The Uncertainty of Being Me

This week is the week of fun. Three days in London, partying, and then I get to pick up Colonel Chesterton, my new long-haired Chihuahua, on Saturday!

Thankfully, in the nick of time, all of my ailments seem to have dried up and I finally feel human again. I did a yoga session on Monday, my first proper gym session in an age on Tuesday, and then finally on Thursday, a horrifically hard calisthenics class. Although I think at the calisthenics class I was technically the most feeble person in the room, but we all have to start somewhere. I’ll blame the hormones.

Right now I’m in London with my friend Paula, drinking things we probably shouldn’t be drinking and dancing in bars that people of our age should absolutely know better than to still be in at two in the morning. Plus the two nights running thing. Wow, it’s been many years since I’ve done that.

Old Fashioned Adventurer never heard of one before, but somehow managed to drink four of them… and the chocolates on top. (Dewar’s 12yr Scotch, Bacardi spiced rum, Casoni figs & cherries liqueur, dark chocolate syrup, Angostura orange bitters)

Night number two. Off to Trans mission at Wembley Arena and dancing my little ass off in the small hours. Very, very, very, very tired at this point.

But the funniest thing happened yesterday evening when I was due to meet her in Soho.

Of all the stations in all of London, at all the possible times, I get a WhatsApp message.

“I’m actually in Paddington.”

“You’re joking,” I reply. “So am I.”

Just as I was texting, “where are you?”, I spotted her and sneaked up and tapped her on the shoulder.

Then she said something that was possibly the most validating insult I’ve ever received.

“Oh! I saw you earlier in the station. I didn’t recognise you. I just thought you were some tall middle-aged woman”

Now objectively, being described as “some tall middle-aged woman” is not the compliment most people dream of.

But for someone like me it’s oddly wonderful.

Because it made me realise something about what it’s like to live in the world as a transgender woman.

You spend your life in a permanent state of uncertainty.

What Do People See?

When people first begin transitioning, they obsess about something called passing.

Passing simply means this: when someone looks at you walking down the street, what do they see?

Do they see a woman?

Do they see a transgender woman?

Or do they see a man in women’s clothing?

When I first started living full time as Stevie, I expected the worst.

In my imagination I would walk down the main street where I live and people would laugh.

“Look! It’s a man in a dress.”

Instead something very strange happened.

Nothing.

The first Saturday afternoon I walked the entire length of the high street. About three hundred metres.

No one reacted.

I walked back.

Still nothing.

I walked down it again.

People walked past me. Around me. Through me.

No one seemed to care.

And that’s when you realise something slightly unsettling.

You have absolutely no idea what anyone is thinking.

Maybe they thought I was a woman.

Maybe they knew instantly.

Maybe they didn’t notice me at all.

The truth is you will never know.

The Second Layer of Uncertainty

But there’s another layer to this that people on the outside probably don’t think about.

It’s not only that you don’t know whether someone has clocked you.

You also don’t know what they think about it.

Most people are not in a position where they can express whatever thought passes through their head.

That airport security officer I once encountered was unusual in that sense.

He had authority.

He could say “sir” and get away with it.

Most people don’t have that kind of power.

So if they do notice something, they simply keep their thoughts to themselves.

Which leaves you wondering.

Are they supportive?

Are they uncomfortable?

Are they quietly disapproving?

Or do they simply not care at all?

You’ll never know with any degree of certainty whatsoever..

Reading the Room

Over time you develop small ways of reading situations.

If I walk into a room full of women and their eyes light up, they start smiling, chatting, including me in the conversation, then I know everything is fine.

Women are generally very good at signalling warmth when they want to.

But sometimes the interaction is a little more… cursory.

Polite.

Correct.

A bit guarded.

And in those moments I sometimes think to myself:

Ah.

I probably know what’s going on inside your head.

But the funny thing is, it doesn’t actually bother me. I’m a bit of a masochist. I actually find it funny. If you disapprove massively, but aren’t in a position to be rude enough to say it, so you have to sit there squirming, then I find it quite hilarious.

Once you accept the uncertainty, the tension disappears. After all, if you’re prepared to strut through Gatwick Airport in a short dress, tights and boots at 6’1 in heels, then you become pretty unshakeable.

When the Uncertainty Turns Against You

Early in my transition I had one experience that shook me badly.

I used to travel to Manchester to get my hair done. My friend jokingly calls it “the crochet hat”. It’s a mesh system tightened onto the crown of your head through your existing hair. They use this to help support and strengthen attaching extensions. Until recently, I couldn’t find anywhere in Ireland that did this.

After one appointment I bought a red dress in Mango. Tight silhouette, strappy, summery. The first time I’d worn something like that.

I thought I looked great.

I felt great.

Then I went to Manchester Airport.

At security I had the usual little plastic bag of liquids that never quite fits the rules. The bag wouldn’t close properly.

“Come on,” I said. “That’s good enough, isn’t it?”

“No,” the security officer replied.

I tried squeezing it closed again.

“Please, look, it’ll stay shut.”

And then he said something that stopped me completely.

“Sorry, sir.”

I said, “Why did you call me sir?”

And he said, “Sir, stop that now or I’ll get security.” I called his bluff and said, “go on then, get bloody security. Get your boss. Let’s escalate.”

His supervisor came over and was lovely to me. The original security worker claimed he’d been under pressure, and it was a mistake (he managed to make three times).

For days afterwards I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Was everyone else just being polite?

Do people see exactly what he saw but simply don’t say it?

You don’t know.

You never know.

When It Works the Other Way

And then the opposite happens.

Over the last nine months I’ve had various encounters with women in different places. Nights out, conversations that drifted into flirting, the occasional kiss, the occasional fling. And I will be very honest, I actually think I find it a lot easier to attract women now than I did before.

Look, it’s enough to know that some women clearly find me attractive.

Which, if I’m honest, gave me a lot of confidence.

But even then the same question appears again.

Do they see me simply as a woman?

Or do they see me as a transgender woman they happen to find interesting?

Do I look good for a trans woman?

Or do I just look good?

Once again, the answer is unknowable.

Learning to Live With It

Eventually you realise something.

The uncertainty never goes away.

You will never know what the stranger walking past you saw.

You will never know what someone clocked and what they didn’t.

You will never know what someone thought but politely kept to themselves.

And once you accept that, something odd happens.

It becomes funny.

Because the truth is everyone is walking around with their own private thoughts about everyone else.

We just happen to notice the ambiguity more than most.

And every now and again the you tap someone on the shoulder in Paddington Station and they reply : “Oh sorry, I didn’t recognise you earlier. I just thought you were some tall middle-aged woman.”

And you think:

Perfect.

That’ll do.