2019
By George Oliver
10:04
I don’t belong in here. I’m an unwelcome guest, greeted perfunctorily but never appreciated. I neither embrace nor dispel a narrative of escape, despite the possibility that I don’t have to be here.
I do belong here. Standing at the platform at Oxford Circus, awaiting a northbound tube to Epping, I check the time and calculate how long before my lateness is considered impolite. Approximately fifteen minutes.
I’d draw on the appropriate guilt if I could find it. Even deep inside, where the real me is incarcerated: nothing. After ‘Dear Prudence’ comes on shuffle, I time my step onto the train with the introduction of Ringo Starr’s drums, at 0:44. The song drowns out my awareness of the guilt I should feel.
The claustrophobic metal box reaches 20 mph. I’m sandwiched between a man that can’t keep still and a woman who’s trying to but can’t settle on the right footing. At twelve o’clock, a mother holds the hand of a young child, more out of her own need than his. At three, an overdressed twentysomething wearing too much cologne beats his leg as if it’s a snare drum.
I don’t belong. The fact remains. My mind’s confined to the wrong body and it must soon suppress this truth over coffee with my parents. It must shut up and let the body do the talking. The body must isolate key words and intersperse questions so my parents can keep up.
They’re the grandparents going senile, who need everything repeating seven times, who still won’t understand what you’re saying. Thankfully, it’s not Christmas, when I compete with an entire room of this grandparent. I tell the collective what I told them last year, and the one before that: I was born as the wrong gender and yes, it’s as simple as that.
23:55
I trace the journey of a drop of blood with my finger. It crawls down the mirror that faces me, inching towards a sink offering to rinse away its repercussive potential. In vain and without conviction, I spell out “WHAT NOW” in crimson on the glass.
09:10
I trace the journey of a drop of water with my finger. I’m behind schedule, likely to be late, but generating bathroom mirror self-confidence is essential. The world I’m entering thrives on transparency.
But it has foundations of deception. Words are losing their meaning and looks can be misleading. Yet, the tools at our disposal are equally good at correcting how we look, letting it match what we are on the inside. I’m a trans woman busy grappling with the enormity of these developments, but 2019’s a minefield.
Misrepresentation operates on the biggest stage imaginable. Those governing this far-from-United Kingdom pluck words at random from a fabricated verbal arsenal. “Brexit?” “Deal or no deal?” Seriously? A self-defined Great Britain drives itself off a cliff while expression loses its power. Action is an estranged second cousin.
The landscape is everchanging, tainted by a politics of uncertainty. I position myself against this backdrop with a challenge of certainty: proudly wearing a dress, tights, and stiletto heels. At least on a Good Day. A Good Day sees the full outfit; a Great Day sees the finishing touch of handbag and makeup. The Average Day, Not So Good Day, and Bad Day correspond with fewer levels of dress. Waking up and deciding on a day’s categorisation is the difficulty. This is determined by too many factors: how the previous day went, who I came into contact with, what they said to me, etc.
I spend some days so agitated they collapse on my bed, where I pass out instantly as if a small child who runs chaotically for an hour then falls asleep on a parental shoulder. Unsolicited nap time to the parent’s relief… my experience is the twenty-four-hour version, rinsed and repeated. Sometimes, I substitute the parental shoulder for the cold, hard office desk.
On other days, I take advantage of my employer’s flexibility with working from home and I don’t leave the house. I let the hours tick away, barely working, more often consuming: favourite albums, TV boxsets, films, a meal or two if I’m up to it.
Today’s set-up is a system malfunction. The Great-Bad day spectrum is disregarded. I’m seeing my parents, so must dress as the little boy I was raised as, or Dad flips a switch.
On such occasions, the drama plays out as follows:
The last one destroys my undiagnosed agoraphobe. I’ve described the discomfort, but my parents still throw me in the deep end. Crowds are inescapable here in London. Only being in transit makes them bearable – swept up by the rhythm, less aware of my individual status because I’m part of the organism. Or I need a drink or two. Stifling panic attacks as if they’re sneezes, I cope.
Mum and Dad are stressful and stressed, respectively. They’re not bad people. They settle for the false assumption that they can’t relate to hardship, and that they’re impeded by my difference. Wrong.
