More pride, more prejudice: just another day in trans world!

Yesterday was a day of highs and lows. The lows involved being misgendered and my pal being called “Sir”. But the highs far outweighed them.

I started this silly little blog back in 2015 as a way to help me process my thoughts, as an aide memoir for the future and to help other trans people who may stumble across it.

It’s been a rollercoaster ride of highs and lows – everything from coming out, getting engaged and getting a job as a woman, to getting dumped (twice!), dealing with horrendous transphobia and being threatened with violence.

The blog’s had many thousands of readers, hundeds of followers, and it continues to grow all the time. And one of those lovelies is Isla, who’s posted many dozens of comments on my posts over the past few years.

We’d never met, so when I heard she was heading to Nottingham GIC for an appointment during my week off work, I suggested meeting up for a few beers afterwards. She agreed, and so that’s what happened.

I caught the train, then we met in the city centre and headed to the Canalhouse – a wonderful pub with great beers and a massive patio to soak up some sunshine.

Things got off to a bit of an awkward start when Isla was misgendered at the bar. The barman called her “Sir”. There was no malice – it was an honest mistake, but even so. As he walked off to pour beer, I told her that she should have a word with him – I mean why would you call someone who’s wearing a strappy top and makeup “Sir”, FFS?!

My reaction be like:

via GIPHY

But Isla seemed quite relaxed about the whole thing, we got our drinks and then headed to sit outside. It wasn’t too busy but there were maybe 20 or so people having a bevvy.

And then we got the stares. This really bloody annoyed me. I wanted to just stand up, shout “FUCK OFF!” to them and flick both Vs. But I didn’t because, natch, I didn’t really want to be beaten up.

I said to Isla: “Do you think we’ll ever get used to this?”

She replied: “Probably not.”

The joys of being trans. Isla had been called Sir, and then we’d been stared at, like we were some kind of circus exhibits from Victorian England.

Come on, people. My mum taught me at a very early age that it’s rude to stare. Nobody in their right mind should need teaching that it’s bad form to misgender a trans person. And yet both things had happened within about 60 seconds.

Now, I’m quite a sensitive person. If people behave like twats, it gets my back up. I want to bite back, I want to tell them how stupid they’re being.

Isla’s far more chilled. She couldn’t give a monkey’s. People are twats, as the Lovely Eggs so eloquently put it – just ignore them. Let it be.

Anyway, we’d been sat down for two minutes – and I was being all ranty about the barman – when something rather wonderful happened. The barman came over to our table, all apologies.

“Excuse me,” he said to Isla. “Did I call your Sir back then?”

She replied yes, but that it was OK – it happens all the time, yadda, yadda.

But the poor lad was mortified. He apologised profusely, asked us which our preferred pronouns were and then headed back to the bar.

I was blown away! He’d gone from Public Enemy No 1 to an absolute legend in two minutes. Some of the starey people overheard what was happening and seemed pleased with what he’d done, too. They stopped staring and then Isla and I just got on with getting to know one another.

And what a wonderful afternoon it was. Sometimes you meet someone with whom you just click immediately, and this was to be one of those times.

I have some of the best cis friends ever, and they’ve all been supportive of me on my trans journey, but having a trans friend is so good because they UNDERSTAND exactly what you’re going through.

Isla and I are only a few months apart in terms of our progress through the gender clinic process – so there are sooooo many parallels between us.

Trans issues aside – and I won’t go into them, cos, personal – she’s just a really lovely person: easy to talk to, funny, tactile and chilled out.

I said several times I need to “be more Isla” with regard to bigots – to just let things go. For instance, her response when she gets stared at in public is just to give the starer a big, warm smile.

It’s genius really.

Anyway, the beer kept flowing and I got more and more happy and silly. But I stopped at four pints as I was going out last night. So we headed to the railway station, hugged goodbye and went our separate ways, firm friends.

I got home feeling a little woozy and then got changed. Off came the wig, off came the makeup, off came the frock, off came the bra, off came the tights.

And why? Because I live in a small town, which is home to some very small-minded people with small-town attitudes. I hate living this double life. I wish I could “be more Isla” and not care what people think.

But then she doesn’t have micropubs or non-league football to contend with. She doesn’t drink alcohol, and she doesn’t like the Beautiful Game. Life would be so much easier if I didn’t drink or didn’t go to matches – but that’s never gonna happen.

I’ll get to where Isla is in terms of bravery one day. But I’m not there yet. Baby steps and all that.

Anyway, there are three micropubs in my town, and the clientele is fairly blokey at all of them, especially the one I go to regularly with my pal Bob. The staff know I’m trans and are really supportive.

But it’s not them I’m worried about. It’s the blokey bloke punters – the type who prop up the bar every night, “men’s men” who probably think Trump’s a “great guy” and anyone LGBT+ is a big freak.

So I tone it down when I go there. That said, last night, I toned it down a little less than normal. So I had a T-shirt on which has a picture of a women’s bike on it, I had little red shorts on, fabulous shaved legs, girly socks with teeny frills on them and rainbow-coloured trainers.

I turned up to the pub and say hi to guy outside called Jamie. I always say he has the “biggest smile in town” – such a lovely fellow.

As I said hi, one of the blokey blokes he was talking to looked me up and down and said: “What the fuck are you wearing?!”

In the past I might have replied: “What fucking business is it of yours? You’re hardly a model of haute couture yourself are you?!”

But in the interests of being more Ilsa and not getting my head kicked in, I simply replied: “Well, T-shirt, shorts and trainers.”

I then walked into the pub and left the bigot to his own devices. Twat.

So yeah, it’s easy for cis people to say: “Ooooh, just wear what you want, be who you want, ignore the bullies!”

But it’s quite another thing when you’re on the receiving end, especially if you’re quite a sensitive soul.

I know it’s hardly the “queer-bashing” crime of the century – but these things do happen. There was a young gay guy beaten black and blue in a city near here the other day – just for being gay.

His only crime was his sexuality. Unbelievable. It makes my blood boil how all these bigots have become so empowered since Brexit and since Trump’s election. Years and years of progress undone in a heartbeat.

Anyway, a good night was had by all. At least from what I can remember. I drank my body weight in syns – before Jamie and I ordered pizza. Oops. Gonna be a gain on the scales this week!

Andie xxx

PS Don’t miss Isla’s blog, Hugs and Purple Hearts. She writes beautifully.