A Way of Acceptance

I posted an entry in October 2015 about the evolution of acceptance I had experienced by the neighbors on the block where I live, here in New York. It remains of the more poignant pieces of my transitional jigsaw. However ten days ago, one of the neighbors I referred to in that article, passed away, rather suddenly after a short illness. I felt such loss hearing the news as we had become such firm friends over the last two years. If ever I saw him on his stoop I would make a point of chatting with him, and he would usually give me a kiss on the cheek. A kiss that signified much more than friendship; it was complete acceptance. It was lovely being able to reconnect — especially as it hadn’t always been that way. I will miss him. I paid my respects to him and his family at the funeral home a few days later and was greeted like an old friend by his daughter and widow. I was honored to be there and feel so proud to have been in his friendship. So, in honor of you, Angelo, here are some reworked passages of that blog entry again.

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I suppose we all have different ways of accepting who we are. For me, it took many years to accept that I am transgender, and even longer to say it to anyone else. When I moved into my current apartment, in Queens, I was still portraying myself as a man. How deeply I was male I really don’t know, but outwardly to the neighbors I was a man. Once I started presenting as female, it undoubtedly caused a lot of confusion to those on my block. Along with humor, probably, and sneering at the guy in a dress.

I live in a quite traditional area of Queens — as much as anything is traditional in this city of immigrants, of which I am unashamedly one. So it’s quite normal that on one side of my apartment there is a family from South America (I’ve never established which country it is; it never mattered as we don’t talk much to each other though always exchange a friendly greeting) where as on the other side is a family of Italian Americans spanning three generations. One door further down the block an older couple, also Italian Americans, who I guess must be in their 80s now.

I had had conversations with the male half of that couple soon after I moved in as I admired his garden and valued his horticultural advice. However once I started presenting as female, that casual friendship evaporated. He always turned away when I walked by, eschewing any eye contact. It didn’t unduly surprise me, and I wasn’t offended by his actions – just saddened by the rejection. I appreciate the complexity and misunderstanding that being transgender must be to others — especially older generations — but I was just sorry that our little friendship was no more.

Over the next few years I wondered if his rejection had softened. Was that a glint of a smile as I walked past, or just a nod of recognition? Either was a step in the right direction. One day, however, everything changed. I had paused outside his house, ostensibly to admire his flowers, but perhaps more in the hope that there might be a small chat. He asked me about my book, which had come out six months earlier. Apparently the other neighbors in the house between us had told him about it. I was a little surprised, but welcomed the dialogue wholeheartedly. It ended up being quite remarkable.

“I remember talking with you when you moved in,” he said. “You were a man.”

“Yes, that’s right” I replied, ignoring the specifics of when I actually might have been a man or ‘become’ a woman.

“Now you are a woman,” he continued. “So much work you have done… operations and so on.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I am happy. Very much at peace. The sense of calm I have is wonderful.”

“I am a very Roman Catholic person,” he added. I had assumed this, as he had always been a key and visible part of events at the local church, but it also made me have some concerns about what he was about to add.

“This is a miracle.”

I didn’t see that coming.

“God wanted you this way. You were born another way, but God wanted you this way. It’s a miracle.”

I felt incredibly humbled. I don’t consider myself a miracle in any shape or form, but in his mind — in his belief and in his faith — this was his particular way of dealing with something that he had never expected from the neighbor two doors down.

Faith is many things to many people, religion likewise. Our beliefs drive us forward in many and diverse ways. They can also cause friction, wars, and distrust that may linger for countless generations. But not on my block. New York is known to be a melting pot of countless cultures and religions but it still has many divisions. Not on my block. The obstacles to acceptance that I felt in my early transitional days when I left my apartment have gone. Those around me may never fully understand what being transgender is all about — that often confuses me too — but it doesn’t matter to them anymore. Nor me, either.

That is my block.

Becoming Alice… My way

Entry #5 (the final one) of an occasional journal of thoughts, experiences and perceptions during a trip from New York, through Doha to Dubai and then on to Australia.