I swallow my hormone pills and leave.
*
MONOMANIA
I approach my destination, but someone calling my name stops me in my tracks. I follow the voice, hugging the wall, drawn in by its comfort. It’s the delight of a crackling fire compared to the death-trap populated by cars, buses, and the occasional bicycle to my left. I turn an incorrect right, entering an alleyway.
The setting is so narrow you couldn’t fit a second person. Somehow the knowledge confirms what I had already guessed: the floating spectre ahead of me, which I presume to have done the calling, is not entirely “person.”
Its call intensifies. An outstretched arm compliments, beckoning. As I near the spectre, my impaired vision makes out more shapes, familiarising body, head, a second arm. My vision overachieves, identifying the cloak, shroud, and scythe accompanying these.
When I reach it, it stops calling. It holds in its sleeves a white placard, spelling out the next stage of communication. The content is accentuated by black marker:
AND WHEN THE LAMB HAD OPENED THE SEVENTH SEAL, THERE WAS SILENCE IN HEAVEN ABOUT THE SPACE OF HALF AN HOUR.
It beckons once again, to the space in front of it, beneath the placard.
I comply. In position, I step off the ground and cross my legs, becoming seated in mid-air. I nod in the direction of my adversary, who plucks a chess board from nowhere, complete with thirty-two pieces. At the flick of a switch, the scene is doused in monochrome. I gaze down at my sixteen pieces, commander of an entire cityscape, a giant breathing down on ants. Such a design would make it impossible not to destroy as I navigate the space.
I clear my throat and play my first move.
WEIRD ERA CONT.
At the end of the alleyway is a door, minus doorkeeper. I grant my own admittance. The door leads to an identical alleyway, only longer.
As I walk, I’m able to progressively make out what I’m moving towards: a careful, deliberate arrangement, crafted by the recognisable hand of a fellow creative. The product of only one type of thinker.
Its make-up is exhausting. Mock picket fences, mock blades of grass, mock paintwork, a mock front door (ajar), a mock corridor leading to a mock dining room, complete with mock roast dinner, being eaten by mock children, audience to the wagging fingers and disgruntled facial expressions of mock parents.
‘… AAAAAAAAND CUT. Fabulous work everyone. Take five and we’ll reconvene.’
The mock parents make a beeline for the smoking area. The mock children divide, mock boy heading to the food stall and mock girl prioritising the toilet. A mock director peers through glasses at an A4 page of notes, a mock DP to his left and a mock AD to his right.
I try to intervene or participate in something but am unable to. My mouth is zipped shut; or I have the ability to open my mouth, but no sound comes out; or I’m chained to the floor, able to see the golden key floating three metres above me, out of reach.
Eight minutes, thirty-four seconds pass with me paralysed by one of the above. On the thirty-fifth, the mock director bellows something and the magnets are drawn back to him.
Soon: ‘AAAAAAAAND ACTION.’
A mock clapperboard snaps, reverberating around the space.
11:11
‘Are you listening to me?’
I’m listening to about 30% and discarding the rest. Dad’s at a generous 20%.
‘… Martin!’
‘Mum!’
‘Are you listening to me?’
‘What do you think they’re talking about?’
My deflection comes with a simultaneous point in the direction of a couple two tables in front, locked in something heavy involving hand gestures, raised voices, and multiple failed attempts to get up and leave.
‘MARTIN!’
‘How many times, Mum? I don’t go by that name anymore.’
‘It’s the name we gave you.’
‘I’m not responding to it.’
‘Stop making a scene.’
Theatre’s invasion of the everyday. There’s rehearsed drama everywhere we look. Everyone plays to a predetermined, personalised script, whereas I go off mine. Who’s the crazy one?
‘Martin, please. Listen to your mother,’ Dad groans.
‘I’ve got it!’
‘What?’
‘It’s a stretch, but hear me out. Grey Scarf has been caught cheating, hence his phone being on the table for the first sixteen minutes of the conversation, and Pink Jumper pointing to the jacket pocket he then put it in, where it stayed for the five since. She has also been cheating, but for a while before he started. Grey Scarf’s never told her that he knows, and also never forgiven her. It’s why she’s so upset; she knew some form of retaliation was coming, but not the double hit of confrontation and revelation of his own cheating. Look! Her defences are down – look at the body language! She’s gonna let him off!’
