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Tell us another

  • Posted on January 24, 2022 at 9:17 pm

When I began this blog it felt really important to narrate the self-discovery I was experiencing, as I myself was discovering that I was far from alone, and equally finding the ways in which I was. It wasn’t about trans rights, it was just my story. And that meant some real separation. As humans, we are inherently good at dividing things up, and I have said before that the result can be that there is nothing so lonely as being human. Uniquely as a species, we have complex language, and can therefore create concepts and stories that we share and which take on great importance.

Whether we create religious narratives, philosophies, stories of preservation and survival, the bottom line is that life is finite and singular. I am an isolated being in the incalculable enormity of the universe. For some, the only life worth striving for is the next one. No-one else can inhabit our lives, be inside our minds, understand our thoughts, and no-one else can take responsibility for us. The most we can do is touch and share stories. Belonging becomes the need to be a character in a shared story.

A shared story is a bundle, and it can be like a bunch of flowers with a stalk of barbed wire. We can be careful, pick and choose the parts of the story we talk about or have to handle. Some of us scarcely belong in the stories. And yet our lives can instead be a long foraging for the flowers and leaves we like best, creating our own bouquet. And just sometimes we find another who holds out a similar self-selected bouquet, and we recognise something much more important than our sense of isolation.

Thanks a bunch

In my world, as I experience it, joining in fully feels like being handed the wrong bunches. Over here is a world of music, but with conflicts: at one time a drinking culture, at another very patriarchal, or again conflicting response to the climate emergency. Over there is a technical world with on the one hand fascination over possibilities, but on the other high consumerism, privilege or carelessness as to consequences. In writing I found a community, but also fellow writers who are gender critical, unable to cope with a very small number of people like me who seem to threaten their story of what it means to be a woman. How we need our stories in order to not feel alone! And so we create stories that keep others out, deceive ourselves, and end up feeling a lot less safe. Like Orwell’s 1984: so long as there is an enemy there is patriotism.

We divide ourselves in order to belong to groups we can feel are small enough to give us attention, and to whom we can relate. If we compete as groups we can have a sense of winning, being on top, being further ahead. And more than anything, we have disconnected ourselves from our ancestors, from our history and from our planet. We don’t belong to the planet any more, it’s too demanding, makes us too subservient and after all, we have subdued it as much as we can. It belongs to us. We are learning that this isn’t true, of course. A volcano, a procession of tornadoes, a tsunami, extreme weather, subsiding tundra, collapsing ice shelves quickly remind us how small and not in control we are. But just as quickly, we are no longer one species, we are tribes of masters of the universe. Nothing unites us as much as shattered human hubris, shared catastrophe isn’t far behind, but give us back our inequalities, and we are willingly split open.

I suspect billionaires don’t want a world of billionaires. Nor millionaires, similarly. But I bet there are very many people lucky enough to have £10,000 in the bank who would feel a whole lot better knowing that everyone had less than £100,000 and more than £10,000. Inequality is deeply corrosive, and it breeds a sense of being deserving and therefore deserving ever more. So what is the equality that we want? Is it levelling up? Levelling down? Evening out? There is no deserving.

We are all the product of fortune: what else makes a person entrepreneurial, super intelligent, excellent with their hands, a prodigy musician, bipolar, Aspergic, Downs, courageous, anxious … able to cope with their social upbringing, thrown into damaging subcultures or criminality? Not one of us can pull ourselves up by our own boot-laces. Does it make anyone more deserving if they steal someone else’s boots so they run slower? Did they create that propensity in themselves?

Friction from fiction

Do the gender critical among us want a world divided sharply and absolutely between ‘biological men’ and ‘biological women’? I feel that nobody needs patriarchy quite as much as the gender critical. They will say that gender is a social construct (a fancy way of saying ‘made up story’). But what is there in our heads, in our society, in our culture, in all our knowledge and science and history that is not a story, a fiction? When we make our divisive stories up, we’re looking for protection in numbers, a community to feel more safe in than out, and therefore creating strangers and outcasts. And so we create rights. Rights for ourselves, rights for those we include, that are not afforded to anyone else. Rights are given by those with power to do so, handed out perhaps with true humanity, but usually giving a little from those who have rather more. Because we choose to divide ourselves.