In a way I suppose it was inevitable that Pricilla would follow me around in Alice Springs; not that I ever imagined she would. But having embraced some of the unlikely comparisons (along with the non-existent ones) that I had with the classic movie The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, she actually accompanied me to the airport to see me off.

Happenstance is a remarkable thing. When I booked my AirBnB accommodation in Alice a few weeks earlier, I had a good feeling about the place, but thought no more of it than that. In the subsequent email dialogue with the host, she noticed the default footer on my email promoting ‘Tea and Transition’ and we chatted a little more about that, and who I am.

“You should definitely meet up with Georgie when you are here,” she said. “I’m sure you’d have a lot to talk about.”

So that’s what I did, hoping that we would. We chose coffee at the Olive Pink Botanical Gardens. That’s an amazing place in itself, as it is completely removed from the lush, green botanical gardens that you imagine such a place should be. This is a very special gardens in the middle of the dessert; one that specializes in indigenous plants of the region—which are many and surprisingly varied. The gardens were set up by one Olive Pink; a remarkable pioneering woman who came to Alice Springs in the 1930s after the railway from Adelaide arrived. Renowned as a feisty old lady (always armed with some seriously dangerous sherry), her position of working with Aboriginal culture and not against it was far ahead of her time.

I waited for Georgie at a table outside. A cappuccino in front of me and a small tree lizard a few feet away eying up the latest visitor to his patch. A kangaroo even hopped close by, looking for water on a day that had already reached 35C (95F) at 11.00am.

Georgie arrived, and I was struck by her gorgeous flowing hair and warm smile; both of which fitted well on her tall, lanky frame. Her particular circumstance is that she was born intersex—one of the lesser understood initials within the ever-expanding LGBTIQ acronym. I also had a lot to learn about this far less well known sector of the spectrum. She told me about her own childhood and the misplaced perceptions that those around her had of someone who identified female and yet had the physical attributes of neither binary gender.

We must have talked for over three hours (though I did consume a tasty toastie in that time), and I felt honored to be let into the life of someone different to me and yet with threads of similarity. I could have talked for longer more about where we stood with and outside the LGBT equation, but we both had other places to go. However, wanting to continue our conversation, she offered to take me to the airport the following morning, maybe stopping off for a bite or a cuppa en route.

So the next day she picked me up from the AirBnB and took me out to her car—only it wasn’t a car off course; it was a beaten up van filled with a bunch of possessions in the back. It reminded me of the Mystery Machine that Scooby Doo and his clan used to travel around in, but this one was without the graffiti on the side.

“I wouldn’t mind having that paintwork,” Georgie volunteered, “but I’d be more likely to get pulled over by the cops, and I don’t want that extra hassle—as of course all vans with unconventional paint-jobs just must be filled with dope.” She rolled her eyes at me.

As we had coffee in the center of town (not that there is much more than the center of town in Alice) someone else who knew Georgie came up for a chat. Eddie is a trans-man and just talking to him reinforced the simple fact that even though we were hundreds of miles away from any other town with a population spanning four digits, gender and the perception of self have no geography. Georgie had already told me of many Sister Girls and Brother Boys (that is transgender or gender variant) within the indigenous population and how she and others had tried to reach out to them over the years. Sometimes this had been a success; with some individuals appreciating that even in the remotest parts of the outback they really were not alone. She also told me of one horrific time: a Sister Girl had grown up within indigenous culture and had been accepted as gender variant by her immediate family, and as such, had escaped the male initiation rites that local culture put males through around the age of puberty. But one day a bunch of men took her away, shaved her head, and performed some sort of brutal circumcision on her. As my heart sank hearing such a story, I knew that this event was not unique. I did wonder about the outcome though.

“I really don’t know what happened to her,” Georgie sighed, “she just disappeared.”

I finished my coffee, Georgie finished her roll-up, and we headed back to the van. As the door creaked open and I climbed aboard, I suddenly realized that Priscilla was there too. The beaten-up bus from the movie was equally ramshackle (if not a van), and the three drag queens were replaced in real life by one intersex and one transgender person. Still, unmistakably, we were in Alice Springs. I laughed out loud at how, just a few weeks earlier, I had been afraid to watch that movie; now it was following me around.

