Oestradiol

If I change my hormone dose, my emotional lability can go wild. Sometimes that’s really really nice. I noticed I had not taken my pill yesterday, so took two today. I know it’s not sensible.

At the door, Liz, hard-bitten old feminist, says, “And here’s the lovely Clare”.

“You make my little heart flutter with happiness,” I say. We grin. Such personal remarks really please me. Liz knows this, and is happy to oblige; and, I feel, does not think any the less of me for it, or at least that is the view of me which I project onto her. I do not think any the less of me for it. I discern knowledge but not mockery in her.

I sat in the Quaker meeting feeling delight. I stood to speak: I expressed my delight, and my love for people here. People were grateful for my ministry. I had hugs.

Over lunch I chatted to D., who is 24. She asked a lot of questions: where do I live, what do I do, what did I used to do? Well, that’s OK, I can sort-of place her because I know her family, I am happy for her to place me. I told her an employment tribunal story. She was unreserved and open: she asked me how old I was when I left Scotland, and expressed shock at my lack of an accent. She too has experience of passing, or not- her membership of a particular social group was questionable, and she would wonder: has someone told this person? Have they noticed? Or, she would say something and easy, unaffected conversation would become distant.

-What do you do with your time?
-… I blog a little
-What do you write about?
-…Trans issues

and we were away. She was interested. She was sympathetic. Her best friend is gay. She was horrified at the abuse I had received in the street, and complimentary about my looks and dress: she thought I passed quite well. That hair suits you, the colour matches your eyes.

I hope this is the last I am going to say about TERFs for a bit, because the issue is simple. I can easily find online someone who says, for example, Some women don’t feel comfortable with [“transgender women” in “female bathrooms”]. And that’s okay. It’s their right to not have someone they view as male enter their private area. Even I would have a problem with entering a female dressing room and seeing a dick and balls swinging around. Or something far more hostile. Or, I can talk to people in the office I worked in, in the Quaker meeting, in the shops and buses and bus queues where I “find myself respected by other people who- got rained on too-”

Let the TERFs enjoy their internet hugboxes. The real world is safe enough for me, OK enough.

Artemisia Gentileschi, self portrait as the allegory of painting

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