It was different then.

I just felt different – but I knew nothing. I was alone – like all the others. Hidden, secretive, scared.
Even if I had been of an age and with money to do it – I couldn’t go into a shop and ask about panties or lipstick. Public disgrace and worse.

We’re back in time – it’s 1985 and I’m 15. I’m Tommy Jensen. My Dad calls me his little Interceptor (after the brilliant car that he adored but could never afford).

My Dad – he’s a good man. Just over 6 foot [he’s never going to understand metric] but fit, got some muscle, he’s tough, aggressive when necessary. He did his time in the army – like so many others of his generation.

I wanted/want to be like him – but sometimes it doesn’t feel quite right. I can’t work out what to do. He’s not like my best friend’s dad with all the almost-bullying about ‘toughen up’ and ‘just show them you won’t be bullied’. Matt and I were talking about this one day.

“Why does my Dad go on about I should be tougher, more of a man. I’m doing as well as I can at school. I’m near the top of the class. I’m in the first team for footy and for cricket. I did that couple of years of judo. Does he want me to become a bully or something – making the other kids submit to prove what a toughie I am. That’d be silly. I’d get in trouble at school and then at home. Duh. You got any ideas, Tommy?”

That’s me – Tommy Jackson Jensen. Five foot six – skinny, mostly one or two places above Matt in class, on the edge of the first team. More keen on judo and trying hard to build up some muscle by using weights and so on.

Both our dads had done tough jobs – mine in the Royal Engineers, his in the Fire Brigade. They went running together, took us all to ‘proper-man events’ like Truck Crushing, Robot Wars and so on.

I was not so keen on the heavy boots and the extra-tough denim for weekend work (often in the garden or helping his friends with some home-construction job). But I dug in and got much encouraged to ‘just keep going, boyo’. Neither dad drank too much, neither smoked any more. But his bunch of friends – no longer exactly a gang – were all good guys. A bit too keen on outdoor and sweat and sport and cars but – that was what we grew up with.

It was coming time to consider our futures. It would be easy to join the army – I certainly had the skills at computers and electronics needed in the modern REME – maybe not quite the heft of my dad, he was that much bigger than I ever expected to be.

I knew that whatever job I did go for would have to be – would be expected by my Dad to be – at the more physical end rather than a chair-sitting desk job. I don’t remember anything actually being said – just the occasional slur at those who did have office jobs. The idea of ‘service’ was mentioned – about as often. No real pressure – but some, er, let’s call it – encouragement. And being like the huge majority of under-20s, I had no real focus, no determined path to follow. I’d guess maybe 10-15% of us ‘knew’ they were going to be a doctor, vet, entrepreneur or whatever.

As regards my mum, I didn’t do much with her. We did some things – she was firm that every child – my year-older sister Fiona too – should be able to prep food, make good tea, change a fuse, tidy-vacuum-dust as required, cook a mince-based sort-of-spag-bol, do a variety of house-tasks and so on. My dad had much the same view – change a tyre, mend a fence, fixa-this, fixa-that, get-things-done.

There were different options back then – students did not have the threat of massive debt, there were fewer people at university and about the same at the vocational equivalent of the few remaining polytechnics (even though they called themselves universities.

Personally, I think the changes, ooh oops ‘improvements’ have not been all good. There were more apprenticeships and the services were larger. My parents did a fair amount of volunteering too – not at church but with charities and the like. When the hospice opened at the end of the street, they both helped. Mum offered to do some evening classes, art, games and so on and Dad did some garden work and the bingo. As they said, the people there weren’t dead and they needed entertainment and keeping busy if that was a feasible alternative.

One day, we were at the hospice – it was a couple of years ago – I was, I think, not quite 13. We were having to tidy up one the rooms where the client had got round to dying. It’s so hard for some, and so easy for others. This was an old girl called DeeDee. Like most of the others, there were photos and accumulated pieces from years of life. Sometimes, these told a story, sometimes they didn’t. As I was putting a pile of photographs into a box for the relatives [we were told there were two coming soon] – they slipped.

As I picked them up, the back of one had fallen apart and there were other pictures underneath and what looked like a letter. I had chatted some with DeeDee and so I snooped. A short phrase caught my immediate attention ‘When I used to be a boy’. What!!
I didn’t say anything. I held the photo out to my dad. He read it too. “That’s quite surprising’ was his comment – eventually.

When we were sitting having a drink – tea for me, coffee for him – he said some more. “I’d never have guessed. Mind you, after that long being a woman, DeeDee wouldn’t have flagged the average gaydar. I didn’t even think she was other than. Well, well, well.”