“If you like, we can strap you to the top of the van, put you in a cocktail gown, and attach a huge expanse of gold lame to your back as you express yourself on the way to the airport!” Georgie joked. But there was still an element of transparency in what she suggested.

Along the way to the airport, we discussed many more conceptions and mis-perceptions; one of those being how some people assume that trans people are friends with other trans people because they are trans, or intersex folk with other intersex people and so on. We agreed that—for us anyway—any connection was due to simply liking that other person, and not because of any shared history or association with any particular initial within the LGBTIQ spectrum.

We parted at the airport with a big hug, and over the next 24 hours before I left to return home to New York, I contemplated how I had changed during this long trip that started in the Middle East, then took me to Melbourne, and finally Alice Springs. Like many experiences, you don’t always know the implications until much later. But I knew that I had changed, and my own appreciation of others had become even more varied and valid. From human and women’s rights in the Middle East—where even the word transgender does not have an Arabic translation, to the freedoms and wide open spaces of Australia where acceptance is greater but still the ignorance and bigotry of misunderstanding remain. Above all, the biggest influence was the one the least expected: A battered old bus that I never saw but that followed me around Alice Springs, before leaving its own indelible tire tracks in my psyche of perceptions.

Chasing Priscilla

Entry #4 of an occasional journal of thoughts, experiences and perceptions during a trip from New York, through Doha to Dubai and then on to Australia.

Melbourne, Australia.

It’s a long flight from Dubai to Melbourne. But that was to be my next stop on my trek around the world. After the relative restrictions of a week in the Middle East, I was looking forward to letting my hair down a little more; not worry about the length of my skirt or whether I could easily discuss being transgender with the media or the public at large. I whiled away the more than 12 hours catching some sleep (not that I ever find that easy on a flight) and watching movies. One that caught my eye was a documentary from 2015: “Between a Frock and a Hard Place”—the story behind the 1994 classic movie, “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert”.

The movie, however, is one that I have always steered clear of. Yes, I knew the reviews were great, the critical acclaim widespread, and the soundtrack catchy as hell, but I have always avoided it. More poignantly, I wanted to avoid it. I can’t remember where I was when it came out, but even after it came out on video (long before the days of DVD and video downloads) I still avoided watching it. After I confronted—and accepted—my transgender status, I wanted to watch it even less.

“But it’s a great movie!” my friends told me. Perhaps, but even though I only knew a rough outline of the story, I felt it was unnervingly close to something I had experienced. No, I’d never been a drag queen, nor traveled through the Australian Outback, but still, I didn’t want to be amused by these frocks and outlandish make-up. However, watching the documentary (at around 35,000 feet, somewhere over the Indian Ocean), I felt strangely drawn to it.

Priscilla is the story of three drag queens who travel from the relative comfort of Sydney, through the Outback, to Alice Springs, on a bus they nickname “Priscilla”. Yet even the bright lights of Sydney in the early 1990s were hardly gay-, drag-, or trans-friendly. As they continue through the Australian heartland towards the center of the country and Alice Springs, they experience the predictable discrimination and bigotry that anyone within LGBT circles knows only too well. All this was clear from the documentary, but the narration from Terrence Stamp (one off the three main characters) along with insights and memories from everyone else, made for a fascinating and touching retrospective. “Maybe it’s time I did watch the movie,” I mused as one of the cabin crew took my food tray away.

On arrival in Melbourne, I was met by my dear friend James. I first met James four years ago—on my last trip here—when I stayed in the B&B he ran with his then partner. We never lost touch, and reconnected again twice on his subsequent visits to New York; the first one being therapy after his partner of almost 30 years walked off with a younger guy. We’ve since become firm friends and I knew it was going to be wonderful to spend a couple of weeks with him again; not least as we both enjoy a good whine over wine.

The next day I told James about the documentary.

“I’ve got the original film on DVD if you want to watch it this evening,” he said. “You’ll love some of the scenery as it was shot near Broken Hill, not far away from here.” (This ‘not far’ being about an eight-hour drive.) “And besides, you are going to Alice Springs too.”

