The cost of visibility
I arrived home from court today for the last time. Jury service has concluded. As I walked in the front door the emotion of what had happened hit me. Inside I felt an unexpected sense of loss, a sudden emptiness where I had been full but moments before. I found a tear rolling down my cheek. As I always do in such moments, I thought to tell you. I thought to write.
Do I cry every time I write? Very nearly, dear reader, very nearly.
When I arrived at jury service I was greeted by the kindness of strangers. People seeing me in the chair didn’t pity me, perhaps seeing more immediately that I’m strong, capable in the chair, surefooted… surewheeled? Folks made space for me, allowed me to cut lines, talked with me about their lives, their work. I found a little unexpected community as my gregarious disabled self made friends quickly with people I’d just met.
This happens a lot these days. Multiple sclerosis has taught me that I cannot afford to take for granted any individual moment, because the next is entirely unpromised. That I can talk to people at all today is no guarantee that I’ll be able to talk to people tomorrow. That I can hear about people’s lives, be there for them, experience closeness and connection, is no guarantee that I’ll be able to do so tomorrow. I forge friendships like I’m running out of time…
…because I am.
The court waiting room was like an airport departure lounge. Everyone sat apart, eyes fixed on their phones. The social boundaries of modern existence had been erected between us like invisible walls. It appeared, then, that people didn’t want someone to reach out to them. All indications were that they’d like to be left well alone. But as I get better at reaching through these walls with an invitation, I realise people are often just as desperate as I am to tear them down. Connection, intimacy, friendship, really are just an invitation away.
But it isn’t the ending of these friendships that has me sobbing gently at my keyboard, though I will miss them. I know that such closeness and connection is only ever a small effort away, and I’m getting much better at making that effort. What has me upset is the person I was when making these connections and how rare it is that I get to feel like her.
I know that sounds weird. If I’m not her then who am I most of the time?! As if I remove my mask every night like a Scooby Doo villain.
Let me try to explain.
When I first pondered sitting atop the wrecking ball of transition and crashing into my life like Miley Cyrus, I thought, without much doubt, that I’d always be seen as a man in the world. That despite my best efforts I would never be fully accepted as the woman I am. That when people looked at me there would always be a gap between the version of myself to which people related and the truth of my identity.
Anticipating that my transness would shine out of my face like a strobe light, I learned to be very open with people about my gender. I learned to speak at events and conferences, learned to make people laugh, learned to wear my nature like armour. When I interviewed for my first job as an Educational Psychologist I even told my interviewers that I was openly trans and tried to evidence how this was one of my strengths as a prospective employee. My soon-to-be employer told me that she had never heard someone be so open, so confident about this part of their history.
I’ve since made a career of being open about my gender history. I spoke to hundreds of audiences around the country. I started a podcast. I spoke at Google in London! It wasn’t just an act of self-protection, or an exercise in narcissism though it was that too, but also a way to make space for those who come after. I knew how hard it was to be the first to be openly trans in my profession, and if I could make it so that those coming after me would find they weren’t the first, then that would be worth any cost.
But until now I didn’t really understand what I had given up.
I thought that if people knew I was trans then I wouldn’t need to fear discovery. In our culture, this little piece of information about my history is seen as one of the biggest secrets a person can keep. By owning my nature I thought I could disempower the handful of unkind people in this world that think such a secret is immoral to keep, and will reveal it without consent.
Sometimes even I think I’ve been overprotective. Surely the world isn’t really that bad, even now. But then I see another email outing me to my employer, like my life is being directed by Charlie Brooker.
I clearly do need to be careful. But me revealing this secret is no longer keeping me safe. It certainly isn’t deterring people from emailing my manager. And being the openly trans person in the room, in every room, prevents that part of my history from becoming a distant memory, a quirky story I can tell at parties with new friends, no longer important in understanding the person people see before them.
I’ve been so open with everyone. Everyone in my life knows. The internet knows.
Recently I’ve been meeting new people, getting to know them, even making friends, without telling them I’m trans. I’m literally just another female friend in their lives. That’s what happened at jury service, why I’m pulling endless tissues out of the box like a children’s magician. These last four days I got to know a bunch of wonderful people and they just related to me wholly as a woman in the world, a sociable woman in a wheelchair. And for a few days I got a glimpse of what life could be without being openly trans. I didn’t need to explain myself, didn’t need to tell people, manage their reactions. I didn’t need to see their perception of me filtered through the knowledge of my gender history. This little piece of information about my history could become a distant memory. Well… as long as no one Googled me.
And that is what I have lost. What causes tears to roll down blushed cheeks. It is sad to know that I return to a life I love, but one in which my transness is a fundamental part of my life again. I watch the world continue to tell me in no uncertain terms that I am no woman. I watch the Supreme Court rule, watch our equalities watchdog confirm that I am unwelcome in the women’s toilets, in women’s sports, in women’s communities. My identity is right here and right now again and only ever a thoughtless sneeze in the wrong register from being discovered.
For just a little while, I experienced what it was like not to be openly trans in this world.