Transgender diary: Oh Paris, how I have missed you.

Not too long ago, I had occasion to drive across France with one of my siblings.  It was a lovely drive, and it was wonderful to have the time together to just catch up on life in ways that we haven’t done in forever.

We met up in England, where I had been visiting with friends and extended family.  One of the things that had stood out to me on this trip was just how backwards England has become in relation to trans people.

I am beginning to conclude that my homeland is fundamentally bigoted, certainly against trans people, but evidence is everywhere of institutional racism, classism, and the most diabolically inappropriate discourse in the highest echelons of government.

England, Great Britain, the United Kingdom, is a land that has slipped into irrelevance.  One that went to sleep having had its colonial toys taken away from it, and woken up with no understanding of the poisonous legacy of the past, but a simple sense of entitlement and nostalgia for the position on a global stage.

No more a champion of liberal democracy or human rights, but one that has been infected by the same kind of toxic discourse that affects my other homeland, the USA.  Only, the UK is the only place I have been thus far, and thank goodness, where I have experienced physical violence for being trans, and have often had people say awful things to me in the streets, especially teenaged boys.  When the rot begins at the top…

And I would say good riddance to the Tories and Rishi Sunak who disgraced himself as the head of government while fostering a culture of hate against my people:

• Rishi Sunak’s shameful jibes against trans people in front of the mother of murdered trans girl Brianna Ghey’s mother
• The politically motivated Cass Review was created as a weapon against trans people
• Trans teen suicide rate increases after UK government makes access to puberty blockers more difficult

And you might think that Labour is better, but it isn’t…and that means it isn’t just politics.

So, I was a bit tired of fighting for space for myself, tired of being misgendered nearly everywhere I went…and no, there is no excuse.  And I have begun to lose patience over it.

When someone stands in front of you wearing a slinky gown with spaghetti straps, you best have the sense to not say “sir” to them.  At least ask.  At least keep the gendered language at bay, until you know.

In this real experience in the British Airways first class lounge, after receiving ‘Sir” from what seemed like a well-intentioned employee, I concluded that there was no good intention there at all, but rather obstinacy, as he refused to be corrected on the point, and after telling him three times that I was a woman, he continued to call me ‘Sir’.

“Do you always call women ‘sir’?” I asked. At this point a female colleague of his dug her nails into his arm and he shut up. It isn’t just the UK. Where I went for surgery is the highest volume sex change programme on earth…with a dedicated gender clinic. One of the security guards on reception repeatedly used “sir” with me when I was standing there in make up, painted nails, heels, and a short skirt.

One of my friends insisted that some men are just blind–and it is almost always men (when a woman does it, the malice is evident from the outset). But is this kind of blindness not wilful? As more and more companies cancel D&I polices (diversity and inclusion) and as a society there seems to be a backlash against my trans brothers and sisters, you have to ask yourself about casual bigotry. We need allies. Vocal allies.

I have written before about how black women in particular have been my most noteworthy public supporters. But every one of us should be like that for those who are diverse, especially any man, anyone coming from privilege. And it is galling to me how fundamental the differences are evident at a national level.

So, tired I was until we rolled up to a beautiful brasserie in Reims, capital of the Champagne region in France.  It is a place that I have been to many times over the years, but not often enough to have been recognized.  The warm feeling I had in my heart when the waiter sang out “good evening Madam,” and ushered us in, giving us a lovely table.  It takes so little to just observe.

And this has happened time and time again…that in France, everywhere I go, they get it right.  And when they don’t?  I have only had to say it once, and they switch immediately, often apologizing.

What is it that the French have that we Brits don’t?  With all the problems with migrants and a multi-ethnic society that Britain has, why have the French managed to adopt an inclusive tone, and also managed to educate the immigrant population?

The rot in England extends so far that a friend actually argues with me about what it means to be trans because she has “trans friends”.  Some of the choicer things she has said to me include, “why would you get a sex change, your vagina won’t even be real.”  I know that there are people out there who believe that.  But you certainly can’t tell by looking at it.  Or by feeling it.  Or by having it.

Getting to compare notes with other vulva owners has showed me that at least the words we use to describe feelings and sensations are remarkably consistent.

My other favourite thing this person has said, “of course it’s not a medical issue.  Everybody knows that it is psychological.”  Actually my dear, there is a global consensus that gender dysphoria is a medical condition, not a psychological one…a consensus to which the governments of over 170 countries have signed up, to which the medical profession and nearly every medical professional body has agreed.  It isn’t fashionable to say we are crazy anymore…

I can’t remember why I had fallen out of love with Paris.  Maybe I hadn’t.  I hadn’t felt like going to France anymore though, as it felt that so much was going wrong there.  The protests.  I can remember back to a time when I lived and worked in Paris, and the city was paralyzed by strikes, and I had to walk an hour each way every day to get to work—public transport was on strike, no taxis were available, all rental cars were taken, all bicycles had been sold…it was insane.