‘Can you be sensible for one fucking minute, Martin?!’
‘Mum!’
‘Not too loud, Avril.’
‘Maybe if you helpedme James, instead of letting me juggle everything myself.’
Dad zones back out, like I wish I could.
Mum tries a different angle of attack: ‘Why were you late today?’
‘The usual. Alarm didn’t go off; missed the bus; busy tube… take your pick.’
‘It’s not good enough. We don’t exactly see a lot of you these days.’
‘She’s right, Martin.’
‘Whose fault is that, Dad?’
‘How’s the job?’ she asks, trying another angle.
‘Nothing’s changed. Still don’t like it.’
‘And the writing?’
‘People still don’t like it.’
My second “coming out.” It was as hard to admit that I was invested in a creative industry. Both this and my admission that I’m a trans woman are relics of ancient conversational history.
Dad finishes his last drop of cold coffee and we all get up from the table.
*
FADING FRONTIER
Of the waking nightmares, this is the scariest. I observe two men – one seated on the pavement, one crouching to the other’s level. The pair are engaged in a dialogue. Man One is anonymous; Man Two is my Prime Minister.
Two à One: ‘Let me tell you a story about birds. There are these two young birds flying along and they happen to meet an older bird flying the other way, who nods at them and says “Morning, boys. How’s the air?” And the two young birds fly on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes “What the hell is air?”’
One à Two: ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Any spare change?’ He gives his used Styrofoam cup a rattle.
Two à One: ‘Of course.’ He slips a pound from his wallet, dropping it in the cup.
Man One looks Two up and down, acknowledging the price band of his suit.
Man Two walks away, his wealth dripping on the pavement, leaving a damp trail as he goes.
One à Two: ‘Take off your costume! We’re not in Kansas anymore.’
The puddle frowns back at him.
17:32
‘L – G – B – T – Q – I – A. There are so many letters now. What do they even mean?’
The exchange is tame, but I’m so used to worse versions of it that I can’t help being irritated. I refrain from pointing out her missing A and P, and additional T and Q. Obviously we’re discovering more ways of being as we continue to evolve. We’re learning every day.
The thirtysomething talking to me isn’t intentionally rude. She’s covered everything under the sun in under ten minutes. She initiated by complimenting my quote GORGEOUS dress. The subsequent transaction has been agenda-free, the product of mere curiosity, complete with a smile. It’s refreshing.
‘… I didn’t catch your name. I’m so sorry – everyone tells me I talk too much, always in the wrong order.’
‘Martina.’
‘Pleasure, Martina. I’m Joelle. I’ve gotta run otherwise my girls will send out a search party, but you enjoy the rest of your night, okay?’
She places an affectionate hand on top of mine before pulling her stool away from the bar to stand. She smiles something irresistible and warm. I return the favour, trying to match it. She walks away and I never see her again.
Following the afternoon with my parents (coffee became lunch, lunch became drinks), I was exhausted but determined to keep up my reputation of reliable by meeting Rémy for further drinks, as arranged. Rémy is a rare breed: a lifelong friend entirely on board with my pending transition. Someone who doesn’t even bat an eyelid. Someone unparalleled, impossibly generous, full to the brim with empathy.
I dashed home to change before coming back out. I was stuck in limbo, but it’s the weekend, so I dressed head to toe in Great Day outfit, regardless of my own rules. Perhaps thanks to Joelle, I feel good. I’m relaxed, composed, anomalous to the crowds surrounding me: authentic rather than posturing, breathing freely rather than holding my breath.
Rémy’s late, but it could never be impolite, not from him. He’s probably turning his head sideways and tracing the District Line on the wall with his finger, looking confused and borrowing strangers to help him, who pass him on to other strangers. Of the fraction of everyday people that want to help, no-one knows London as well as they think they do.
Rémy’s the kind of person with whom your defences are completely down. Someone who allows you to have no inhibitions whatsoever. Someone you can be vulnerable with. Our friendship is built with meaningful scaffolding that’s difficult to describe, but corresponds with a phrase along the lines of “he understands me.” He’s the kind of selfless individual not sold in supermarkets, not grown on trees.