I’d almost forgotten that comparison. I was indeed heading to Alice a week or so later—not on a beaten-up bus, but on a rather more luxurious train with free-flowing wine and gourmet food. For sure I would also be experiencing some of the sights that were seen on the movie; a heartland with stunning yet barren landscapes and non-existent rainfall. I knew the timeless heritage would also be there; an inner soul that many visitors find solace in, and most other countries simply don’t have. Visitors often do a day / night trip to Uluru (the former Ayer’s Rock); either seeking spiritual enlightenment that the history there bestows, or just appreciating the beauty of a big red rock plonked dead-center within the enormity of nothing. Sitting on the sofa in James’ cottage in Melbourne, maybe the time was now right to exorcise a few transcendent demons of my own. He put the disc in the machine and pressed play.

What I saw wasn’t me, but I knew that already. Still it affected me.

By the end credits I was sniffling, then when D asked me what I thought of it, I started bawling. I cried like a baby; cried like I haven’t done for years.

“What’s wrong?” D asked, giving me a hug, “tell me.”

“It’s too close…” I spluttered, “just too close.” But the crying didn’t stop.

In the days that followed, I tried to analyze my feelings more. Why did this movie hit so hard to home, when in fact were more differences than similarities? Weren’t there? I’ve never quite understood the connection between gay culture and drag queens but it wasn’t that. I’d never aligned myself within either of those camps, and regardless off me having more gay friends now than in my earlier years, I don’t put that down to being trans. Yes, I could understand much of the ignorance and bigotry that the girls on the bus were put through, yet their own modus operandi was far more in your face than I ever pursued or advocated within my own transition. The only empathic streak I found was at the end of the film, when Bernadette (perhaps) found love in the bus repair guy. This wasn’t a head-over-heels finding of a soulmate, more the appreciation that finding love as a transgender person is often one of compromise. Was this a man she actually loved, or was she just accepting the rare love that someone else had for her? Maybe this thread at the end of the film was the one that resonated the most.

Still I don’t have answers to all those questions I asked myself, and why I had put off watching this movie for so long, but maybe the fact that I accepted the questions themselves is more important than finding any resolutions. As I continue my own Australian journey on to Alice Springs in a few days’ time, perhaps the scorched earth of the Red Center will ground me still further. Regardless, my own inner acceptance seems to have broadened in ways that I hadn’t expected from watching 90 minutes of celluloid, 20 years on.

Middle Eastern contrasts

Entry #2 of an occasional journal of thoughts, experiences and perceptions during a trip from New York, through Doha to Dubai and then on to Australia.

Doha, Qatar.

I honestly can’t remember if I have been to this city before, but even if I had, then it would have been 20+ years ago and we have both changed radically since then. Skyscrapers dominate the landscape and the only reminders that this is an Arabian country are the dhows in the bay, and the regularity of seeing men in perfectly laundered white dishdashes and their accompanying spouses covered in head to toe black. There are degrees of cover up though; from simple head scarf to total anonymity. I supposed those degrees of privacy made it slightly better, if only for the ladies who could at lease see where they were walking.

So, being a woman, do I thus equate with those dressed in black, albeit that they are from a completely different culture and background? I don’t think that connection is a prerequisite for my gender, though there are accepted connections. For instance, when I had a spa treatment earlier that evening, the area I used was exclusively for–and the treatments given by–women. But that is generally how I prefer it anyway.

I wanted to maximize the less than 48 hours I’d have in this city, so after that slightly self-indulgent spa treatment (which felt so good after a 12 hour flight) I took a taxi into another part of Doha, which I wanted to be the focus of my evening entertainment. I knew this place would remind me further of the contrasts that this city has—that every city has–although these contradictions seem more amplified in parts of the Middle East.

‘Crystal’, at the glitzy W hotel, is one of the club hotspots in Doha. Costly entry is limited to membership, and even then, mostly for couples and foreigners. But it was Ladies Night, and so I just flashed my passport, batted my eyes as the visiting blonde from New York, and was swept in behind the velvet rope. I was slightly nervous that my LBD might have been too much above the knee, but matching it with a stylish cream blazer added the sophistication that I wanted to exude.

