the department that dealt with gender identity, what other reason could I be there for. I am glad to say that since then I have endeavoured to be open and honest with colleagues that I am a service user

When my turn came I was informed that I would not be seeing Mike but one of his juniors. This was for his development reasons. The junior doctor was called Andrew. A pleasant mannered clean cut man in his late 20s, I guessed. I was to be his first case of gender dysphoria (The technical diagnosis for my condition, though sounding impressive actually just means gender unhappiness). I didn’t mind this at all. I liked the idea of being somebody’s first. I really wanted to make a good impression on him, which is not the ideal way to approach a consultation. The first session was to be an assessment, so basically I had to answer a pre-prepared bunch of questions. Although I really wanted to be accepted for treatment and say the right things, I did want to be honest in my answers. There was a temptation to say just what I thought he needed to hear. I did not want to give the “I’m a woman trapped in a man’s body” shtick. I couldn’t have told him that I would have been suicidal if I couldn’t change gender. All those stories I read about in magazine articles, and saw on the TV, didn’t necessarily relate to me. It would be wrong if I had said I felt like a woman. After all how could I know what any other woman or any person felt like. I just knew what felt right for me. I was honest with Andrew the Shrink. If my marriage had been successful, then I would probably have continued my life in that role and been relatively happy. As I never really imagined I could live as a woman, so I didn’t beat myself up about it. Sure, I would always have dreamed, but I was, and am quite pragmatic at heart. Circumstance changed however, and I found that I could release myself, and I have to say I have never been more fulfilled than I am right now. I worried that this in some way meant I was less deserving of treatment than those poor souls who end up on the brink of suicide over their gender identity. Was this just feeling right for me, enough for them. Anyway as soon as Andrew started his list of questions, I started pouring out all this sort of guff. I rabitted on in this manner for the whole session, while he made notes and occasionally nodded. The poor man, I thought afterwards. He barely got much of a say and I’m not even sure I answered many of his question properly. Mind you it was clear from his demeanour that he didn’t really have much experience in this field. Perhaps he would have been better with a less self opinionated, know-all fool for his first patient. We got on ok though. He informed me that although I was his first he would be having supervision from Mike, who had vast experience of gender identity, so I was happy
..
My second appointment a month or so later went pretty much the same as before, just without the set questions. I basically just talked at him for half an hour. We did get onto more practical matters. He asked what help I was looking for. I said I definitely wanted to start on hormone therapy and eventually be considered for surgery. At the end of the session, when he was able to get a word in edgeways he dropped a mini bombshell. “I am going to support you”, he said, “but there is one issue”. Slight pause. “It’s my religion”. “Oh…what is your religion” I said. “I am a Christian” he replied. “Well I guess I’m a sort of Christian” I retorted (I guess I regard myself as an agnostic Christian. I like all the hippy forgiving stuff in the bible. I’m just not sure about the god stuff!). “Well I guess I am what you would describe as a fundamental Christian” was his response. Well it was clear what he meant by that. He must have seen my desire to change my gender as some sort of sin against god. I suppose I should have been angry at this, but my first reaction was good on you for being honest with me. He suddenly looked apologetic. For a moment the clinician/patient dynamic was reversed. He was sharing with me, and seemed to want my acceptance. “I can assure you I won’t let it affect my treatment and support of you” he said rather quietly. “If you want to change to another clinician I can refer you back to Mike, if you like” he offered. I seized on the chance to be magnanimous. “Thanks for telling me” I said in my softest most compassionate voice “Lets stick with it, and see how we go” I said, almost patronisingly. I was honestly impressed with his honesty. He didn’t need to tell me about his religious quandary. I would never have guessed. If his branch of Christianity was against people like me, then his religion is just plain wrong, full stop. However I felt sort of sorry for this misguided man hamstrung by his misguided religious views. I actually thought he might be a little upset if I had him replaced. (This was a little arrogant on my part reflecting back). So I decided to stick with him. I secretly decided that it would be my aim to convince him in the error of his ways. I might even get him in a skirt by the end of our sessions.

Over the next six months I had a few more “talking at him” sessions. In all honesty that was all they were. He had nothing in the way of advice to offer me. I am arrogant if I assume he wasn’t doing his job and in effect analysing me. By the end it felt like we were both wasting each others time. However he did his job and I eventually got a referral to the legendary, notorious Charring Cross clinic, who would see to the nuts and blots (or removing such) of my treatment and hopefully start me on the Hormone therapy. I was told that it might take some months for my appointment to come through. I was happy though, just to be making progress. My sessions with Andrew eventually ended when he got another job. I was then passed over to Mike…

Mike was a completely different kettle of shrink to Andrew. He had vast experience of supporting people like me. He was a big cuddly kindly bearded man. I liked him immediately. He was wise enough not to let me just talk at him. When I would start wittering off into unfocussed ramble (I should have him edit this blog) he would reign me in. We did have one hiccup. In one session I was bemoaning an experience I’d had visiting my GP.

Now my Doctors had changed my name ok, from my first visit as Jenny. However on one visit, they had changed the system from a tannoy calling out “Jenny Harvey to room 2” or something, to a flashy scrolling LED sign. Now when my time came up flashed the message letter by letter as slowly as a crawll ...G.E.O.F.F...H.A.R.V.E.Y...T.O...R.O.O.M..2... It then just hung there.I had no choice but to stand up in front of a crowded waiting room thus instantly outing me to everyone. As I walked out of the waiting area a trail of murmers followed in my wake. As you can imagine I wasn’t best pleased, and after a couple of maoning phone calls to the Practice Manager in which she tried to blame it on the IT, they have now rectified it. As an aside my surgery now has me listed for a smear test! Which is in its own way equally stupid and annoying.

Anyway after I told this story to Mike he has now referred to me as Geoff on two occasions. Each time he hasn’t realised, and when I pointed it out he was beside himself. We ended up having an interesting conversation on how the brain perceives. He said he had never made this error with a patient before. He absolutely accepted me a Jenny from the start, although he had briefly known me pre Jen. My recounting the GP story had obviously reconnected some pathways deep in his psyche. It showed me that even though people genuinely accept me they cannot totally override what there brain perceives. If the foremost Gender Dysphoria expert in North Staffs can slip than anyone can. Sometimes the brain will see what the brain will see. I argued with him that it would have been different if I was 5’9’’ and build less like a truck, and that it would be easier for that brain to see a female. This hiccup aside, I really valued and still do my sessions with Mike. He has given me confidence and helped me gain perspective when I’ve been down about things, and despite all my neurotic, self opinionated, over rationalised utterances, he told me that all things considered I was pretty well balanced.