‘Martina!’
Caught off guard, beaming, I turn 180°.
I return 180 to face the bartender: ‘Two more large reds, please. House will do.’
‘Sure thing. Don, grab him two large reds?’
The bartender doesn’t look up from the crate of beer bottles in his hands to realise his pronoun misuse. The sort of incidental verbal slip that would ruin a different day but couldn’t possibly harm this one.
‘Martina! It’s been too long!’
We embrace. I struggle to let go because maybe if I never do the credits will roll here and now.
…
‘I’m gonna play devil’s advocate,’ Rémy probes.
‘Shoot.’
‘So what?’
‘I knew it was coming.’
‘You know it had to.’
‘It’s the most productive question to ask yourself.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But it shouldn’t be confrontational.’
‘It shouldn’t,’ Rémy agrees.
‘A constant reminder rather than persistent shrug.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So… so what… I guess I want to show how fluid this thinking can be. I’m writing about a different minority experience to mine as a learning process. I’m not trying to limit any access. I’m not claiming to solve the representation crisis.’
Momentarily, it feels like today’s Eureka Moment. A strange phenomenon, the kind scientists peer through magnifying glasses at and academics pace rooms or scratch heads over. The few seconds where I’m proud of how something stagnating in my head sounds when I finally let it leave. I was especially anxious about articulating this well. It’s important that I’m able to.
These Moments don’t occur often. I now receive a delayed offer of six alternative responses in my head, each as under-developed as the next:
| #1 (The Repulsive) | “So what… that’s just so recalcitrant, Rémy. You’re better than that.” |
| #2 (The Unintelligible) | “What does that even mean? Why must every artist be held at gunpoint over it?” |
| #3 (The Vague and Rambling) | “Formerly known as who cares, to which the answer is no-one. Look at the world around us – is it surprising?” |
| #4 (Answering with a Question) | “Well, so what?” |
| #5 (The Inquisitive) | “The situation is contemporary and urgent, and people might be interested because I’m saying something that needs hearing.” |
| #6 (Other Speculation) | “Not to mention so why. The other three Ws are the easy ones.” |
I must contend with these breakdowns in communication between my internal and my external, daily. They paralyse me, reminding me of the disconnect between my two modes of expression.
‘I mean, I’m trying to do it more justice than that, you know? In my head it makes so much sense, I think. It, um – ’
‘ – I understand you. I can’t wait to read it. Send me a draft?’
‘I will.’
‘It’s interesting that your process is so different to mine.’
‘I suppose it is. There’s nothing calculated about mine,’ I laugh. ‘Ideas used to come to me at night, but now it’s throughout the day. Outline sketches, elaborate blueprints, useless bits of creative thinking, useful ones. It’s an organisational process, I guess.’
Before Rémy’s eyes, my head explodes into a million fragments. He frantically scrambles on the sticky bar floor to reattach bits of brain. He scans the bar top for sections of skull, prepared to spend however long it takes to piece me back together so he can continue hearing what I have to say.
Later, when everyone’s had a few more drinks. We’re at the same bar, but it’s busier and much louder. The Cure drip from speakers fixed to various points around the room. The bittersweet ‘In Between Days’ floods the space, an appropriately euphoric soundtrack for what has become a Good Day. My music tastes often align with the Day distinctions. It gives me structure:
The music I listen to moulds to the shape of what’s happening around it. It offers a temporary distraction, which is essential.
The bartender slides two drinks our way.
‘From table fourteen.’
‘Err, thanks?’
We follow his pointing hand. Our eyes settle on an unassuming 6’2” male in his thirties – well dressed, aloof, sipping a pint of lager from an unbranded glass.
‘What’s the protocol?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rémy laughs.
He comes over fifteen minutes later, negating my question.
‘How’s the red? I’m not a wine person myself.’
Even though I hate the design of the game he wants us to play, I humour him: ‘Shit. The cheap but drinkable kind.’
‘Myfavourite.’
‘You can have it back if you want.’
‘But I bought it for you. Can you guess why?’
‘Probably.’
