March 22, 2022 |
As a narcissistic seven-year-old child, I fantasised about the person I would become when I grew up. This neurotic fixation would revolve around the same inane questions: would I be beautiful? Would I be successful? Would I be in love? But, ultimately, a deeper concern… would I be happy?
To quell my anxious mind, I concocted a fantasy world where I was granted all of these burning desires and would often daydream about them to calm myself. In this dreamland, I was royalty – it was unclear if Scott Hastings, my crush at the time, was my king – and would always be surrounded by hundreds of adoring children, who had travelled from far and wide to gather and hear the gripping tale of how I had won their hearts.
Far-fetched, maybe. Perhaps more so when you consider that, in this hypothetical future, I was also a woman. Not just any woman, but the most beautiful woman I dared to imagine, with gorgeous flowing tresses of hair, flawless honey-coloured skin and warm, inviting eyes. This, I had decided, was my nirvana, the happiness I would be granted, if deserving.
I never once questioned why, as a boy, I would grow up to become a woman. Much like my musings on sexuality at the time – some men liked men, and some women, other women – I figured that gender was no different. In fact, to me, it was entirely natural that gender was something to be tried on for size until you found something that fit. Despite having no touchstones in the media I consumed, and a distinct lack of education at my primary school around the concept, I decided with absolute certainty that I, boy (at least at that moment in time), would become woman.
Yet, after signing on the dotted line as a child, it wasn’t until two long decades later as an adult – weary, stumbling out of the pandemic – that I would first use the word ‘trans’ in relation to myself. On August 29, 2021 at 20:24, I uttered the incantation – “I am trans” – and the illusion of life as I knew it shattered.
Starting life as an empowering spell, those same words quickly became a blaring alarm that I couldn’t shut off no matter how hard I tried. Days passed, and I desperately tried to distract my racing mind, but it droned on, now more urgent: “I AM TRANS. I AM TRANS. I AM TRANS.”
The terrible truth I had uncovered began to weigh heavily on me. “You seem quiet,” my father pressed over dinner one evening, concerned as I meekly pushed food around my plate. “I’m tired,” I lied, but the disconcerting contrast of the quietly clinking cutlery versus the maelstrom in my mind made me want to scream.
A year prior, an entirely different landscape. With nothing but time to reflect and contemplate – the tiny glimmer of a silver lining to life in lockdown – I began to unravel years of thoughts, feelings and experiences which had tied up the concept of my gender identity since I was seven.
I came out as non-binary: it fit. I started using they/them pronouns. They fit too. Relief: the warmth and comfort of slowly lowering yourself into a hot bath after a long day. Then came joy, the albatross around my neck shunted, and I was finally free from the shackles of masculinity. I made a promise to myself to take up the space that I deserved, not just for me, but for those just like me, who were lost and hadn’t yet found their way home.
My make-up – never conservative to begin with – became even more of a performance: glitter, rhinestones and obnoxiously bright colours slicked across my lids whenever I left the house. My clothes erupted in a frisson of ostrich feathers. My walk dared to rival that of Naomi Campbell.
With life slowly resuming, I commuted back and forth into the city, reconnecting with friends and acquaintances for the first time in over a year. Hello, new me. If people stared in Soho, they were moments away from pelting me with rotting fruit and vegetables when I was home in the suburbs. I felt like an alien, gawked at as I pounded the pavement to the train station in shimmering Tabi boots. Despite this, I was happier than ever.
Back in the eye of the storm, I was now in mourning. I sped past mirrors, no longer recognising the person who looked back at me. I began to go through the stages of grief for the person formerly known as Dominic Cadogan.
First, denial: I couldn’t be trans, could I? I simply didn’t want to be.
Soon came anger that bubbled into rage. Incensed at the thought that ’phobes (trans-, homo-, take your pick) could believe anybody would choose this life. The 35-year life expectancy of an American trans woman might be an unverified misconception, but the fact that discrimination, rape and murder disproportionately impact trans women isn’t. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.