It was now 4 months from my referral to Charring Cross and I had heard nothing. I decided to contact them. The Clinic informed me they were waiting for my PCT (Primary Care Trust, the part of the NHS that moves all the money about) to give the go ahead. The problem was that at this time my PCT like most in the NHS at that time had massive financial deficits. Someone somewhere had overspent by about 12 million quid! So… the first thing they do is cut, and what is one of the easiest, softest targets, Gender Reassignment. So right at the time I was referred the PCT publicly stated that they would no longer automatically fund treatment! If I was slightly more paranoid then I would have started to think that NHS was plotting against me (I haven’t totally rued this theory out yet). On my next visit to Mike, we discussed this situation. He decided to make an exception with me and start me on hormones prior to Charring Cross, as it was unclear when or even whether I would get an appointment. By then I had been working and living as Jen full time for over a year, and he was satisfied that hormone therapy was right for me. I was so grateful for this. The hormones were the most important part of the treatment to me. Sorting my bits out would be the important icing on the cake, but I was always more keen on the chocolate filling anyway.

So there it was. I had finally started my journey to physical womanhood

Becoming Jen (Part 17)

The Day After the Day Before

It was T-day + 1. I had now been full time Jenny (Fun Time Jenny might better but untrue) for one whole Earth day. So there I was again, waking up far too early in order to make myself look less like Chewbacca and more like Princess Leia. Shaved to within a micrometre of my life, make up overcarefully applied and wig teased and adjusted to the nth, all that was left was my outfit. I couldn’t go for the Princess Leia gold bikini for reasons of sanity and taste, so I had to go for boring office wear. I chose a another long black skirt, a black blouse with a pink polka dot, and the black jacket again (enough with the black already!)So skirted and blouse-ed I headed off into day 2, with a bit of a spring.

My morning had no meetings booked. So I was office bound, which meant much phone answering. This was part of the job I hadn’t really considered. I was so worried about the appearance side, I had not really thought about my voice. Now, I had evolved a softer slightly higher pitched version of my natural timbre, but this had only ever been needed in short bursts in shops etcetera. To concentrate over a long phone call was something else. On top of that the sound quality of the phone mitigated against a Princes Leia sounding voice, but really needed to endeavour not to slip into a Chewwy growl (I am beginning to tire of this star wars metaphor already, and there is a danger that anyone who knows me is now thinking about Jabba the Hutt!) Lacking confidence I decided not to answer the phone as i would usually do, with my name. That way I would leave the issue unaddressed. However at the start of my very first call, the member asked to whom she was speaking. “Jenny Harvey, the Branch Secretary” I replied. “Jerry?” came back through my earpiece. “No sorry, it’s Jenny Harvey”, I reaffirmed. “Was that Kenny?” came the reply. She clearly couldn’t reconcile my name with the voice she was hearing. “No it is Jenny Harvey. I am transgendered”, I explained more firmly. A pause, and then “Oh, sorry” she hesitated back and then we got on with the conversation. This was the first of many, many, such conversations I would have over the phone over the next few months.

Just after lunch I had a big recruitment presentation to do. There was going to be a gathering of 60 odd OT staff (Occupational therapists. Oh and they are not that odd!). I had to give a few minutes talk on the importance of Trade Unions and to try and recruit one of them as a rep. Now, to my knowledge only a couple of the managers had known me previously, so I should have been able to address them without worrying about the baggage of my old identity. I stood up before them apprehensive and a bit shaky. I hate speaking without something to sit or stand behind. I felt exposed, desperately holding in my tummy. I desperately wanted to create a good impression. I knew that even if I had passed on first view, once I opened my mouth it would be more difficult. I wouldn't be able to rely on a quietness in my voice as I was speaking to a large room. However In my best female tone I started... “Hi, I’m Jenny Harvey and I’m your Unison Branch Secretary”, and off I went into my well practiced stride. As I spoke, I scrutinised faces for reactions. All I could really gauge was boredom. Oh well, perhaps I’m not the engaging raconteur I thought, but at least they were not staring open mouthed at me. I finished and sat down, relieved and satisfied. That was 60 more people who knew Jenny… Then Don got up to speak!!...

Now I have known Don, an OT manager for years. We get on really well, and I like him a lot. I could tell he was a bit nervous speaking to a large group. I wasn’t really paying attention, and then I heard his opening words “Thanks to Geoff. I just want to echo everything He said”! Oh B******s I thought to myself, and I grasped my head in my hands. So much for first impressions. Now I was absolutely sure that Don hadn’t meant to refer to me in this way, but it was the first time he’d seen me as Jen, after knowing me for 8 years. I also think with the natural nerves anyone gets when public speaking his brain went on to auto pilot, which had a default setting in which I was Geoff and a male. Sitting with him afterwards, I ribbed him about it. He honestly didn’t realise what he had said, and apologised fully.

I was upset with how things had gone, but I had to learn to get over it. This was clearly not going to be as easy as I had first thought. Still 2 days down I only had 6075 more working days till retirement!

Becoming Jen (Part 16)

Crossing That Floor

 The time had finally come. October 2005. It would be T-Day the day of my Transition

I had now told so many work colleagues about my better side that it was no longer going to stay secret. I knew when I told one particular individual, that she couldn’t keep it secret, so I guess I brought it on myself. Vicky confirmed that there was now some gossip going around. I decided that rather then let people talk, which would inevitably lead to me being imagined as some weekend drag queen, I wanted  everyone to see the real me and judge for themselves. So I decided I needed to start working as Jenny. There was no real planning, and I can’t even fully recall the thought processes that I went through.. I was also now living apart from Caz, and staying with a couple of friends so I just decided the time was probably right. For someone who has always taken the path of least resistance in life, this decision was by far the most important one I would ever take. Transition at work would be the last most important piece of the puzzle. Once undertaken, I would then be Jenny absolutely full time, with no going back. In terms of this blog title I would have Crossed the Floor.