There is but one human species. There have been more, and perhaps Denisovans, Neanderthals and Sapiens all got along pretty fine at one time. Then language, then stories and ideologies. It was probably differential abilities to deal with climate change (over a much longer period than presents itself to us now) that filtered us out, and here we are with stories about race being a species thing, when it isn’t, and calling some cultures superior and more deserving than others. Patriarchy is rooted in stories of superior physical or intellectual strength and has no more grounds to it than hypothesised races. Everything we think about ourselves, our roles, origins, interactions and grouping, is fiction, made by ourselves to group and divide.

Writing our own

Being trans or non-binary is therefore a very subversive thing. We don’t create ourselves as a story in order to have somewhere to belong, and indeed we have many different stories. But by and large we have one thought in common: we know what we are not. The stories we have been told about ourselves are not true, and in order to live authentic lives, we have to live a different story. Sometimes we hold these bouquets out to each other, and recognise that they are different from the rest of the world. We chose not to have the strands of barbed wire in what we were handed, but to forage our own.

Are we asking for rights? From whom? Who, in our stories, are the rights holders to beg from? Why do some think trans rights limits their rights?

Are we asking for equality? To be treated the same as who, brought in as a special case into someone else’s story?

Or are we looking for justice, not just for ourselves but everyone? That gives us a lot to undo.

 

* The title Tell us another may be a Yorkshire expression, meaning ‘I don’t believe your story!’

What it means

  • Posted on November 10, 2021 at 9:01 pm

This is what it means to be trans
to get up – in the morning, get dressed and
(face the world)
This is what it means to be trans
to face the world – take the car to work
(and drive)
This is what it means to be trans
to drive – and when asked for whatever reason
(show your licence)
This is what it means to be trans
to show your licence, know it represents you
(without questions)
This is what it means to be trans
to face questions – when being yourself always
(means different)
This is what it means to be trans
to be different – yet confident, ready to explain
(but avoiding)
This is what it means to be trans
to avoid – your history, leave yourself behind
(sometimes to lie)
This is what it means to be trans
to lie – with someone you love, find comfort
(and it doesn’t matter)
This is what it means to be trans
it doesn’t matter – when you’re trusted, only when
(you aren’t)
This is what it means to be trans
you aren’t – safe online, in theory or ideology
(because sex)
This is what it means to be trans
because sex – is a word and gender isn’t to some
(you’re unreal)
This is what it means to be trans
when you un-reel, unwind, lose yourself, dare
(simply to love)
This is what it means to be trans
to love – simply, uncomplicated without script
(or licence)
This is what it means to be trans
to be licensed – to be driven and to face the world
(with permissions)
This is what it means to be trans
to be permitted – to be conditional, debated, clothed
(in everyone’s fears)
This is what it means to be trans
to face those fears – go home, take off your clothes
(and address the night)

2021©Andie Davidson

Rolled up

  • Posted on February 9, 2020 at 5:39 pm

I come to you, not with baggage
but a rolled-up carpet, a rug
of dust, footprints and wear.
Sometimes it unrolls – something
pulls it back under my feet.
I hold its pattern, heavy, marked
by soles not just my own.
Textures and smells return years,
a memory becomes a feeling,
a footprint stands out, named.

You’re troubled by my silence,
unseeing where I stand
eyes dimmed, coursing, distant.
I’m still here, but so is everything,
not visiting but layered – sometimes
today is not opaque enough to see;
closure not what it seems.
You can seal a bag, but my rug,
my carpet, rolls on, past and present
curled close, over and over.

2019 © Andie Davidson

Cereal Killer

  • Posted on June 2, 2019 at 7:38 pm

It came from the supermarket, like every other time. A box of cornflakes. It went into the cupboard to wait for the last packet to be finished. It was one hurried morning on the way to other things that it was opened, bowl and milk at the ready. The flap was opened, the inner pulled apart and wheesh! Into the bowl. My bowl. Breakfast.

Something was wrong and only I seemed to notice. Everyone too busy, but it was my bowl, my breakfast. The milk was already in, and I could hear it. Snap, crackle and pop is how it is usually described. And cornflakes don’t do that. I ate the cereal. I enjoyed it, even though this was not what we usually bought.