The alcohol has started to take effect. I dress up my anxiety in arrogance.
‘Can you guess my next move?’
‘Yeah. You should save yourself the embarrassment.’
‘Too late.’
He walks away, disappearing amongst the bodies on the bar’s makeshift dancefloor.
‘That was harsh, Martina.’
‘Maybe.’
I slurp the leftovers in my glass.
‘My round?’
*
WHY HASN’T EVERYTHING ALREADY DISAPPEARED?
Next requires a ticket. I join an orderly queue of people here to attend the same thing as me. The box office is located right next to the venue. Too much time won’t be wasted on this vignette.
The event I’m here for is a curious one. The kind that must be held accountable by that inescapable question, “WHY?”
The answer? A mirror to our boredom. An antidote for the 21st century frantic. The collapse of binaries that threaten to define us: repression vs. oppression… composure vs. hysteria… the group vs. the individual. A cultural moment that promises to solve everything. The bit where something finally happens. The eleventh-hour saviour, equivalent to catching the glass before it drops from the table and shatters on the floor.
I wait in a second line until the gallery doors open, permitting access to the exhibition. Like those around me, I know nothing about what’s inside. The realm of possibility is too great to predict anything even slightly likely.
Inside, I assemble a scattershot portrait of the work that doesn’t do it justice. Regardless, the first impressions as they appear in my mobile phone “notes” app:
Huge blank canvas as backdrop.
collection of pots URNS on long shelves immediately in front of canvas.
paint brushes of every imaginable shape and size fill these.
large buckets line the left and right walls facing canvas/urns (from entrance).
every imaginable colour of oil paint in these. No duplicates.
Two more queues form on each side of the room. The lines slowly move forward as attendees are invited, one-by-one, to mark the canvas with a brush they have already selected and dipped in a bucket of their choosing. Strict timing only allows one of each.
After leaving mine, I’m invited to join the seating area at the back of the room. I sit with everyone else, for the 480 minutes my ticket has paid for, encouraged to isolate and focus on my mark as it dries, but welcome to observe the progress of others.
23:14
Barely able to stand upright, I stagger towards Elephant & Castle station in the hope of a bus home. Numb from the drink and the shock, I float awkwardly towards the utopia. The portal back to reality, I hope.
I’ve almost reached where I need to be, where home is near, where I can decide my next steps.
I need the opportunity to circle back to where everything started and hit the reset button. There and then, I may be able to carry on after the horrific turn my life has taken.
I make a list of the day’s main settings and major players. These will be important in whatever legal context this is all assigned to:
- MORNING: tube (Brixton-Liverpool St. via Oxford Circus), coffee w/parents
- MID: walk (Liverpool St.-Shoreditch), lunch followed by drinks w/parents
- AFTERNOON: walk (Shoreditch-Old Street), tube (Old Street-Brixton via Stockwell)
- EVENING: tube (Brixton-Bank via Oxford Circus), drinks w/Rémy, encounter w/Joelle, ENCOUNTER W/?, walk (Bank-Elephant & Castle), bus (Elephant & Castle-Brixton)
I become acutely aware of my heart beating. Its delicacy. Its vulnerability. The frightening reality that so many factors could stop it in an instant, entirely separate to my own power over proceedings.
I remind myself notto go crazy: the dangerous foe that starts at instability and spirals into something more urgent. The cautionary tale avoided by a filter or a system of control. This system is the parent equivalent, responsible for shielding the child from germs – otherwise, it gets ill from anything.
Today briefly seems desperately funny. It’s got to be. I’ve had the elaborate comedic set-up, so a punchline must be imminent.
And so from Circle One I now went down
deeper, to Circle Two.
21:26
The two-way argument carries on after happening. It carries on in my head.
The brief encounter with the 6’2” stranger became something far more significant. He returned later in the night, demanding to know why He wasn’t good enough for me, a quote fucking tranny. He told me how my kindare all the same. He said that my struggle wasn’t any worse than anyone else’s – He, the Great White Male.
This world was built in favour of the 6’2” stranger and He knows it.
When the harassment got too much, we left the bar at 21:17, exiled from land no less ours than anyone else’s. Ten minutes later, He catches up with us outside Bank station.