I have read the stories of other girl’s transition at work. They always seem to have properly planned ahead, with letters to Personnel (I hate the term HR, it just sounds Orwellian) and meeting after meeting to discuss all aspects. I had done none of this. I had shown my colleagues (including the director of Personnel, who I regard as a friend) pictures and hinted that one day I may work in my new gender, but that’s as far as it had gone.

T-Day minus 5

Transition was not going to be simple. Although I hadn’t planned properly I felt I needed to give my decision proper and thorough consideration. So I sat down, one evening, steadied myself with a stiff Chocolate Milk and did some thinking.

My job as a full time Union Officer is a unique role in the NHS. I am not conventionally  managed but at the same time answerable to our 3,000 members. I manage no one but I have to organise the branch and the reps. To transition in this role could not be done quietly or subtlety as I guess the job is fairly public. I have to deal with the local press. Make presentations and speak to groups of staff. I also have to represent individuals at very stressful points in their working lives. If I made someone feel uncomfortable then I could not do my job effectively. If I was dealing with a female member and they wanted and needed a female representative, do I legitimately insist that they accept me as a woman. The other big risk for me was that I have to be elected every year. If the membership did not feel comfortable with a transgendered woman leading their branch, they could vote me out, and there would be little I could do.

I was confident that in the workplace no one would overtly discriminate against my gender identity. It would be what was said when I wasn’t there. I knew that my employer and Union would support me, and I accepted that I was lucky to be working in such a liberal and Inclusive environment. I’m sure that if I had been a builder (unlikely with my DIY prowess) or even worked in a Pot Bank (Stokie for Pottery Manufacturer) it would have been so much harder or well nigh impossible. I knew that many other girls transitioning had not been able to stay with their employer long term. Either the employer or colleagues had forced them out of their job. I often read that it was easier to make a complete fresh start, with a new employer. That way you could cast off that old worn out male identity. It would be so difficult for everyone I come into contact with to disassociate me from the Xxxxx Harvey that they knew and loved (or tolerated more like).

Question fizzed through my mind Would I ever be totally accepted as a woman? Would I always be seen as Xxxxx in a skirt! Could I still be taken seriously, or would the sniggering gossip that was abound turn me into the biggest joke. Would my female colleagues see me as one of their own? Would my male colleagues ever see me as a woman ? Would I be viewed a genderless outside ?r

Phew, all these things whizzing round my head gave me a headache. When I had started this musing, I was fairly certain what I was going to do. The more I thought about it the more problems, barriers and hurdles I could see ahead. Every consideration seemed to suggest I was taking the most absurd risk of my life. I even started to question my Transgenderness.

Why me? Why do I need to do this? Why can’t I just get on with my life? After all  if my marriage had been solid and survived I would ever have had the courage have come out. Did that mean my drive to a new gender was not as strong as those other girls I have read about? Should I just stop now? Could I take everything back? Although I was not content I was able to sort of  function as a male at work. Is contentment really enough of a reason? Surely I should have been suicidal if I had to stay as a man. I just wasn’t, well not at that time (though these thought had been a times through my life). What about my family. I knew mum and dad would be shocked (and disappointed) that I would be living full time as a woman.

I needed something stronger so I supplemented the Chocolate Milk with my favourite gourmet snack of Barbeque Beef Hoola Hoop crisps with Galaxy Milk Chocolate, eaten together at the same time..

I managed to get a grip. I hadn’t come this far to give up now. Even if All these obstacles were piled together and doubled were not enough. I was a woman. From that first exhilarating moment I first stepped out in the daylight I knew it was right for me. Since then, at every opportunity of choice I had presented as a woman. This was no passing phase. In the cheesy camp words of Gloria Gaynor “I am what I am”. Who cares why? Logic was not going to help me. My decision was right. I needed to think about the Hows and not the Whys

And so to the How. I have read that other girls had taken some time off work with their colleagues prepared for the change when they got back. I didn’t see that working. Apart from the fact that my workload was crazy full, I didn’t have an easily defined bunch of work colleagues. I could be with new staff and members every day. There was no way to prepare them all. I decided for a touch of Shock and Awe approach( or depending how it was received Shock and Awful)

T-day minus 3

So one wet Friday in Early October I spent my day ringing around various departments of the NHS in North Staffordshire. I picked out those managers and colleagues I would be meeting with that next week. The phone calls were all fairly brief.

“Hi it’s Xxxxx Harvey from Unison. Just thought I would let you know that from Monday I will be coming to work as a woman and my name will be Jenny”.

In those few simple words my life changed. Some of my colleagues had been prepared for, but never expected it so soon. Others had no pre warning. I guess everyone was at the least wrong footed, while others felt hacked down from behind. To their credit, and my eternal gratitude, they were to a man and woman supportive and kind, although I suspect some were still concerned how they would react to me when they first met new me.

I ended that day feeling drained, excited, scared, resigned, elated, worried, numb and excited again. Whatever I had done, it was done. I spent the weekend trying desperately not to think about it. I failed.

T-Day

I got up so early on the Monday. I knew I had to get my appearance just right. Every woman is judged on appearance at work. A Trans woman doubly so. I knew everyone would be judging me even if they weren’t conscious they were doing so. If I made a hash of my appearance that first crucial impression would be tough to overcome. This would make the difference to see I would be regarded as a woman or a Transvestite.

I wanted to look feminine and appropriate. I could easily overdo the girliness that would not usually be seen at work. Too understated would not suit the tools I had to work with. It was no simple task to transform me from the shambling oaf that was my male appearance to a sophisticated (what!) working woman, so I needed plenty of time. I plumped (very plumped in my case), for a long black skirt, pink stripped blouse under a dark pink v neck sweater, and my trusty black zipped jacket, I applied my makeup with more care and subtlety than ever before, and made sure my wig, that was so necessary to make it all work was perfectly styled….and so, with no going back it was off to work.

Out of the 4 colleagues that inhabit (or clutter up) the office only Dave had not met Jen before. I burst into the office with declaring “I’ve done something different with my hair, can you tell”. As ice breaker jokes go it was very poor, but it was a  start. I had decided that I would try and use self deprecating humour as an approach to A) put people at ease and B). to blunt any potential unkind comments . This was the exact same way I used humour at school to counter bullying. I must admit I came to regret a little the over reliance of this tactic. It was useful at first, but after time it didn’t help with serious acceptance.