Inside, the music was international and a mix of current house tracks and grittier urban selections. The guests were mostly 20s and 30s men of Arabic descent (though Western dressed), along with a smattering of women of Middle Eastern origin, and a few Europeans. I was one of only a handful of blondes and I could see attention follow me as I scoped out the room. One guy (who introduced himself as an Egyptian guy called, naturally, Mohammed) swooped in and offered to get me a drink, but I wanted to see what else was going on first. Besides, Ladies Night is one of those outrageously sexist evenings that often happens in Gulf countries: ply the ladies with free drinks, then the men will follow—and buy them more. Back in my male times in the Gulf 20 years ago, this always seemed so unfair. This time I had no complaints. What surprised me more about the practicalities of these drinks however, was that unlike New York Happy Hour “well drinks” (unbranded cheap liquor that is very conducive to hangovers) the default gin and vodka here was top notch brands like Tanqueray and Grey Goose. I stuck with my gin and tonics and got more into the groove as the Gordon’s found its way into my rhythm buds.

The atmosphere also made it seem like I visiting a club from a different era. Yes the music was all current, but this club was smokey. Not as bad as the the smoke-filled dens of the 80s that I used to visit where you really could cut the atmosphere with an iron-lung, but this was still a throwback to a different era. As a fervent non-smoker it gives me renewed pleasure visiting bars and clubs around the world where smoke has now been banished, but there is still a sense of rightness entering a bar where people are smoking. Maybe that’s simply the familiarity I feel having worked so many places like that in the 80s and 90s.

I drifted between the two bar areas in the club, sizing up the occupants but trying not to make definitive eye-contact. There didn’t seem anybody there that I felt overly attracted to, and besides, I was more interested in soaking up some Mark Ronson and David Guetta than anything more physical. I still find it curious that my musical tastes have gone full-circle with my own transition: from club DJ (guy), to indie chick (or guy initially), and back to house music maven. Not that I spurn alternative tracks these days–far from it–but the love of hearing (and moving) to club tracks has never been stronger in me.

Mohammed found me again, and from what I could gather, he’d racked up a tally greater than my three gin tonics. But he was actually quite fun to talk to (a much as you can talk to anyone clearly above 110 decibels) and that he found me attractive stroked my ego nicely too—as did his wandering hands. He touched me and I found myself drawn to the sense of adventure that meeting someone in a club imbues. The forth gin tonic helped too. We started making out, and I remembered my friend Portia’s voice in head: “good kissers are hard to find.” Seemed like I had found one. In fact, even though he was a VIP member in the club, one of the bouncers actually told him to tone his affections down a tad. What are the rules for kissing in Qatari clubs—I had no idea.

We left, together, and although I repeatedly told him that he wasn’t coming back to my hotel, he never stopped asked me. (I was already looking forward to the hotel breakfast buffet, some pool time, and a tennis lesson the next day, and so I had no intention of letting that agenda go off-kilter; regardless of how well he used his tongue.) Then, he told me we could go to his place; which initially sounded like a good plan but then headed south. Or I think more accurately, west, as the taxi ventured further out of the city center. I suddenly started to sober up. The taxi went down some side streets, and some back streets. There was not a sole around.

At least it was a residential area but his apartment building was not the classy number I had anticipated. When he opened the door all I saw was a basic living room with two basic beds on each side. Also, it was not empty. There was (I was told) his cousin and presumably his cousin’s girlfriend, though she could have been a hooker for all I knew. This was going downhill fast, and all the sweet talk (and sweet kisses) in the taxi on the way there immediately counted for nothing. He started kissing me again.

“No,” I said, and then a much firmer “NO”. Scenes from ‘Law & Order: SVU” flashed through my mind; where officers asked rape victims whether they had made their refusal clear. I didn’t feel physically threatened in such a way but I knew I had to leave, and leave soon. I ran out of the apartment building while Mohammed followed behind. On the street I was quite a distance from the main road. Well I assumed I was; I had no idea what direction it would be anyway. 2.30am, and I was lost in the backstreets of a city I didn’t know with not a soul (or a taxi) in sight. Panic. Huge panic.