Speaking of enemies, at the time She Who Must Not Be Named and her merry band of TERFs had found an ally in Dave Chappelle, while the BBC, alleged bastion of impartiality, published the violence-inciting headline: “We’re being pressured into sex by some trans women”. It stood by its story in the face of backlash, having included (then belatedly removed) the opinions of an individual who has repeatedly called for the execution by lynching of all trans women.
Perhaps I was the type of trans person who didn’t need to transition, I bargained. Given the crisis trans healthcare in the UK is currently in, I certainly can’t be blamed. Out of the seven NHS gender identity clinics for adults I delved into, the website of the first was delighted to inform me that it was finally offering first appointments to patients who had been referred in October 2017. In front of me, a further 9,384 were waiting. Another clinic had simply stopped taking referrals altogether. A House of Commons report somehow revealed an even darker undertone, quoting a trans person who was told by their GP: “You’ll be taking money away from more deserving cancer patients.” Disappointed, I slowly trudged on towards the fourth stage: depression.
Now, I imagined a very different future to the one I had first dreamed of as a seven-year- old. This time, through the eyes of a cynical adult, the post-transition princess I envisioned was plagued by invasive questions about her genitalia and awkward encounters reintroducing herself to family members, co-workers, boys who had previously been lovers. “How,” I wondered, exasperated, “would I explain myself to arbitrary figures like Paula?”, the handwriting tutor I had when I was a child whom I hadn’t seen since.
I wondered if grief’s final stage, acceptance, would ever manifest itself. Finally, I found solace in the same thing I had been terrified of the entire time: transness itself.
A friend who, unbeknownst to me, was on her own journey through the fire offered a shoulder to lean on and the much-needed kindness I hadn’t afforded myself. Black trans sisterhood became a salve, helping to heal the wounds – mostly self-inflicted. The cacophony of Arca’s discography, previously a beautiful discordance, took on new life, suddenly speaking in a clear voice that intimately knew my experience. A short time later, I connected with the brilliant Shon Faye for the first time to discuss her equally brilliant debut The Transgender Issue, a tome that has since become my bible. The pages of her book, which I eagerly turned, were a life raft, offering a frank snapshot of trans Britain and an invaluable education. It’s a read I implore everybody – cis, trans and in-between – to pick up immediately.
She might not have known it at the time, but the interview was a thinly veiled attempt at getting advice for myself, anything to guide me towards peace of mind. “There were lots of learning experiences,” she offered modestly about her time working on her book. “Just because I’m trans doesn’t mean I know every aspect about it.”
Maybe this wasn’t as difficult as I was making it out to be.
Wherefore art thou now, hypothetical heroine from our story? A fairytale ending would wrap things up nicely in a pretty bow, but I have to disappoint both my seven-year-old self and the optimistic reader. There’s still a happy ending, nonetheless.
Grief, sadness and confusion have been replaced with kindness and curiosity. The omnipresent chant that haunted me is currently punctuated with a question mark: I am trans? Was I simply the boy who cried wolf – or, rather, trans in this instance? The cynic in me could make a case, but would be missing the point entirely.
Gender is a marathon, not a sprint! As a seven-year-old, I was savvy enough to figure it out, but the concept became tangled and confused with outdated notions, confusing traditions and (necessarily evil) social media. Unlearning has been hard work – work that will undoubtedly continue throughout my life – but my life has at least been improved by the journey up the mountain, giving me a chance to admire the view. I have found peace in knowing that I don’t need to have all the answers today, or even tomorrow.
While I might not be the most beautiful woman in the world, I’m certain the little seven- year-old who was brave enough to take the first step on this journey would be pleased at how far we’ve come. Success? Who cares! Love? Maybe one day… but happiness? Big tick. Besides, there’s still time for my happily ever after.
Photography by Anna Stokland. Taken from Issue 68 of 10 Magazine – FUTURE, BALANCE, HEALING – out NOW. Order your copy here.