The next morning I asked for rice krispies.

No, you don’t like them, have your usual cornflakes. Here.

I took the box and was about to pour my new option into the bowl, when I almost said: these are rice krispies, aren’t they? But I didn’t. Everyone was as rushed as usual, nobody noticed. I enjoyed.

On Saturday I said nothing, and poured my cereal.

Why are you eating rice krispies? Where did you get those from?

Indignation! I explained that all week, I had been using the cornflakes packet and enjoying rice krispies. My mother grabbed the box off the table, scrutinised the outside, scrabbled into the inner, shook it and sniffed.

This is wrong! They’ve put the wrong thing in. It’s too late to take it back now. You should have said. Krispies are cheaper too, so I’ll have to complain next time we go shopping.

I like rice krispies … I began to explain, already halfway through the bowl, my mouth still crackling with a spoonful.

Don’t talk while you’re eating. It’s rude. And you like cornflakes; you always have.

I looked at the picture on the box, feeling chastened for bucking the trend, for departing from the norm.

Serving suggestion. I began to wonder which the variables were that made this a disclaimer from disappointment. Was it the milk? Or that you didn’t have to use a blue-striped bowl? Was the spoon optional so you could drink it up from the edge of the bowl? Or was it the cornflakes?

On Sunday I asked for rice krispies. The box was tabled assertively in front of me.

You can have cornflakes as usual, OK? These are cornflakes. And it you have to pretend, pretend, but you can see what’s on the box. Now eat your cornflakes.

I quietly enjoyed my corn krispies. That’s what I called them now, and everyone made a jolly joke of it. So I laughed with them. And the thing is, the same happened the next time we bought cornflakes. Only this time we had friends to stay for a few days, and of course we had breakfast together. There was a choice of cereal, but not rice krispies. They had to be called cornflakes (but not very good ones, so choose something different). It was too much to own that you had something mistaken. Too much that you might like something that is not what you wanted it to be.

I stuck to my imagined serving suggestion and covertly enjoyed this brief period of corn krispies. The joke lasted a childhood, but these day?

I buy rice krispies.

Being transgender isn’t a serving suggestion. It isn’t a choice or a mistake, and not a trend or a joke. It’s what is actually in the box that matters.

Trans is not a word to understand

  • Posted on September 14, 2018 at 11:28 pm

I think some people try to understand what it is to be transgender by trying to understand the words. If they can construct an argument about the words, their origins and use, they have grasped how real, people like me are.

Surely, I would be happy to have made no changes to my body or life if only this social construct of gender did not exist. Yes! I could have lived happily with a male body, dressed as I wished, shaved, gone bald with age and maintained all that cut and thrust of testosterone – because no-one would have minded. I could have just ‘been myself’!

Not so, dear reader, not so.

I am not a term to be understood. Etymology and use do not come near expressing what it is to be trans. Like old shoes, words get baggy with much use and don’t fit anymore.

I was not ‘born in the wrong body’ at all, any more than someone with red hair who hates it, or someone with a disability, or someone who has simply grown too tall from hormone problems. It is not the wrong body. I am what I am. It is just that brain and body development got a bit out of kilter somewhere early on. I can’t change my innate sense of self, but I can change my body.

What about you? Are you definitely a woman, or definitely a man? Are you sure? Or is your first question prefixed by ‘physically’, or ‘biologically’? If you do, you need to read up on the many aspects of what define ‘biological’ sex. Big time.

Or do you just know? I don’t think you need a mirror in the morning, or to have a feel around just to be sure. I don’t think you need a second opinion, and if it differed or was doubtful, I don’t think you might change your mind. When did you last dig out your birth certificate just to check out that your opinion of yourself matches that of the doctor or midwife?

Even if you live a non-binary life and dislike the idea of actually ‘being’ non-binary … you know what you are not.

Do you understand what it is to know if you are male, female or neither or a bit of both?

  • Seven years ago I began to understand.
  • Six years ago I began to live in a new way.
  • Five years ago I lived alone.
  • Four years ago I had transforming surgery.
  • Someone told me: ‘this is just the beginning’
  • Three years ago I began living with someone I deeply love.
  • And since then I have understood that for all the beginnings and endings, some will never understand.