Mohammed caught up to me and tried to comfort me, initially with his arms around me, then his tongue, and after those options didn’t work, with words.

“I’m scared, I’m scared…” was all I could say.

“Don’t worry,” he said with intended reassurance, “I am with you.” Not a great consolation as this was the very cause of my anxiety, but still it seemed to have an effect. I took a deep breath and rested my head on his shoulders. A hint of calm returned. He held my hand and we walked towards the main road. On the horizon I saw a taxi approaching and my adrenaline level dropped further. The car stopped and we got in together. I told him he needn’t accompany me but he insisted. I supposed that was a mix of male hierarchy which dominates this country, but I knew that he still had plans on my underwear, despite me making it clear that he wasn’t getting access to that or my hotel that night. Just an hour or so earlier I really wanted him, now I just wanted to be away from him.

When we arrived at the hotel, and I saw the security guard at the entrance, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Not that I had felt positively threatened over the past few hours, but there was a singular reassurance in seeing a man in a uniform who I knew would represent my interests. Mohammed made one last play to stay, but even though a hint of appeal had returned to my sexual psyche, I refused. But so did he refuse to give me his mobile number or email or any other contact information. That spoke volumes about his deeper intentions. I felt further vindicated. One last kiss (he was still a good kisser) and I jumped out of the taxi, and walked into the hotel lobby, not even glancing behind.

My heels clacked on the polished marble, and the night staff welcomed me warmly as I made my way to my room. My bed was soft and welcoming. I was alone, but for all the high-jinx adventures of the past hours, that suited me well. Had I been reckless? Yes. I had been caught up in an exotic moment that had tipped into an erotic one. I knew the outcomes could have been so much worse, and I chastised myself for letting myself go in such a way. But regardless of where we are in the world, don’t we all want to feel loved, or needed, or just wanted?

As sleep drew in, and the luxurious fabrics of the room comforted me, I heard echoes of the nighttime call to prayer outside.

An Exercise in Perception

Entry #1 of an occasional journal of thoughts, experiences and perceptions during a trip from New York, through Doha to Dubai and then on to Australia.

The next week will be an interesting exercise in perception. I am heading to Doha for two days, and then Dubai for five. (OK, and after that, Australia for 3  weeks, but let’s not brag.) Although I have spent a lot of time in the Middle East in the past, this will be the first occasion that I have been there as a woman. You could argue that neither city is particularly Arabic (Dubai in particular)–or at least they are rather more Westernized than many other cities around the Gulf–but still I will be in a place where women are viewed, treated, and accepted differently. So how will I be perceived in these places, and will I see them in a different way to how I did before?

So over the next week or two or three, I will be keeping a mini journal which I will be posting here and also on Facebook; to gauge my own opinions of how I feel, along with any unexpected events or strange revelations. Differing notions of acceptance for me and those around me.

Day #1… Leaving New York

Departing this city is one that I always herald with mixed emotions. I often feel a need to leave every few months, if only to escape the craziness of it—and yet that same craziness draws me back. The extra incentive to leave at this time of year is also the weather. February in New York City is the month that most natives dislike the most. We hibernate, bitch about the weather, and wait for spring to arrive. In fact, this year to date has been incredibly mild (with the exception of the second biggest snowstorm ever) and the first week of February looks to continue that trend—not that I could have predicted that when I booked this flight last summer.

All New Yorkers love New York—that is part of the prerequisite of being who we are—and although those born here might argue that birthright is the sole qualification to be titled a New Yorker, I still feel that that is who I am; an immigrant, yes, but we all are.

