The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2797 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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“She’s pretty isn’t she, Mummy?” Trish was pointing out some young couple who after a bit of watching turned out to be both young transsexuals who were moving in opposite directions. ‘Young Trans And In Love,’ was the title of the programme. I’m sure that Trish was too young to watch it but it may apply to her life more than some documentaries. I left her to watch it hoping there was nothing that would impact on her life in a negative manner.

The girl was wearing a bikini and certainly was developing a very female shape, I wished her happiness though I knew this relationship had since broken up. I took my tea and went to my study. I don’t watch programmes on transgender topics—they embarrass me and I hate the word trans, which is a prefix not a word.

I suppose the publicity these programmes give is mostly positive though some of Caitlyn Jenner’s stuff has rebounded in her surgically altered face. Practically every day there is something ‘trans’ in the Guardian or on its website and I usually avoid them. I wondered why? What do I find embarrassing? Does it remind me of my roots, of my past that I’d sooner forget? Of course I can always hide behind the fact that it might impinge upon my children, two of them are ‘trans’ (arghhh) and still juveniles. But is that the truth? Isn’t it more personal than that, it reveals who and what I am and rattles my cage more than a little.

Living as a normal woman, or how I’d consider most women of my age do, except for periods and pregnancies—shit, I’m not a normal woman, am I? Here it comes again, that doubt, the nagging that I’m fake, purporting to be something I’m not. Do the up fronters like Caitlyn Jenner or Paris Lees, who don’t claim to be anything but what they are, ‘transwomen’ happier than I am? I have no idea, never asked them nor am I likely to. I don’t want to crusade for equal rights anymore, my life suits me. I achieved all I want for myself, a loving husband and family, a good job and normally a place in the community. But is it all built on deception?

I outted myself long ago to stop even worse publicity. It was short lived and although it’s popped up its nasty little head every now and then, it goes away and unlike the youtube clip of juggling dormice, tends to be forgotten. Legally, I’m female, socially I am so why does this spectre at the feast rear its ugly bloody head every so often? I’m neither ashamed nor regretful for what I did, I couldn’t live as a male and life has been much better all round since Stella launched my new life. With the possible exception of Danielle, who had femaleness foist upon her and may yet regret it, the others I’ve helped, seem to grow into their preferred genders and roles. So why am I so sensitive to this?

Is it because as children we’re taught not to lie, to hold honesty and decency as values we must defend at all costs—then suddenly, we’re adults and adults don’t play by the same rules—they hide things and lie all the time because others may take advantage of them or by doing so enable them to take advantage of others. I don’t like being an adult sometimes, I don’t like playing the games but you have to to survive.

Sometimes I don’t like playing the stereotypical female, seeking help from more powerful males by simpering or flirting—it seems I can often get far more done by batting my eyelashes at someone than demanding things as an equal. Sometimes it’s fun. I watched Diane the other day wrapping the photocopier engineer round her little fingers. He didn’t want to complete the job because it would take him too long, he wanted to leave for the following day when his mate could do it. Diane had a load of copying to do and made sure he fixed it. She wasn’t quite rubbing her leg against his but she was certainly looking doe eyed at him. I kept out of it, I’d already threatened to end the contract if it wasn’t fixed—her approach seemed more effective, but then she’s real.

I don’t have the courage to wear a banner saying I’m trans or anything else, I don’t want to be identified as such I want to be seen as a woman, but should I give my children the options of being out if they want? At this stage, I don’t think so—Julie’s business could be destroyed, though does it matter what your hairdresser is as long as they do a good job? It might for some people. Would it matter as a doctor or university teacher? Not unless you were needing empathy for female problems and why can’t we give that as well? If I shut my finger in the door it hurts just as much if I’m male or female and just as much for anyone else irrespective of gender. So why can’t I appreciate period pain or the feeling of ugliness and grossness that some women get with pregnancy? I can’t feel little limbs moving in a womb I don’t have but I can appreciate they do and yearn for it myself.

I remind myself not all women, biological women can either. Some, like me never grew a womb for all sorts of reasons, aren’t they just as female as Germaine Greer? Do I need to speak to someone about it? Last time I did they simply stood me in front of a mirror and told me to describe what I saw. We don’t come with a need to declare things like the trades description legislation, though I suspect if it came up in court that someone had married a ‘trans’ (there’s that bloody word again) woman without knowing it and expecting to have children, the courts would grant a divorce very quickly. I’d probably agree with them, relationships are built on honesty.

“That was a good programme, Mummy, all about people like us.”

“You enjoyed it then?”

“It was sad in parts, some people don’t like us do they?”

“I’m afraid that is always going to be the case, sweetheart, you can never please everyone all the time.”

“But it’s not our fault is it—it’s to do with the chemicals in our heads.”

“I don’t know what causes it, darling, but no, it’s not our fault.”

“So why can’t people like us?”

“Because of things in their lives.”

“So it’s their fault then, not ours?”

“Probably,” I said hoping it was the right answer.

“Oh well that’s all right then—stupid people,” she said and walked out of my study. Sometimes I did envy children and adolescent’s view of life in such black and white terms instead of my own greyness.