My mind picked on a couple of his phrases. “What d’y mean, dad. You’d never have guessed. I didn’t even know there were women who used to be boys.”

“Well. It’s not a topic for general discussion really. Dads often get to talk, mostly badly, about the birds and the bees. Depending, all that gets mixed up in pollination, egg-laying and other barely-human issues. Maybe later. But … on the other hand, your mother and your sister aren’t here, it’s quite quiet now. Maybe now, then.”

“It used to be – and most people want to stay that way – that most folks grew up as boys or girls, got attracted one to another and then got married and their kids continued the process. In modern terms, the labels, hah, everybody’s got a label now’ their labels were that they were hetero and there isn't really a word for those who accept their 'official' gender [that was way back long before 'cis' existed as a word. I have no real idea where the cis label came from.]. There's ordinary male and female and, erm, confused, uncertain, don't know if there's a general word yet– that’s a bit oversimplified, mind you. But those who want to call themselves different have pushed for new labels from themselves. You’ve heard some of them, I’d guess. Gay, Lesbian – although at school homo, faggot, queer and so on are what you’ll have heard."

"In my world, in our family, locally, it’s well known that Gays and Lesbians exist and, provided they don’t get obvious, they’re allowed to get on with their lives. There's a lot of strange behaviour out there. I've travelled. I've seen some of it. And most of it is behind closed doors, very private, usually adults, it's so wrong if there's kids involved, and generally consensual, that is, the people agree with who does what to who with what. Not the sort of stuff for me. Nor for anybody I know - as far as I know. But like I say - closed doors. And how would you get to talk about it with anybody. I did once, in Germany, see a man with what looked like whip marks - but you don't ask. What question WOULD you ask. Hah. There's a lot of strangeness out there. Just concentrate on being nice to people."

“Do I need to know what ‘get obvious’ means?”

“There’s a lot of stupidity about sex and behaviour generally. What the haters mean, and there are those who hate anything different, what they mean is ‘doing anything that frightens them. It’s all a bit vague – and always based on fear and power. There’s some, more stupid than others. Who think being LGB is infectious in some weird way. That kids can be persuaded, manipulated into things. No doubt there’s some at the wondering age, your age, that can be pushed or pulled – but that’s part of the whole nature-v-nurture package as applies to sex. And that’s the hetero-homo part of the explanation."

“Hetero-Homo? LGB?”

It’s a bit of labelling that’s grown up recently. I don’t really know where it started – probably America, huh. L for Lesbian – that’s women and even girls who can’t find it in themselves to love boys and men – they love other women. G for Gay or Homosexual is the same …for men and boys who focus their sexual activities and love on other men. B is for Bisexual – which means sometimes L and sometimes B. There’s other letters too which mean other sorts of attraction. Your cousin Mike clearly just isn’t interested – he might be what could be called Not-sexual [now Asexual]. Your uncle Danny is the opposite, he likes, loves and lusts over anything that moves – he’s kind of Megasexual [now often Pansexual - Pan meaning everything]. Homo is the Ls and Gs and Bs who tend to go for sex with their own gender. Hetero is the majority – otherwise there would be a lot less kids."

"But it’s NOT all about sex. In fact, the actual physical interaction is the less important. In brief that’s too often a mechanical, physical process of inserting item A into slot B. School MIGHT teach you badly about the physical process. If there’s any like or love involved then it’s a much more satisfactory process. I’d hope that family and friends would teach you about relationships. It’s relationships that make the whole picture. If there’s no relationship, then it’s not love – it may be like, it may be lust, it may be play, it may be mating, it can be abuse. Truly, sex without love can be fun, can be pleasing to both – but the real thing involves two souls and two hearts not just two bodies. Teenagers, generally aren’t ready, maybe they’re barely capable of worthwhile relationships …although they do happen and can last. Sorry, I’ve been waiting to give you those few sentences."

"But that picture … DeeDee must have been what’s being called Trans. Yet again with the simplifications, sorry, boy. But if or when you go looking there’s so much spouted about Trans. Some really vicious, some really stupid. And like most topics of ugliness, both the for and the against spout quite inaccurately. I’ve known two girls, or women rather, who weren’t born that way – so sometimes I’ll be able to be a bit more accurate about what I say. I don’t think you can talk well about it, being a girl-boy or boy-girl or whatever, without some close involvement.”

“Did you know about DeeDee?”

“No, not at all. Not a glimmer. She was just a normal woman as far as I knew.”

“You said ‘she’ but …”

“Yes, NOW I know she wasn’t born that way – but she presented as a woman, lived as a woman, died as a woman. What word am I supposed to use, eh?”