So taking a shabby car-service taxi from my apartment to JFK, struggling through lines of traffic, and looking out at the frankly nondescript journey from Astoria to the airport, I could see both sides of the coin. Yes, I was ready to leave, yet I knew the inescapable (and often undefinable) fact was that I still love this city. The remnants of dirty snow on the sidewalks, trees that looked frankly depressing having shed their leaves, and the potholes in the road that made the oversprung town car bounce, still didn’t make me want to refute my self-proclaimed citizenship of this city. Even so, it will be rather nice to be in a swimsuit by the pool in a day or two…

Caitlyn: Not My Spokesperson

One of the reoccurring questions I am asked when I’m talking about my book, Tea and Transition, is what effect Caitlyn Jenner has had on transgender awareness — or what do I think about Caitlyn’s transition.

I always preface my answer with support — support for anyone transgender, famous or otherwise, who is dealing with gender confusion or acting upon some sort of transition. None of us asked for this when we were dealt the hand of life, and so to reach a point of self-acceptance followed by any sort of transition is a big deal. Some of us accept it with grace and fortitude, while others are not able to make any outward change because of family, society, religion, or any one of countless other restrictive factors that prevent people from being their true selves. So yes, of course I support Caitlyn Jenner, and am glad that she is finding a deeper level of happiness that had previously eluded her.

Yet I am also trying to figure out why support for Caitlyn from within the transgender community seems more muted than from without. Just because other trans people have been through more hardships than Jenner to get to where they are doesn’t make them — or her — any less trans. Still, I don’t feel close to her at all when watching “I Am Cait” as she explains her own personal difficulties while conversing with either of her two personal stylists or when dithering between wearing one $2,000 dress in her closet or another. Yes, her hardship is to deal with paparazzi-dodging while the rest of us do not, but still that doesn’t lead me to a closer position of empathy.

Reality TV is — by definition — not real. I should not be offended by the appearance of more champagne toasts on the program than discussion of issues of substance — but I am. So far (after four episodes) the series has been shallower than Jenner’s first pool party and if it is to really stimulate dialog then it has to provoke a far edgier conversation than her visiting a trans outreach clinic in her black-windowed SUV. The public is not so foolish to assume that every trans person looks or behaves like Caitlyn, but nor should they assume that she is my spokesperson. She is not. Most worryingly, this seems to be a position that Jenner herself is seeking to adopt, or she has presumed to have taken on already. I think it’s terrific that she has met other trans people from all walks of life and she needs to meet a whole bunch more before she can even hope to understand the situations of others. One relevant point from the most recent show was her tendency to refer to trans people as “them” and not “us”. This organic change will happen in time, but only if she wants it to.

I’ve also been considering the term “community” when it refers to trans people like me. I have met countless trans people over the years and one of the pleasures of my day job is that I get to meet trans folk at all stages of their individual transitions. I thoroughly enjoy that but it doesn’t mean that I want to have tea with them all at every opportunity. Personally, I don’t feel the need to be around other trans people to validate my own position. I choose my friends (trans, cis, and everyone else) because of who they are, not what their history is. To do otherwise would be like hanging with other blondes for the reason of shared hair color. Thus for me personally, the term “trans community” is more a loose fellowship rather than a bonded group.

Returning to the Caitlyn factor, I see some new chatter about whether a Caitlyn Jenner Halloween outfit is appropriate or not (CNN). My initial reaction was that it is totally inappropriate, but then the more I considered it, the more it seemed fair. The costume is not mocking being transgender in itself (though if you added a phallus then it probably would be), nor are countless other costumes that play with role reversal at Halloween (sexy nuns, stripper nurses, etc) seriously irreverent to those lives or professions. It’s a day of silliness and should be accepted as just that. Once Jenner was featured on the cover of Vanity Fair, it was unavoidable that parody would follow, even if it didn’t happen immediately. That is the price of fame, and as such, comes with no refund.

Perceptions… before and after the Bruce Jenner interview

Will America be hanging on the every word of Bruce Jenner this Friday?

No, probably not, but it is one of the biggest profile transgender interviews that will appear in the mainstream media. And that means we have to accept the trashy media talking referring to “gender-bending” (a term that makes most trans people roll their eyes at, I know it does me) within the broader discussion of being trans. So I know I should welcome this discussion on US prime time TV but the court is still out on whether this interview will help a broader understanding about what it means to be transgendered, or if it will marginalize opinion. That all depends on how the interview is conducted (Diane Sawyer is likely to have done a very professional job there) and the sort of answers that Bruce gives.

