Trans dating

I just wanted to share a video by journalist and activist Paris Lees that meant a lot to me:

 

 

This. This has to stop. I came out at a young age, full of piss and vinegar, thinking that I would never end up hiding who I am, or parts of myself, simply to feel desired, to feel loved. But love and desire made me stupid, and I did, in her words, end up being treated like people’s ‘dirty little secret’. Sometimes it was the fact we were dating at all – sometimes it was changing the way I looked and acted in public so that I would seem like a girl, even though it killed me. Worse, it would be changing the way I looked and acted in private, so that they could pretend they were with a girl.

So much of what we say to each other as trans people is what we would say to our younger selves. And so much of what we have to say applies to anyone who has every felt ‘othered’ by the society we live in. So I guess what I wish I could say to my younger self, and to anyone else out there who needs to hear it: it doesn’t matter how many times they say they love you, how good they can make you feel, how much they turn you on – if your gut is telling you that they’re ashamed to be with you, then you deserve a hell of a lot more. And the thing is? It’s out there, waiting for you.

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French Adventures: Part Three

Some sunrises are so pretty you just have to get up to greet them

I promise, after this, I will stop going on about Cannes in January. The sunshine, the sea air – the fact that you can eat an ice-cream on the beach in the middle of winter (pistachio, since you asked, and if you ever want to buy me one). Just a few points, about travel, and identity, and the politics of ‘going abroad’.

The cultural stereotypes are impossible to ignore, of course. As someone primarily raised in England by Francophile parents I had always assumed France to be a place of elegance, sophistication and general loveliness. Wine tasting in Burgundy – lavender fields in Provence – bistros in Paris – name a tired-out tourist experience and I’m sure that we’ll have tried it.

What interests me the most about these shorthands, though, aren’t the surface enjoyments of them, but the allegorical readings they give us of our own lives and behaviours. The privileged position of the traveller as outsider, and the freedom that gives a person to see themselves through a variety of changing lenses, is a precious thing. How we insert ourselves into the largely imaginary landscape of the ‘foreign’ country, the conscious and subconscious changes it makes to us – whether we leave them behind or take them with us – wouldn’t it be wonderful to spend a year travelling and writing about it?

Every trip away feels like a chance to try on another version of my own skin: “Who would I have been if I had grown up here?” “How would my life change now, if I was to stay?”. To take the example of France, the two strands of the stereotypical and personal: the caricature of French as the language of love, of excess and sensuality – but the personal affection and meaning attached to Ravel and Debussy, Colette, the Left Bank feminists, the glories of French opera, the demi-monde and its link to queer culture. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I was in Paris when, as a teenager, it clicked that, for me, romantic feelings weren’t tied to any one sex or gender. That some of my most inspired writing has been completed across the Channel, or that it’s the place I save up to go to so that I can ease a bruised and aching heart (and ego).

So, for this most recent trip, the best part wasn’t running along the sand, or the civilised nature of a formal French breakfast – it was the  chance to wander through the city and fantasise about how things could be different. Because, if I lived in Cannes,  my cynicism and spikiness would obviously melt into an attractive and somehow affectionate world-weariness.  Instead of being incapable of passionate feelings I would have not one, nor two, but a whole handful of lovers – we would stay up every night, discussing literary criticism and drinking red wine, and everything would be light and easy and a little bit wistful. Lyrics would just come, I could get back to work at the piano nocturnes, and it goes without saying that I would be far, far more beautiful than I am in London.

Living in one of these apartments would radically improve your sex life

Even to have one place to go to to ponder your options would be glorious – but the chance to keep moving, keep experimenting? New York makes my brain work harder – I want to have been better at art, smarter at the theoretical aspects of expression. The Deep South is about history, and music, and a deep and painful link to the land. Russia for philosophy, theology – Italy for the voice. That obvious link between personal and topographical exploration makes it so much more than a frivolous luxury, without wishing to deny how expensive it can be, and how classist that makes it. That we can make that link-up, between an external cultural difference and an internal state in the process of change – it goes beyond experiencing humanity in its different forms, and into exploring the self as a divided entity – the stranger within, and the gaze turned inward to the gaze.

The limits we put upon people’s ability to experience this make me profoundly angry, and I’ll try to gather something together for another post: sizeism, ableism, racism, transphobia and the like. But for now – wow, it was good. And now, as I promised, I’ll shut up.