“Mmm, you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m always right except when your mum says I’m wrong.

“How can you tell if you’re …”

“What? Different from everyone else?”

“For a start, the best bit of news is that there’s always other people like you out there. Not alike in everything – but each private foible that you might have, Star Trek rather than Star Wars, Pyjamas or Less, Long sleeves or short, - there will be people who share that with you. It might take some finding, but you are not alone. That’s the motto, the slogan for lots of groups. It’s got to be hard to be alone, to have a secret you can’t share. To never be able to relax even with your friends."

“I’d never thought about that.”

“Well, Tommy boy, some of this is the sort of complications that adults get themselves into. Most kids, if they’re lucky don’t have that sort of problem. But you’re in a class of 32, is it, and I can bet you, if I were a betting man, that at least 1 or 2 of them have issues that they hide, day after day, nobody knows.”

“What?”

“Oh yes, I’ve been telling you about statistics and how the general picture turns to the detail. If 10 in a hundred have a problem then in a class of 32, just short of one-third, somewhere between 2 and 5 are likely to have that problem. Not often 3, but not none and not most. You understand how you get the spread?”

“Yeah, it makes sense that it wouldn’t be 1/3 in every class. I’d not thought of how the spread might work. That makes sense – more than most maths does. Algebra – yuk. So if forty percent of marriages break up then, let’s see, 40 out of a hundred, 13 out of 30, then 8 to 18 … wow that makes it so much more real. Golly.

“Oh, and Tommy, there’s the 10% who have to care for relatives, the 10% who are emotionally or physically abused, the 10% who are on the Autism spectrum and all the other percents. Means that almost none of you have the same life, the same background, just not very much the same. Like your mum says ‘ain’t nobody normal but thee and me – and I’m not sure about thee’ [she’s from Yorkshire].
Did I ever answer your question … I don’t think I did. I veered a bit, eh. How can you tell if you’re different? Depends rather a lot, as I’ve just said, on what you think normal is and what’s the range of normal that you are willing to be in. D’y have anything, any issue, where you are wondering about being ‘average’ or ‘typical’ or indeed ‘different’. I’m always willing to listen. I’ve even learnt from the occasional consult that my responses should always be on the lines of ‘and what d’y think, what d’y think that means …

“Mmm, I don’t really have a clue whether I’m different, let alone different enough – whatever that might mean. I do think there’s times I just don’t understand my schoolmates. It’s especially difficult with the more macho ones, with hair on their face, smelly armpits, and all the excesses of testosterone. They talk endlessly about girls, tits, bums, legs, pussies, what they say they’ve done, what they want to do – and they fill the gaps in between with talking about their successes at sport, how much they’ve drunk, smoked and all the rest. There’s a really ugly group who go on and on about their shoplifting exploits and who they’ve bashed, beaten or bullied this week. The Sporties can only talk about sports. It’s not pretty. Almost all of them are definitely not nice to or about the girls.

“Is there a group you do fit with? How would you describe the ones you eat with, for example, what are their hobbies and … how do they avoid things? Do they avoid things?

“Dad, I think all the stuff you’re giving me is, erm, a bit too much. I need to go away and think. But I am more sure that there’s something adrift somewhere as regards me being like most of the guys. I just don’t know what.”

“That’s very sensible of you. Take your time. But I do expect you to come back to me with some questions. You might even ask your mum about some points. For the moment, I’ll happily put you in a vague box labelled ‘uncertain and wondering’. That sounds fairly safe … gives you room to investigate, experiment even. I guess you already know that being different puts you at risk of being treated differently, even badly. But, parents can only advise. I know some parents succeed with pressure and force and, well, even bullying - but that's wrong. By now you're beginning to be an individual ... and that means your mistakes are your responsibility. Even if a passing parent can get you out of some situations. So, I repeat - take your time, and be willing to be your own person whom is different from everybody else.

“… uh." I wasn't going to tell him that I did already feel different. That I looked at girls and how they dressed and how they behaved. And it definitely wasn't the same way that other boys looked at girls. Their comments were about tits, and legs, and panties. Because one of my jobs was helping with the laundry, I already knew that panties were different from pants. That the colours and materials were softer, nicer... much more interesting. And out of reach. But I didn't want to ... I just felt ... uninterested in being like most of the boys at school. But ...

Author – For this character at this time and age I firmly reject any certainty of T-ness, he’s primarily teenage-wondering, pre-sexual and vague about the future. I think labelling him in any definite way would be as lazy, stupid and unkind as what Mermaid, Tavistock and their (?over-enthusiastic?) coterie did to some kids in the UK.