Anyway on that first day I was due to do a presentation to some visiting assessors from an NHS initiative called Improving Working Lives. There would be about 20 people in the meeting with most being my employers senior managers. I didn’t imagine the visitors would not be expecting a fledgling transitioned Trans woman and I worried they might be distracted from my presentation. So I decided to open with the ice breaker of my now legendary and poorNHS trans “joke”. In the NHS there has been a huge pay restructure called Agenda for Change (I guess you’re ahead of me) so I opened with. “Hi I’m Jenny Harvey of Unison and the Staffside Chair. And I wish someone had told me earlier that Agenda for Change didn’t mean I actually had to Change my Gender” Well It seemed to work and nervous laughter turned to genuine laughter, and everyone seemed at ease. I have discussed this approach with my Speech Therapist, who thinks I am wrong to draw attention to my gender in this manner and it is like I am trying to excuse and apologise for who I am. In reflection she is right, and I do make a conscious effort now to avoid this, though as a frustrated stand up it’s hard to drop a joke that works.

Well this was quite a baptism of fire for my first day. No settling in gently for me, but that was good to be honest, it meant I had no time for anxiety. The only hiccup on the day occurred at lunch. Ian our Branch Treasurer came into the office. Now Ian was the only branch officer I hadn’t told about my gender identity. I had just missed him out by accident. He really had no idea. So he stood chatting to a colleague unaware that the female figure in the corner was me. I walked over to Ian saying “Hi Ian, I am sorry I didn’t warn you” As he looked at me and then at hearing my voice, the phrase “The penny dropped” just doesn’t do justice. He visibly paled and swayed at the shock. The worry was, that Ian had not that long suffered a heart attack. I felt really bad, that I had surprised him like this. When he returned to his office, I phoned him to check he was ok, and we had a good chat. Ian has been a rock since and never once slipped up with my name or pronoun. I was just glad I hadn’t finished him off.

Well that was day one over. It had gone really well. I was absolutely exhausted through the stress and the concentration needed to present as female without lapsing in male mannerisms. So there you have it. I Crossed The Floor. I was now a member of the other party, and I was happy there.

Becoming Jen (Part 15)

Party Politics

My life had passed a tipping point. After the success of my week in Glasgow, I was now firmly convinced I could, and would soon live and work full time as a woman. I was now dressing pretty much full time when not at work. I had also started to purchase clothes suitable for work. It seemed only a matter of time.

Mid way through the summer, I was invited to a house party. Gary is one of my closest colleagues and friends on the Staff side. He works for another Trade Union, and we jointly take the lead for the Staff side. He is more interestingly, a Podiatrist and does the feet for Port Vale FC! Anyway, he knew about my better side, though had not seen it yet. One day he asked if I wanted to come to a treasure hunt / barbeque party at his house. One of the main selling points was that an old work friend of ours, Lorna would be going. I was a bit nervous about going to such a social event where I would not know anyone, but in the knowledge that Lorna would be there I said yes. Another plus point was that Lorna is nearly as tall as me, so for once I wouldn’t feel like a giant.

The day came. It was a balmy summer Saturday in July. I got ready in my best summer party outfit (when I say best I mean only). I got to Gary’s house in a picturesque Staffordshire moorlands village. His house was a converted Chapel perched halfway up a steep hill. There were cars precariously parked all the way up the hill, so I figured quite a few guests had arrived. Steeling myself with a gulp I went in. Gary and his wife Hazel, met me at the door, and being laid back, showed no real reaction to my appearance. Gary's first words did made my heart sink. “Lorna can’t make it”. With no other ally and Gary busy entertaining everyone I was on my own! Then my heart sank a little deeper “By the way I haven’t mentioned to anyone about your Transgender thing?” So I was now deep into uncomfortable social event hell. I would have to engage strangers in conversation, while I imagined they would try and distance themselves from me while trying not to stare! Then just as my heart tried to gain some buoyancy it finally popped and sank to the depths of my stomach. “By the way its mainly married couples with their children.

So....I was the only single transgendered stranger in a party full of professional couples and kids who all knew each other. I had absolutely no training for such an event. My previous tactic for party survival, developed at Poly was to sit at the back in a dark corner and attempt to look dark, moody and interesting, possibly holding a cigarette of some description as an affectation of cool. In hindsight I looked sinister, miserable and boring, and as I didn’t smoke, stupid! So I was just going to have to mix it toe to toe, with Staffordshire’s chattering classes. I decided that if I could manage to look comfortable, then guests may start to feel more comfortable with the 6 foot 2 transsexual.

The party turned out to be great fun. Gary’s friends were all charming and I pretty soon relaxed. Every time I met a new guest we would mention how we knew Gary and Hazel. One lady asked me “Do you know Gary through work or his rock climbing?” looking at my athletic physique she added “Its work isn’t it”. That made us both laugh and a barrier broken. The only I awkward moment came later in the evening. Sitting in the lounge chatting to 3 other women, one of their boys, aged about 8 I guess, came bounding over with “Are you a boy or girl?” at full volume. Slightly aback all I could think of was “Today I’m a girl”. “Really kids have no social compass!” I opined. Luckily everyone laughed with me.

That was not the first time inquisitive kids had put me on the spot. I remember once in Tescos two 10 ish year old lads following me and then calling out “Is it a man or a woman?” So I turned tables and when not expecting approached them and said “It’s a bit rude, shouting. If you want to know something just ask, and I will talk to you” They were both stopped dead in their tracks, and to their credit apologised.

I had really enjoyed the do, and I thanked Gary and Hazel for inviting me. It was proof further that I could function well as Jen.

This is only the briefest of chapters, because next time…. Jenny goes live….T for Transition Day….It will be working girl time.

Becoming Jen (Part 14)

Glasgow Calling

June 2005. I had a week long conference coming up in Glasgow. It was Unisons National Delegates Conference which must be one of the biggest in the country with 3000 delegates and visitors. I decided that because my colleagues within the branch now knew about my better side then it may be possible for me to be Jenny at the conference. I can’t imagine a more progressive and inclusive event than a Trade Union Conference. I also thought it might give me an indication of what it would be like to work as a woman. The problem was, that I was registered as Xxxxx Harvey and my photo ID was as such. I also wasn’t sure I wanted to totally commit to every day. I would be in a strange city (no more strange than stoke though!), and I needed a get out clause. I contacted the Conference Office and asked them if it was possible to have a 2 sided ID badge. On one side was Xxxxx Harvey, the other Jenny Harvey, with accompanying photographs (so long as I didn’t get the photos mixed up!). This would give me the option day to day in which version would attend. I did plan to be Jenny all week, but just needed an escape clause (always the worrier). This was the first time our conference office had ever had such a request, but could not see any problems. I would have to sort out my new duplex badge when I got there.