 

 

A familiar face, a foreign place, I forget your name

I like it here if I could leave and see you from a long way away.

R.E.M. Good Advices

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French Adventures: Part Two

Another reason why I didn’t want to come back to London? In London I mostly get ‘madam’. In Cannes I mostly got ‘monsieur’.

Mr Lester I’m not so comfortable with. Mr Lester is my father. But you can ‘monsieur’ me all the day long.

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Here’s someone who really cares about the recession

Stay classy

 

Oh, that’s not fair. I’m sure they were a materialistic wanker before the economic downturn hit .

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How I descended into the dreaded abyss of Depo-Provera and lived to tell the tale: a cautionary story

I would like you to imagine the rest of this post spoken with the voice of this man:

 

Argh

 

I was talking to the fabulous Jamie the other day about the horrors of Depo-Provera and he said something that really surprised me: that plenty of trans guys saw Depo-Provera as some kind of wonder drug, given the whole ‘goodbye menstruation’ factor. It wasn’t something that had ever occurred to me, given my own experiences. So, what follows is a personal account and, yes, a warning. No one experience can speak for all, and I’m sure that for some people Depo can be a great help – but I wish I’d heard a whole bunch of different opinions before I let my doctor talk me into it.

Right, so, if you know me you know that I can’t take T. You also know that I’m rather fond of the gentlemen, be they trans or cis. Well, as fond as someone as terminally pessimistic about human nature as I am ever can be. Which is to say, though I hate to even admit it, occasionally I have to think about birth control. Don’t make me say it again.

Along with that, though I’m not actually terribly fussed about the supposed ‘female’ nature of menstruation, I do get debilitating pain, which my doctors have been trying to manage since puberty.

So when I went to see my doctor about contraceptive options they were very to keen start me on Depo-Provera. They know that I’m trans. I made it very clear that there were side effects I wasn’t prepared to deal with (breast growth, anyone?). And they assured me that Depo has barely any side effects. I don’t know if they genuinely believed this, or whether the fact that I sleep with men automatically made me a woman in their eyes.

Anyway – would you like the list?

Well, the worst, and the most  relevant for any trans guys considering it: the bodily feminization. I was pre-surgery at this point, but small enough that I didn’t necessarily need to bind (AAA cup) – no hips, no thighs, thank you very much. In six months I gained a stone, and suddenly I had these hips and thighs and tummy and waist, and while an A cup doesn’t sound like much it was fucking agony. My face filled out. My muscles atrophied. I kept food diary after food diary – it wasn’t the calories in. I went to see a dietician – my metabolism had slowed and my Vitamin D had dropped enough to concern her. I was permanently hungry, and swollen and bloated.

It was a year after my last injection before my body came round. And, even now, it doesn’t feel quite the same as it used to.

Oh, and the ‘no more menstruation’? I would bleed randomly, with no warning, for ridiculously long periods (no pun) of time. Once for six weeks running – then a five day break – then another four weeks. And once so badly that they were worried I had, in fact, become pregnant and was suffering an early miscarriage (thankfully not, but it was a frightening day).

Neither one of these factors was ever discussed. And if they had been I would never have taken the drug. I was actually on it for nearly a year – I kept being told that the side effects would ease. They did not.

Everyone should have the right to choose their own treatment. But, please – do plenty of research. Maybe it might be worth it for you – but please consider just how hight the cost might turn out to be.

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French Adventures: Part One

 

I’ve just come back from Cannes. Unwillingly, I might add.

 

I crack myself up, I really do.

 

I was lucky enough to get to attend the MIDEM music industry conference this year, which was – well, it was eye-opening. To say the least (I can’t help but say more than the least). And, priding myself on being a cynical sort, I was surprised by how shocked I felt.

I went and stayed with incredible soul musician and old friend Elsa Chapman – it’s a strange, but very pleasant experience to be an enormous fan of someone you used to mess around in Chemistry class with. I think the differences between our two styles, both personally and musically, can be summed up best by this picture:

 

Observe

 

Beneath the obvious differences, though, we have a pretty similar approach to the musical profession – that you get into it because you honestly couldn’t do anything else. And that doesn’t mean being naive or unrealistic – but it does mean that, as much as you can, you put the music first. You work at it like a bitch, you make sacrifices, and you do it gladly (maybe with a little whining sometimes) because, well, it’s music, and how can you not? I understand that it’s an industry where people expect to make money, and some people expect to make a LOT of money, but I still hoped that the majority of those in the music business felt something close to what we feel.

