 |
Tanya MurrayTHE BENEFITS OF A PUBLIC SCHOOL EDUCATIONThe big hurdle wasn’t the sex-change op. That was still at least a year away. I realised that this little physical adjustment, so significant to others, would remain between me, my gynaecologist and, probably, no-one else, at all, ever.  Nor did my social transition to Tanya hold any particular fears. I was “part-time full-time” already, dressing as and being Tanya everywhere except work. I’d started thinking of my work persona as “That Other Guy”, his work outfit of sober suit and tie the only real drag I was now wearing.I had arranged work so I had Fridays free. In theory these were writing days. In practice, whatever creativity I had went into trannying around town, getting used to the hostile stares and catcalls. Once, as I stood waiting by the lights to cross Western Road, two builder types stood either side of me. One leaned in close and whispered, in a flat, angry monotone “filthy fucking pervert, paedophile, kiddie-fiddling bum boy, you scum, you sex case…” It had been a bad day for this kind of crap. I’d already been heckled twice by yobs, and now… The stream of abuse continued until I rounded on him, and in my best Scorsese growl delivered Joe Pesci’s line as the psychotic killer Tommy in Goodfellas: “Do I amuse you? Do you find me amusing? I make you laugh, like a fucking clown?” I must have conveyed something of Tommy’s psychosis, because both men backed off, still muttering. Luckily for me. I've got something incredibly important to do next week... The lights changed, and I teetered away in my foot-crippling new heels, pride and facial features mercifully intact under the inch-thick slap I needed to hide my still-heavy beard growth, pondering as I did so: a) how stupid-lucky I’d been not to have been filled in right there, and b) how the subsequent chat with the local cops would have gone when they saw The Other Guy's warrant card in my purse.Still, as the weeks passed, the volume of catcalls diminished, as I gradually learned the tranny survival skills of invisibility, indifference, and slightly better dress sense. Meanwhile, everyone I needed to tell was told. With varying results. Some dropped me immediately. Gay men, in particular, seemed to view me as some kind of quisling. It was seriously suggested to me, despite the quarter century I had spent with my boyfriend, that I was only doing this because “you can’t face up to admitting you’re a gay man.” Hmm. Now let me think about this: cope with the social stigma of being assumed to have excellent interior design skills? Or chop my balls off and turn myself into a permanent circus freak, in the opinion of a goodly portion of the world? Tough call. Most people stuck around after I dropped the bomb, if only out of curiosity. I had a sense that for some, I now ticked a useful box, next to “exotic ethnic minority friend”, easily out-ranking my previous “gay shopping friend” tag. A few, fortunately - those I still call friend - were supportive. Once, that is, they got over what another trans friend called the “48 hour shock” (as in: “Don’t trust what anyone tells you they think about, it until at least 48 hours has passed”.) Which just left work. Now, the Metropolitan Police isn’t is the kind of place where you pitch up at the office one day declaring an intention to change sex, then say “Just kidding.” Of all the steps in my transition, this was the only one that was truly, socially, irrevocable. I need a job, and the reality is, most trans people don’t have one. So once I came out to The Job, I was committed to stay there. Changing my mind later would simply not be an option. I hatched a cunning plan. I had a big case coming up, a nasty baby-battering. Young, useless mum and dad in the dock, me centre stage as officer in the case. It would be That Other Guy’s swansong, a last outing for the suit and tie, then, a week’s leave, and bang, back at work as the new me, Tanya of the Tranny Squad. No problem. Well, they say no plan survives contact with the enemy… Things went well initially. I met the prosecutor, a sneaky QC with a plan of his own to get round the biggest risk in the case; because neither mum or dad were talking, both could walk since exactly who fractured the skull and tiny limbs of their three month old son couldn’t be proved… The Other Guy had his day in the box, giving the jury just the facts, ma’am, looking sharp in my last male suit, wearing the glasses I never wear, because juries think people wearing glasses are intelligent… We hit half time, on time. Now it was the defence’s turn. Things began to drag. The trial was set down for a week. By start of play on Thursday it was looking dicey for a Friday finish. I buttonholed my brief. “Do you reckon we’ll be done tomorrow? I’ve got something incredibly important to do next week.” He shrugged. “Really officer, I have no idea.” The jury went out Friday afternoon. And stayed out. No verdict. Come Monday, I had a decision to make. I chose a new suit. This one was lilac. The jacket had breast darts to accommodate my silicon breast forms. I spent quite a bit of time on my make up and wig. The Other Guy’s role in the proceeding was over, but I wanted to look my best for my public debut. Every morning during the trial I had sat in the same seat, behind my brief's chair, ready to slip him a note, exhibit, whatever. I took up my usual position. He breezed in, looking straight through me to the female usher who I had spent hours chatting to during recesses. “Have you seen the officer in the case?” he asked her. Both looked blankly around the half empty court. Shyly, I raised my hand. “I told you I had something important to do this week.” I ventured, in my not-at-all convincing female voice. The barrister contemplated me for a long moment. And then, I truly appreciated the benefits of a public-school education. His Eton-educated tone never wavered. “Oh… Good morning, officer.” Just that. Then he turned to the pile of papers in front of him. We got our verdict an hour later: guilty. The barrister shook hands with me briskly. “Thank you officer.” He strode off without another word. Tanya Murray wrote the stories Spinning the Drum and Dancing for Un-Made-Up. The photo is by flickr's Jo Angel, from a collection called On Being A Tranny. 8:59 AM - 26/2/2007 - post comment
|
A growing collection of narrative non-fiction miniatures  £8.99 incl. p&p (UK only) Outside the UK email UnMadeUp for details. Home Unmadeup Editions Un-MADE-Up story archive RSS 
Palimpsest Maud Newton Ready Steady Book Chuck Palahniuk Studs Terkel Litro Brighton Writers Alan Emmins Skint Writer Grumpy Old Bookman John Baker's Blog The Monkey Puzzle Short Term Memory Loss Alasdair Gray Brevity: A journal of creative non-fiction Blogzira A Spinster's Quest A Beautiful Revolution John Barlow Guyana little.red.boat Crack Skull Bob Atlantic Terrace A Case of Brain Fever Ted Conover Asylum 217 Babel In Other News ducts.org 
Recent Entries - Nik Perring - William Shaw - Emma J. Lannie - William Shaw - Nik Perring Public Service Announcement: Un-Made-Up becomes giddy with excitement at the prospect of publishing short, beautifully wrought pieces of non-fiction writing. Submissions may be edited but will only be published with the final approval of the author. For local colour - or color - local spellings are retained when appropriate. All copyright belongs to the authors, illustrators and photographers. COMING SOON • A story of teenage love and coffee • 41 Places • The one-legged man on the beach • |
|