French engineering prowess had also taken its toll on me.  I marvel at the French ability to systematize, to organize, to automate supply chains.  I can remember a time when a drive along the French highway system meant a chance to visit rest areas that were family-owned, that sometimes served incredible food, showcased local products and great regional diversity.  This has almost universally gone, replaced by shrink-wrapped triangular sandwiches.

So too, French culinary excellence.  There is no doubt that the haut-gamme of world dining remains French…the Michelin star system can lead you to so many superlative dining experiences.  But many of these places are dying from a lack of business.  This has hit harder, however, on the smaller, local restaurants, and so many villages and towns across France have been gutted out and left for dead.  The hypermarket, after all, was invented in France, and wherever it goes, it kills local jobs, local food, local restaurants, life.

Thankfully my adopted home, Italy, has a stronger culture than that.  And although there are now more and more hypermarkets and supermarkets around Italy, the quality standard is substantially higher, and more importantly, Italians still shop in town, keeping butchers, fishmongers, and good local restaurants alive.

But what else?  I arrived on a cold and cloudy day, but the weather soon turned glorious.  And I found myself wandering the streets of Paris, marvelling at the incredible variety of retail, how many wonderful, creative, owner-managed shops there are.  I poked into so many of them, and the staff was always helpful, all smiles, friendly, and singing out “Madame”.

The fashion!  The bakeries!  The restaurants!  The vibrant deli’s, and other small specialist food shops warmed my heart.  And everywhere there were people just out and about being happy, being themselves, and living their best lives.

Bouncing and bopping my way through the streets was a trip down memory lane for me, and it was wonderful to see the city so vibrant, so alive, much better than it had been before COVID.  It feels like Paris is having a bit of a moment.  So much so, that I could once again see myself moving to France.

And I can’t tell you how important and luscious it is to be received respectfully.  How quickly people are to give the right pronouns, to ask, and to be contrite if they get it wrong.  I love you FRANCE!

While I was walking earlier today something weird happened.  It was just bizarre.  I stopped to consult my phone as I was thinking of finding something different than the shop I had put into my google maps.  And as I did so, a Chinese-seeming woman rounded me and touched my arm, interrupting me, stepping into my personal space, and said in English, “you’re a man aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.  I’m a woman.”

“No, you’re not.  You have a man’s voice.”

“You didn’t know that before you came up and told me that I am a man.”

“You look like a woman from behind, but your voice is a man’s voice.”

“I’m not a man.”

“Yes, you are.”  I was totally perplexed by this.  Do you go up to a stranger on the street and have a conversation like this.

“I had to see, because from behind you look completely like a woman.  And your hair…”

“Why are you even talking to me?” I asked, thinking whether I should show her my ID or get my tits out.

“You are a man,” she repeated.  “You have a man’s face.”

“Actually, you are a man,” I replied.

“What?” she stopped for a second, paused as if thinking, “I’m a lesbian, is that why?  My polish girlfriend has hair like yours.  She’s Polish.”

“I’m a lesbian too.”

“No, you’re not.  You’re gay.”

“Yes, I am gay.  A gay woman.”

“No.  You’re a gay man.”  

I finally lost it and held my crotch in a way that tightened my pants around my vulva and said, “Sir, the last I checked men have dicks.  Where’s my dick?  It’s seems I don’t have one!” and before she could answer I stood tall and fished one of my tits out of the bra cup holding it and showed it to her, “the last I checked, men don’t have tits either.”

“Those are man boobs,” she said not missing a beat.  |On my scrawny body?  The whole experience was surreal, but I wasn’t able to process it for how weird and inappropriate it was.  I should have just said, “lady, you’re a bigot, and outrageously rude.”

But she finally shocked me out of participating in the weird exchange.  “Your nipple is nice and pink, let me see it again,” she said coming closer.

“Lady, you’re a freak.  Get away from me.”  And then I stepped around her and walked away.  I turned back after two steps and she had vanished.  And I then concluded that she was a demon of some kind.  So, I went to do a ritual purge.  It is important to recognize when and how demons come to us, and how they get into us…by upsetting us, which creates a tear in our natural protective bubble.  Plus, she had touched me.

It was a small, but very disturbing, interlude in the magic of Paris.

I had a great walk after, and what a wonderful city to eat up the kilometres in.  It has changed so much since before COVID—so many familiar shops are gone, restaurants too, but there are many new ones that have appeared.  The energy of the city has changed.  The most important thing is that I have a strong desire to go back, which is a welcome return to form.