Would I be writing this if I had been proved right on that point? What a silly question. I hope I never have to hear the word ‘monetize’ again. I can’t decide if the highlight was hearing the EMI spokesperson telling the assembly of their plans to give their music aural thumbprints so as to regulate youtube usage, possibly even in personal videos, or the executive from Mattel expressing total bemusement at the idea that an artist might NOT want their music being used to shill sexist toys, or that they might want to have some say in the negotiation. Hearing your vocation spoken about in such soulless terms was, despite the protective shield of misanthropy, a depressing experience. Thank god for the (very) small number of engaging speakers who had managed to combine their love of good business with their love of good music. But it wasn’t a large enough percentage to make me feel particularly hopeful about the industry as a whole.

 

Look at the pretty picture instead

 

It made me feel like some kind of strange leftover – thinking that a person might expect to retain artistic control over their own art.

And the second big shock – urgh – the bigotry. Again, not that I wasn’t expecting it. But the scale of it was breathtaking. I would say around 95% male, 95% white, and whilst statistically there must have been some LGBT people there, well – I felt like something of an oddity. Not an attack against people who are white or male (I myself fall broadly within those two categories) – but when there’s so little diversity it feels appropriate to start asking why. Luckily (think of the time we saved!) we didn’t exactly have to ask – they just kind of told. The mansplaining, the confusion, the leering/sneering, the open declarations of racism: “Blacks aren’t smart enough for this industry, and Asians are too lazy”. I did an awful lot of super-heroic meting out of justice…in my mind.

So, back to feeling lucky. Because I do. Three reasons:

1. Better the devil you know. Really.
2. There were just enough good people, with just enough wisdom, to really feel like I’ve learnt something valuable about how the business works, and how you can work with it without losing your moral compass.
3. It was the kick up the arse I needed. Let me explain:

I, like a lot of artists my age, grew up with the old myth of the music industry – the magical fairytale that you could work hard at your craft, slowly build up a fanbase, and with a little luck would sign a record contract that would let you concentrate on the music whilst someone else took care of the business, respecting your right to control your art and ensuring that you earned a living wage.

Maybe for some people it can still be like that. But I’m not convinced that it will be for the great majority of us. Particularly for those of us who don’t fit the parameters of what the kyriarchy consider desirable. Which I don’t. And having that finally laid out in such an obvious way was incredibly liberating.

So, 2011. Yes. I’m going to be recording my first full length album. And releasing it on my own. And it’s going to be totally awesome. God, that feels good. Really, totally, insanely good. My darlings, I shall see you at the launch party.

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It bears repeating

To every trans person who thinks that they can hate, misgender, misrepresent and ridicule other trans people to somehow advance our cause, let’s hear it again from Audre Lorde:

 

The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House

 

Addressing our differences with kindness and humility is hard work. Accepting that there are other ways of being trans, or other ways of being a man or a woman can be frightening. But how else are we to move forward?

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February 3rd, Handel House…

…be there, or suffer the wrath of the ghost of Elisabeth Jacquet de la Guerre.

 

 

It’s going to be gorgeous, don’t you know.

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Genders, and sexes, and pronouns! Oh, my!

Not a very exciting post, but a necessary one. And short too.

For any colleagues/writers/media types who need some clarification on which pronouns/descriptions to use:

 

The gender I was assigned at birth was female, which is all kinds of wrong. I came out at fifteen, have modified my body in various ways, and stay away from T for the sake of my career. It’s not half as scandalous as some people feel it ought to be.

For ease of use:

Utterly verboten: she, her, woman, girl, female, lesbian.

Getting closer: he, him, trans man.

Just about right: they, their, s/he, trans person, genderqueer, androgyne, androgynous, queer.

And a very cute term, which I’ve only just discovered: xx boy. I like that – it’s charming.

 

If you need any further information, feel free to drop me a line. And hurray for the constant development and adaptation of our beautiful language.

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Orpheus

Don’t ask me to pick which one of Roz Kaveney’s sonnets on the theme of Orpheus I love the best. But, if I had to pick one, this might be it. But don’t hold me to it.

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