I then needed to talk to my colleagues at the West Midland Region. The next time I was down Birmingham way I did this. I used my tried, trusted and unsubtle method of shoving a picture of me as Jenny under their noses and saying, ‘this is the real me !’ They were naturally surprised, but were all really positive. It was then that I encountered the Toilet Question!

It was by far the most asked question when I first came out. Everyone is obsessed with loos. Now of course I never consider it an issue now, but back then it was. At that time I had only taken a couple of tentative steps into the mystical realm of the Ladies Loo. In general I would either use a garage disabled toilet or just hold it in. That didn’t seem right anymore. It felt like a failure on my part. When dressed I was, to me a woman and felt I should start using the correct toilet. I also knew there was no legal or any other reason why I shouldn’t. My first venture was Tescos of course. I did wait until it was quiet and hurried straight in and straight to the cubicle. As I sat there I heard some other women at the sinks and drying their hands. I waited to they were gone before I came out. I must admit I was impressed how clean and fragrant it was compared to the wee splattered gents! It did feel good to stand at the sink and touch up my makeup and fluff my wig into shape. It was another defiantly female experience. From that moment I have always used the Ladies when dressed as such, with no real problems other than the odd look. Oh of course I now have to queue, because there are never enough Ladies Cubicles!

Anyway, by the time I was talking to my region I had been a Ladies user (what!) for a few months. One of the Regional delegates to conference, after I had told her about me, came back over and asked which toilet I would be using at conference “Just in case anyone complained”. I of course answered snappily  “The Ladies” and then  left it at that. Thinking later that day I got more miffed. I must have been the only person attending that conference that had been asked such a question. What toilet could I use dressed and attending as a woman. I have never made an issue of it, but I guess this was slightly discriminatory and I didn’t expect that of my Union.

The day to go arrived. I was nervous as could be. Of my 3 fellow delegates only one had seen me as Jenny. I just hoped they would be comfortable with me. Of course they were and made me feel welcome, and never got my name wrong all week! The second nervous flashpoint could be the train journey. I hadn’t used the train as Jen. When seated I would be captive, and at the prey of the dressed Trans girl’s mortal enemies. Drunk blokes and over curious kids, for both of whom the train carriage is a captive hunting ground. Luckily for me there was neither, however we faced a bigger challenge. The train was absolutely packed. Not just normally packed but stuffed like 2 tins of sardines squashed into 1! On top of that all the sardines had luggage. I on top of that had luggage for 2! I immediately regretted my cautious inclusion of a second male packed suitcase for that just in case day! There were cases all over the place. The forlorn sign stating “Please do not leave luggage in the passageway” almost seemed to sigh in resignation. We managed the obstacle course, with plenty of “excuse me” s and “pardon me”s and eventually “Can You Just for gods sake, Move Over”s, and settled into our reserved seats, spending the whole journey staring at the case perched on my knees.

Anyway, we got there pretty much unscathed and hotel was really nice. That first evening was to be our Regional pre conference meeting, at a bigger and posher hotel. Another nerve-wracking event for me. I knew loads of people from the region, but only a handful knew about the new improved me, (now with extra sparkle). I was going to have to walk into a large hotel conference room with over 100 people. I hadn’t really considered this properly. I couldn’t bottle it now and go in male mode after taking all this trouble. I laid all my clothes out on the bed, and chose what I thought the most subtle and feminine summer evening outfit. Hanging my clothes in the wardrobe, gave me a warm feeling to see just girls clothes. My male stuff stayed firmly in its case. A long beige linen skirt, white sleeveless top, and brown strappy flat sandals. I decided upon a plan. We would get there early, get a good seat out of the way, and I could slowly introduce myself to everyone.

Of course me and plans go together like sausages and custard (mmmm come to think of it). It was my fault of course. I relied on my legendary sense of direction to find the hotel. This of course meant we got lost, had to jump in a taxi and were consequently 15 minutes late. I walked in to a quiet hushed room with only the regional secretary speaking. The only spare seats were at the front. I made my way through, what I thought was a wave of murmurs, sat down and stared straight ahead. Not daring to turn around to see 200 eyes staring back at me. When the meeting finished it was buffet time and the hush turned to hubbub. Of course when I looked around everyone was not paying me sole attention. My insecurities meant that I did become a little self absorbed and presumed that everyone would only be concerned with me and my change (am I any different now). To be honest I think they all had much more pressing concerns.

A few of my closer friends came over with big smiles and lashings of “Can’t believe its you”s. “Why didn’t you tell me”s and “You look really good”s. I must admit the rest of the evening went really well, especially as I like talking about myself and I had plenty of eager listeners. I also got loads of makeup advice and cemented some friendships further.

The next day was the first of conference proper. I put my best flat walking shoes on, with a denim knee length skirt and a black t shirt. We soon joined the marching throng of delegates, all with matching purple lanyards with hanging ID passes. I turned mine blank side out, as I only had the Xxxxx name badge at that time. At conference desk the next they had no trouble sorting me out with my unique one person double identity pass. I was officially Unison's first 2 name 2 gendered delegate!

Now my plan was to get through the conference as quietly as I could, without drawing too much attention. Of course it was sausage/custard time again! I had chosen my first conference as the one when Transgendered members were the main issue! Let me explain. Most Unions have dedicated Self Organised Groups (SOG). Unison had a L&G SOG (Lesbian & Gay). Now most of the other Unions had moved to LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender) Groups. However the year before this change had been defeated at our conference. I wont get into the why’s and wherefores, rights and wrongs of this, but suffice to say, it was disappointing. So this year, my first Jenny year, there was a concerted effort and campaign to bring about the change. Hence everywhere I looked there were delegates sporting T shirts with the slogan “YES to LGBT”. There was no way that I was going to get through the week unnoticed. So girding my loins (not sure exactly what that entails, but it sounds fun) I joined the campaign, and found myself featured in conference newsletters and joining in campaigning huddles. Everywhere I went at conference someone would come over and engage me in LGBT talk. I can’t protest, because despite all my natural tendencies, I really enjoyed the attention. This went on for the next 2 days, and to be honest I missed much of the conference debate, but have never been so involved.