‘I didn’t finish talking to you two,’ He shouts across the street.
‘Leave us alone. We’ll call the police.’
We find the nearest side street and follow it, but miscalculate, realising that it’s far longer than it seemed and that it’s deserted. It’s like we’ve slipped into another dimension, free from the capital city’s buzz but left with the silence posing a bigger threat.
There’s no natural progression from walk to run. The sprint comes out of nowhere and suddenly He’s right behind us.
‘I SAID I wasn’t finished.’
He grabs my shoulder from behind, toppling my balance. Rémy turns and swings, glancing a cheek.
‘That’show you wanna do this?’
Rémy repeats the swing. The second contact is more substantial, drawing blood.
I’ve barely pulled myself together when blood has been drawn from each side. Sleeves have been rolled up. Profanity is being exchanged like returns over a tennis net. As I return to my feet, a big hit puts Rémy on the ground.
It’s my turn to swing forehands of fist, backhands of verbal abuse. After one reset, He serves an ace, knocking me out cold. I’m not sure how I’m getting the rest of this to you.
Back on his feet and enraged, Rémy delivers the biggest hit yet. I’m glad I don’t witness the rest because it’s horrifying. Rémy follows up with another hit, followed by another. He swings at the unconscious sack on the ground for too many minutes, with no-one to stop him.
‘Keep your FUCKING hands off her. Understand?’
It’s only after a few more that Rémy realises He’s completely lifeless. Rémy stops, shutting off the fire alarm while the fire’s still going.
Nostalgia’s a funny thing. From the present, we remember a past and yearn for it, despite it being unremarkable at the time. Conveniently, we forget the pain. We prioritise the glimmers of hope that were outnumbered by disappointments, frustrations, difficulties.
My mind wanders to earlier points in the day, moments that were rarely happy yet preferable to now. Then it wanders forward, into a more hopeful future: where I have friends all over the world, am able to travel freely, have achieved some form of creative success, and have an opinion of value. Or, more simply: a future where I’m no longer wasting time in unproductive jobs, no longer contributing to the vampiric corporate machine, and no longer being employed to fulfil a company diversity quota.
My mind wanders back again, to the past year, then decade, then century so far – where planes were shot down and terror attacks stacked up, wars raged, financial markets crashed, technologies boomed, political forms changed. Events mutating into crises mutating into horrors.
My mind wanders to a particularly unwelcome memory. The revelation from a “friend” that a friend-of-a-friend finds you scary. The worst impression thinkable for the person who finds everything terrifying.
I sleepwalk from Bank to Elephant & Castle, unsure where Rémy is and what he’s done with the body. I soon materialise on a bus, which teleports to my Brixton apartment at the snap of my fingers. Perhaps I closed my eyes and tapped my heels together.
Here, in front of my mirror, I wash the blood from the bruised knuckles on my right hand. Here where the curtain has dropped and the mechanical levers behind the Wizard of Oz façade show their true colours: different iterations of red. I have no voice left but become aware as my thoughts form this narration.
A short story by Will Self pursues the idea that when you die, you go and live in another part of London. A different borough or tube zone rather than an afterlife. I entertain this possibility.
I entertain another: Rémy the café owner is the true artist, a convicted murder his masterpiece, a courtroom and jail cell the museums. The artist as no longerreticent. The artist as a sacrificial lamb. At great cost, the artist as a voice engaging with the culture and shouting out its problems. The contemporary wake up artist.
I vow to start writing things that do this too. I vow to read the room each time I enter it. I vow to phone my Dad tomorrow morning. I vow to persist, despite the imminent concern of undesirable election results and the UK’s disastrous beginning to the new decade, unhelped by a global health crisis. I vow to challenge a US TV personality turned president’s reversal of the trans community’s health protection, and a beloved children’s author’s attempts to define our womanhood for us. The dystopia on my doorstep.
Feeling the last seconds of the day fade, I relocate from bathroom to beneath sheets, shaking. I put my hands together and stare at the ceiling, beginning a one-way conversation with a stranger in which I beg for the year to resolve itself before the decade slips around the corner. If what I’ve been told is true, his promises can help me. I just hope He’s a man of his word.