I have been told that I am not a woman. I have been told that I am a man. I have been told that I am trans, or deluded, and many other things. I have been told that I am not lesbian, that I must be gay, or that I am still a hetero man because I used to be married while registered as a man.

I have been told many times what I am, what I am not, and effectively what I am not allowed to be.

What do you think? And where did you get your ideas from?

When my children were much younger, they had a friend who was the most tomboy a child I have ever known. A little later, my son had a trans friend at school. That was it. No issue or problem. Unlike me (yeah, well!), they had gay and lesbian kids in their school, and that’s just how they were. Friends I had at university were gay, lesbian and bi. I came to know people with intersex conditions. I discovered that there are men born with micro-penis, women born without a uterus. A colleague had a hysterectomy at a very young age, and so could never experience what most women share. And friends with polycystic ovaries and hormonal imbalances. More and more women who divorce men and begin lesbian relationships.

I wonder what their many life experiences have each been like. Could I segregate them by their life experience confidently and exclusively as women and men? If I DNA tested them and mapped their chromosomes, would that help? What about their sexual attractions (or lack of)? Would that help me divide them into straight, bi, gay and lesbian? I wonder how clearly I could research and gather physical, psychological, social and mental attributes in such a way as to divide them up?

But why?

Surely their needs are different. Medically? Socially? Surely a trans person is not as really the gender they claim, as someone born with unquestionably clear genitals and chromosomes and sexuality? I mean, it is so confusing that someone born with enough of a penis but XXY, who used to appear straight male, lives as female and has a female partner and calls themselves lesbian. I mean, surgery doesn’t really change your sex does it?

You say it is only confusing because we squish people into socially constructed boxes. If only the boxes didn’t exist, we would all be happy; no conflict of definitions. Well, I place myself in society where I feel I belong. Why do you want to place me where you think I belong?

I find this kind of narrative about sex, sexuality and gender no different from nationalism. Once upon a time there was a golden age, where everyone lived and worked happily together, the sun shone equally on all, there was a roof over everyone’s head and bread on the table. Wars did not happen, no-one was cheated or downtrodden; a benevolent king was on the throne and life was … good. That must have been before others came in, invaded and spoiled it all, with different languages, different ideas.

Was there not also a time when men were men, women were women and we all knew our place? Well that wasn’t so good for women, was it? So now we have feminism, we must protect at all costs what it means to ‘be a woman’. And that’s where the parallel golden age of gender breaks down. It was never good. The patriarchy still rules, just as first nations people all over the world constantly face erasure and victors rule the historical narrative.

Keeping transgender people out protects nothing, and only ingrains trans resentment against the gender nationalists, even those who define ‘woman’ and throw gender out as false. Let’s be clear, a feminist who is more radical and excludes trans women as not being female or women, is a trans-exclusionary radical feminist. It isn’t just a slur, it isn’t derogatory, it is a description of a formula of feminism, originating in 2008, to distinguish feminists who were, and who were not against inclusivity of trans women.

However, if we are to be a society that listens, accepts diversity and seeks unity rather than division, it is no good boxing people up. But why not do it by letting people choose their boxes, and letting them choose their own mix? That isn’t a threatening or undermining thing to do, and it’s the way the human species has ultimately made its way all along. What we haven’t done so well, is add equality. ‘If you’re going to be that, you can’t do this.’

That takes us on to rights. Rights. Trans rights. LGB rights. What are they? Principally, they are protections to ensure equal treatment of people who are disliked and discriminated against, not for what they choose to do, but for what they are, in their being, in their humanity.

But I don’t want rights. I just want equality. And that comes from understanding that it is me you need to understand, know and respect, not words and ideas you don’t like, or feel are confusing. You don’t need to get your inner construct sorted, or your philosophy of gender or sexuality. Don’t fit me to your ideas in order to understand what I say I am, because that will only make me acceptable to you in your terms.

Anything else simply puts me in a ‘reserve’ box because you don’t really want me to belong anywhere too close to you.

Trans is not a behavour.
Lesbian is not a behaviour.
I don’t need accommodating.
I am here.
I am.
Just like you; no less.