When Thursday came it was rule change time. Rule changes are usually for the Union Geeks (that includes me). They need a 2 Thirds majority to get through. This was what we needed for the change to LGBT. After the last years failure, and all the campaigning we were confident, but nervous. It would send a very poor message to our Transgendered members if it failed. In the end it got through with an overwhelming majority, thanks in part to a couple of heart rending speeches from a couple of transitioned Transgendered members. I was impressed by their bravery standing and speaking on such personal issues to such a large gathering. There was a big party for the newly formed LGBT group, and despite all the urges I declined. Being a woman didn’t come naturally back then and the effort of concentration took its toll. I was exhausted.

The conference ended on the Friday. As we trundled through the lakes back south I felt satisfied and sad. I was delighted that I had got through the week totally as Jen. I now knew in my heart I could cope with the discipline and routine of getting ready as a woman every morning. I had also discovered I could go about my days with my head held high and not in the shadows. The sadness was that it was over, and next week I would be back to the tired drab old working me. I was dreading it. I could not sustain this double life for much longer.

Becoming Jen (Part 13)

Doctor, Doctor

After the success of my visit to my brother Billy's I again settled into a rhythm with my life. I was pretty much full time, fun time Jenny, away from work, and scruffy self loathing Geoff at work. Only my closest colleague knew, and she was really discrete. I must admit I was staggered that people weren't noticing some changes. My eyebrows were thinning, my nails more shapely, with a subtle sheen, which jarred terribly with my ill fitting trousers and barely ironed shirt. I guess some things looked so odd that brains did not compute. I have seen that happen since. When I first met my father in law as jenny. He was an unreconstructed northern farmer with whom my relationship was to talk about football, business and football. He was never going to be a flag-waver for LGBT rights. A decent hard working, blunt man, he walked into the room, me sitting there in a sleeveless top and short skirt and did he not bat the slightest of eyelashes. "Did you see United last night he said", "Yeah they did well" my reply..That was it. As far as he was concerned, he had no point of reference for my change so his brain just chose to ignore it. Whenever we spoke after that, nothing changed, whatever I looked like. That was ok by me.

Anyway, back to my work. I knew I couldn’t keep things secret forever. I decided to slowly expand my "Circle of Trust". So as a good Trade Union organizer I set about a finely calculated programme of briefing sessions, to a hand picked few. Of course I could never stick to a plan. I started with some more of my Trade Union colleagues. Women onlyy, at first of course. Talking to a man about being a Transgendered was going to be another level of trickiness. I used my tried and tested, picture method. Mainly if I'm honest because I got a bit of a kick out of surprising them that I could look so good as a girl. (I do accept this picture was a fluke, not looking like a goggle eyed giant!) "I can't believe its you. You look so good" I would reply with a touch of disingenuous modesty. I have to be honest I loved these compliments, however much I pleaded otherwise. I still do. The only time anyone passed comments on my appearance previously were of the "tuck your shirt in", "Your flies are undone" or "Would it have killed you to have a bath" variety.

For the first time in my life I was getting praise for my appearance, even if it was just a photo. No, there was one other occasion. People did say I looked good at my wedding. They were absolutely wrong however. I looked like a bouncer, stuffed in an ill fitting mourning suit, with a severe pudding bowl haircut. Now if I had been allowed to dress in my wife’s gorgeous wedding dress then the compliments would have been due. I did manage to 'borrow' that dress one day, but I don't think it was designed for housework (with a train and hoover entanglement being one pitfall)...Focus Jenny...

I was getting unanimously positive feedback from my self outing sessions. Like any other drug I needed more. I started telling some of the managers, old colleagues, fast food vendors and even people I wasn’t close too! Pretty soon there was an extensive underground movement of Jenny knowers, each unaware of the existence of others. I of course told each one separately, that hardly anyone else knew, and it was such a great secret that I was only telling them because they were special (When only my kebab shop man was really special!. There is no greater bond than that forged through a Donner Kebab in Nam Bread) This way, not only did I feel good about the revelation, but those I told felt pleased to be trusted. Such hubris on my part. This Secret Society of Jenn-ites should have had a secret sign, just like the Freemason’s. Perhaps a waved limp wrist!

I knew that eventually, a critical mass would be reached. That would be when enough people knew that it couldn’t possibly be contained. I was also getting more reckless with my Revalatees (not sure this is a word) I was telling people who I knew could keep a secret about as well as I keep things tidy! Just like the US government insisting that JFK was killed by the lone gunmen, I would be living as a man, while everyone knew the real truth. However I still wasn’t 100% sure what my plan was. I had said to all my victims that I was telling them because one day I may start to come to work full time as Jenny. I said this at the same time I didn’t really believe it. If I am honest with myself in the beginning this rationale was as much as anything an excuse to reveal all. However these revelations were becoming a self fulfilling prophecy. I very soon realized that once the message became firstly gossip and then common knowledge, I would have to make a decision. For the first time I started to realistically consider being able o live as Jenny Full Time and forever. This was such an exciting and enticing prospect. As a born again worrying pessimist I tried to think of every reason why I shouldn’t pursue this goal, but I was too far gone. I was totally captivated by the possibilities

It was at this time that I started to consider the practicalities of Transition. If I wanted to live true to myself, I also wanted to have a body that was true to me. To do this I would need hormone therapy and eventually the dreaded surgery. When I was talking to my confidees, and was asked about Gender Reassignment (though everyone did use the outdated Sex Change term), I used to deflect the question, or downright lie and say I hadn’t thought about it. I have always thought about it, and craved it. I just never thought it a realistic proposition. Now was different. If I was going to live full time as a woman, why on earth couldn’t I have the medical support I would need. So this thought in hand I set off to my GP. I felt I needed to go in fully Jen mode so that morning I had dressed in my best working woman clothes (I mean skirt suit not the other euphemistic use of the term). I felt so uncomfortable as I stood in the queue of the crowded sniffle filled waiting room. My turn came and I whispered to the receptionist. “Geoff Harvey for the doctor please, but when you call my name can you use Miss Harvey instead". The receptionists was fine with this, once she had deciphered my whispering.