I have wondered about some of the questions that could crop up during the 2 hour special (whittled down to less than 90 minutes I expect, once advertising breaks and needless repetition is taken into account) and these could be quite helpful in making others understand our situation better. Obvious topics like if he is / will be changing his name, whether he presents as a woman all the time, and so whether “he” or “she” is more appropriate, will be asked, but naturally mainstream America also wants to hear the tabloid edition too: Is he taking hormones and will he be having gender reassignment surgery. Those are the knee-jerk questions that Joe Mainstreet has in mind and it will be interesting to see is Diane Sawyer ventures down this road (she probably has to) and in which case, how Bruce answers.

Those were the questions that people asked of me in my early days of transition and although I didn’t take offense at being asked, I also tried to get the point across that these are extremely personal questions and so basically nobody else’s business! Still, those generally are the first questions that outsiders have, and so perhaps maybe this key interview will help get that message across that those topics are rather too intrusive – especially at this stage of a transition.

It certainly can’t be easy transitioning so much in the public eye and you have to empathize with Bruce in that respect. Everything he does in becoming a she is under intense scrutiny, and while you might shrug that off as being all part of the Circus Kardashian Roadshow, the comments and criticism of being so much under the media microscope will be significantly tougher to absorb for Bruce. Some will really hurt. Yes he has got a very sympathetic ear with Diane Sawyer and as such he will be able to control the interview on his terms along with having a platform to express his wishes and concerns, but I suspect that this will just be the first of many inquisitions from the media. Some will be intrusive (that happened as soon as news of some sort of transition came out) but I can only hope that others will be more sympathetic and might just help public perception of what a transgender person has to go through.

Whether this interview will help the overall acceptance and understanding of matters transgender, or whether it will be seen as a side shoot of Kardashian craziness has yet to be seen. I guess we’ll know that answer by 10.00pm this Friday.

Bruce Jenner and the Marketing Empire

Let me state for the record that all matters Kardashian have zero interest for me. In fact, beyond that, I really see no point in celebrity-ism for the sake of celebrity-ism. The fact that the Kardashian siblings have captured media interest over the years – and that so much of America buys into that interest – is a first rate example of marketing a product that has no intrinsic value. Part of that savvy business sense is the ability to shock us, amaze us, and titillate us at every turn, so that none of us lose interest. When there is even a hint that The Public might be getting bored with one aspect of their family life, they throw in another factor. Like getting married for 24 hours, or a week, or however long it was that Kim was married first. So when I hear the news that Bruce Jenner was transitioning, I wondered if there was more to this announcement than met the eye.

Look, I am a transgender woman. I have transitioned. I support wholeheartedly all others who have questioned their gender, or are in the process of that questioning process. It is not something that any of us would chose to do if we didn’t feel it was integral to our well-being and who we absolutely and intrinsically are. It takes fortitude and resilience, and many of us have stumbled at many hurdles along the way. I know I have. So in that respect, Bruce, well done.

For anyone in the public eye, questioning your own gender must be incredibly difficult; following through with those decisions even harder. So for Bruce – the Olympian and athlete – the process of personal acceptance, followed by a likely process of transition (whatever form that takes) is as big an achievement as his gold medal. So why did I feel such skepticism when I heard the news? It is the Kurse of the Kardashians.

Because I mistrust the superficiality of The Kardashian Empire, I fear the spin that is (and will be) associated with Bruce Jenner’s gender situation. But equally, I feel that the courage that he must have had to actually get to this point of self-realization and admission is probably even greater than it would have been had he been in any other area of the media – bearing in mind the celebrity family that he wed into.

Whatever the path that Brice Jenner takes, whichever choices he makes, I truly do wish him the best. Nobody transgender makes these decisions easily, and so they do need the support from those around them. I just hope the rest of the family don’t see this as another marketing opportunity. That would be the saddest crime of all.