I sat at the back of the waiting room and did what the room demanded, I waited. I kept my head down not wanting to draw attention. I have discovered this is exactly the wrong thing to do. Trying to look like you don’t want to be noticed, just makes you look a bit shifty. There is a term “Throwing Shade”. Meaning the best way to pass is to “hide” in plain sight. I leant this from my first tentative shopping trips, that if I stopped ducking and hiding behind the shelved and just went about my business normally then no one would really notice. Anyway digression aside my turn came. “Miss Harvey for the Doctor” This was the first time I had heard myself referred to as Miss and I have to admit it felt wonderful. I sashayed my way through the coughing throng. I was nervous about what I was going to say to the Doc, but I was heartened when I saw whoit was. It was the female Dr X. Obviously X was not her real name (although it would have been fun to have a mysterious X figure as my doctor) for reasons of privacy. She was a lovely, personable doctor who had been really kind to Caroline and me previously. I felt she would understand.

“Hello” she said in a quizzical but comforting way. “What can we do for you…err?”, “Jenny” I completed. “I err …I would like to be referred to someone about my gender” Not the most complete and helpful of statements. My Doctor knew straight away what to do. We will refer you to Consultant Y (here I go again, perhaps I should just make some names up), at The Harplands Hospital. Because of my job, which covers members of staff at this hospital I actually knew Consultant Y, with whom I had sat on a couple of committees. A straange situation, but I didn't mind. I thanked Dr X, and asked if they had any other patients like me. “Oh we have 4 others from this practice. I should have been pleased that I wasn’t alone, but the egotist in me was saddened that I was not so special!

Anyway, in that space of 2 minutes I went from confused semi closeted T girl to a pre op Gender Dysphoria patient. I left the surgery with my mind in a whirl of possibilities and trepidations. It didn’t last long, I had to go straight home to change back into my drab male garb, my drab male persona, and get back to work.

Now for the first time, I had a plan…well sort of

Becoming Jen (Part 12)

Bottled of Hastings

Spring 95. By now I had “Come out” to 2 people in my life. I hate the phrase come out, it feels so old fashioned n the modern world, and implies that forceful act. My close colleague at work knew about the better side of my life, and my friend Vicky had actually met the new improved model! (Me… Complete with air bags and a new paint job!). However, I was still a long way from living and breathing as a woman. I still had the biggest stumbling block to overcome. My immediate family. I honestly had no idea how I could ever tell them about me. I am not at all sure I ever could have done it on my own terms. This was in no way down to any views they held on such issues. It was all due to my own insecurities and lack of courage. Sometimes people tell me I’m brave to have undergone my transformation. I vehemently disagree. Every decision I have taken was only at the point when I had nothing to lose. I referred to seizing the day in my earlier post, but to be honest I am the least likely person to seize anything. I would more likely just “wave and nod in the general direction the day”! In my journey, everything that happened was because the circumstance and time was right. Yes I concede you might think it brave to walk out in the daylight for the first time dressed as a woman, when you are as clumsy and awkward as me. However, when I think of the struggles many other people face on a daily basis, mine seem to pale in comparison. Mind you the first time I walked down steep stairs inn high heels and false boobs, that meant I couldn’t see my feet... Now that was brave!

Back to my family. As I said I am not totally sure I would have ever told them on my own volition. Without their knowledge I am therefore not sure I could ever have progressed. Although I was always careful where I went out as Jen, I wasn’t overly concerned about being spotted by someone from work. My worry was that once the secret was out it would get back to my family! Luckily as usual circumstances took over control. By total accident, my estranged wife Caroline told them over the phone. I won’t go into the details as to how, but I do know it was accidental. I found out by a phone call from my dad. I knew straight away that something was wrong when I heard an unusual seriousness in his voice. He told me what Caz had divulged I was a transvestite. I confirmed to him that it was true, although a Transvestite was not what I really felt; it was a good shorthand opening gambit. Interestingly it was my Dad who first told me what the term meant. Years and years ago, I must have been about 12; I was watching the sitcom “Butterflies” on the telly. I remember the character played by Nicholas “Rodney Trotter” Lyndhurst was wearing a T Shirt with the slogan “I am a Transvestite” I asked my dad what the word meant and he said, “It’s someone who wears the clothes of the other sex”. For the first time at 12 years old, I realised that my secret had a name, and that I was not alone. I probably went very red at the time, but I don’t think he noticed. I’m sure this brief exchange immediately disappeared from his memory, but it stayed with me for ever. My dad was great on that phone call, managing to temper his understandable concern with support. I actually think that both my parents were more worried about the breakdown in my marriage. I of course bottled thing a bit on this phone call. Instead of expanding I just went along with the term Transvestite, and I think left the impression, I just dressed behind closed doors. I still could only tell him what I thought he wanted to hear. Me, brave!! No I am an utter coward and wimp!

I was still shaking from my dad’s call. It was not over yet. There was another in my immediate family that I needed to talk to straight away. My brother Richard (aka Titch, aka Billy Whizz). Now that mum and dad knew, I thought I needed to tackle this myself. Rich and I were not that close at the time. I wasn’t that we didn’t get on. He lived miles away, in the historic, murder capital of the south coast, “don’t mention the battle!” town of Hastings! (Watch the news. Every other murder seems to be in Hastings!). We only really saw each other at Christmas. We did exchange the odd phone call, usually about Stoke City or other such trivia. We never talked about anything of substance. I could not know what his reaction would be, but for some reason I had the feeling he would handle the news ok. He surpassed all my expectations. “Rich” I said “I need to tell you before Dad does. I am a transvestite”. There was understandable silence on the other end. After this pause for thought, he said, in the way only he could. “Well at least, you are interesting now!” He was so cool about things, listening as I explained everything. I gave a proper account as to where I was with my gender identity, without the need to sugar coat. I put the phone down, relieved but still a bit shaky. I was so glad to actually tell my family, but I had my usual pangs of worry about where it would all lead. I suppose I could have been angry about what Caz had done, but I wasn’t. She hadn’t done this with any malice, and I knew that she had unknowingly done me a big favour.
For the next few months, Rich and I phoned each other much more often. During one such call I recklessly said “I would love to see you and Vicki as Jen (Vicki, is by brother’s partner, not to be confused with my confused friend Vicky!) “Why don’t you come down for the bank holiday weekend?” he said. Without any proper consideration, I agreed and found myself committed to the biggest outing of my life so far!

It was May Day bank holiday weekend, and unusually warm and sunny. This was my first time away as Jen. I agonised over what to pack. Being such an indecisive girl, I ended up taking nearly my whole wardrobe “just in case”. The big decision was more difficult. Was I brave enough to take no men’s clothing at all. Could I totally commit to being Jen for the whole weekend? Typically being such a worrier, all I could think of were negatives. What if something happened, that would need me to be a respectable man to deal with? I had no idea what event that could be, but I had a nagging fear, that giving myself over totally to the world of Jen would be risky. I just don’t do risky! I spent the whole week prior to the trip, mentally beating myself up and down! In the end, to my shame, I bottled it and stowed away an emergency male outfit in the boot of my car. Still I had no intention of being anything but Jen, for the whole weekend, and was genuinely excited by this thought. Of course I tempered the excitement with worry. How would Rich react when he finally met me? How would I react? What about Vicki? What about his friends? He had mentioned joining them for a barbeque. What if they had young kids? Would they want their children mixing with such a creature as I? Only time would tell.
Hastings is about the most bloody awkward place to drive to in the whole of Britain. Its not the distance, it’s the behemoth called the M25 lies directly in your path. To attempt this on a bank holiday Friday afternoon, with a good weather forecast is about the most foolish thing I have ever attempted (and that includes when I attempted Ice Skating). Still it was a lovely warm day and gave me the excuse to try on some new summery clothes. I opted for a long stone coloured linen skirt, with an Aztec style design around the hem, with a white sleeveless top, and flat sandals. I must admit that I felt on top of the world as I headed down the M1. This felt real. I was just like any other girl visiting her brother for the weekend. The only thing nagging away at me was the malignant presence of those men’s clothes buried deep in my car boot. It was a bit like the Edgar Alan Poe book “The Tell-Tale Heart” Was the knowledge of these clothes eventually to drive me to madness. Would anyone be able to tell? Should I stop and abandon them by the roadside? Or....should I just get on with the bloody story!

It took me hours to get there. The really nasty trick this route plays on you is that when you hit the M25 you think you’re on the home stretch. I wasn’t even half way there yet!
I got there fairly late with dusk just creeping in. I wasn’t sure which Titch’s flat was. I searched for some telltale signs. I.e. Loud guitar music from inside. A bungee rope hanging from a window. A unicycle parked outside leant against a motorbike, or perhaps the detritus of a party left on his doorstep. None was evident so I phoned him; He came bounding out like an exuberant Tigger. He made no acknowledgement of my appearance, but just said. “Hey Jen, what kept you?”
I met Vicki in their flat which was unfortunately for me at the top of many flights of stairs. There flat was just like I imagined, practical and festooned with various items of sporting equipment, and wine! We spent a relaxed evening I got to know Vicki better while me and him quoted “Hitchhikers’” at each other while debating Atheism intermixed with arguments over the merits of hockey against football. All in double quick speak! Me and Rich still struggle to stick to one conversation at a time. We randomly had The Incredibles on the Telly in the background. I mentally decided that Rich was quite like son Dash Incredible. What was really good was that we didn’t really talk about my gender status. I genuinely felt it was not an issue for them. I felt accepted.
The next day Rich was due for some ritualised abuse by virtue of a hard red
ball. Padded and boxed up he left Vicki and I to our own devices. Our plan was for a bit of shopping and then round friends for a barbeque. Richard would join the barbeque later when the cricket match had ended or we would be visiting him in A&E, when he had suffered one of his regular appointed injuries! It was great walking round town with Vicki. She is absolutely lovely and really easy to talk too. She also has Rich’s card marked and doesn’t get drawn in to his madness. After buying various cuts of various species of animals for the barbeque (sorry brad), we hit the clothes shops. Vicki was very patient as I tried my way through a succession of clothes that steadfastly refused to fit.

For the barbeque party I changed into a regrettably short pinkish skirt and a sleeveless linen top that matched my skirt of the previous day. I say regret because as the sun would go down, so would my temperature. I was not yet hardened to a woman’s ordeal of trial by unsuitable skirt. I started to get nervous about the barbeque. I knew none of the people going, and I hadn’t got Richard along for protection, until later. I shouldn’t have worried (I should really learn) His friends were warm and welcoming. There was Dom and Vicky (another one!), whose house it was, John and Barbara, and Pete and Sue with their 16 year old daughter. I think they were all Hockey player's from my brother's club. They had obviously heard about me, and made every effort not to appear uncomfortable in any way. I got on really well with all of them. The main topic of conversation was obviously Richard (or Billy as they knew him) and the various scrapes he got into. Most of these seemed to involve alcohol and injuries! The one thing I did pick up from these tales, is that they all think a great deal of him. He eventually, whirled his way into the house with all the force of a Sidney Barnes bouncer and the control of a George Berry tackle! (Obscure Staffordshire sporting references alert !). The evening ended with much wine drunk, many blackened meats consumed, and countless legends retold, and although I haven’t seen any of them since, some new friends made.

Sunday morning Rich and Vicky were heading off rock climbing. For obvious reasons I didn’t join them. Additionally climbing harnesses do not go with skirts! I headed off into town, and decided to see a film. Another first to tick off as Jen. I chose “Revenge of the Sith”, and braved the queue of adolescents, with only a few stares and the odd snigger. It was much better than the 3 previous new Star wars films and I actually cried a bit at the end when Luke is delivered to Tatooine to the strains of the original music.
The evening was again spent round at Dom and Vicky’s, but was a little more low key. The next day the three of us wandered Hastings’s old town which was lovely. I eventually set off late in the evening to avoid any traffic torture. I left with a mix of regret and satisfaction. The weekend had exceeded my dreams. I had been made to feel normal by everyone I had met, and that was all that I wanted. My bond with Rich had strengthened and I now knew Vicki (with an i)much better. If this was a microcosm of living and socialising as a woman then I loved it and wanted more. I will always be grateful to Rich, Vicki et al. for their acceptance of me. At no point did I ever have to rely on thosee emergency drab clothes. I may have "bottled" it in bringing them along, but I never had to even consider using them. The best thing I took from the weekend, was that for most of it I actually forgot that I was Transgendered. I was just me, I was just a woman.