This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. It is a place where I can be honest and I appreciate that. Here, I splurge. No one comes out looking good. It is a selfish place written by a pretty selfish person. It is a place of ranting and I am, ultimately, an unreliable narrator. Bear that in mind. I attempt to be honest, but things are very much from my point of view.
Highly subjective views of people in my life proliferate. It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the "Story So Far" Page above. I can also heartily recommend that Dysphoria link if you're questioning or interested. Thank you!
It had many songs with a social conscious that, one could argue, was Christianity or not. No one said you had to follow Christ to do good or that following Christ prevented you from doing ill. Though I would suggest that the ill stems from failing to follow Christ rather than following Him. But I would say that: consider the source.
In my first primary school, in assembly in the actual church that was on the school site, we sang a song from Come and Praise (published in the 80s I think) with the blue cover that looked very 1970s to my young eyes and two faces that I still recall vividly to this day. It was Said Judas to Mary and I now know that it was played in a minor key and was very slow. It took longer than the usual hymns and songs we sang in assembly (mine was not a religious school, that was just how things were done) and most people I was there with hated it. But it struck a chord with me then and it continues to have a hold on my mind to this day. I never knew why. I had assumed maybe it was the use of the minor key or the fact that it was long and slow and sad.
Work happened. Things were going reasonably well following the leak. My worry that I had not done enough seemed to be wrong as the following day I came in and found that things were actually pretty good. My hard work, and that of who I was with, on the Friday had allowed the morning shift to get on and do an incredible amount. Despite being utterly shattered after finishing at 10pm and then opening at 6am the following day, Sunday, I found that we had time to do extra tasks. In my case, geekish cleaning, sorting paperwork and then branching out to paperwork I didn't have to do to see if I could get it right. I handed over to the afternoon shift pleased with what had been achieved and feeling that, maybe, I had done some good. On Monday afternoon I came in to clear chaos. With mounting horror and increasing queues I saw more and more what had not been done. There were only two of us at any one point and I began to realise, with a sinking feeling, that I was going to struggle. No matter, thought I, we can have one shift of chaos and I shall be able to leave it looking vaguely competent for the boss's return from holiday in the morning. No, she came in just two hours in to... well, chaos.
And I cannot stress strongly enough that Mary Magdalene IS NOT WHITE nor mediaeval. Here's another image that will suffice.
For many years I never sang the song again, so long that I forgot where it was in the book we continued to use and used in my new school Oop North. I found it again just before starting secondary school but then lost the title for many years. It werbled in my head a bit through my teen years, there are a couple of hints in word choices in old diaries. The central motif of the song is a conversdation, with the speakers changing. Judas focuses on the wordly support of the needy and poor, the need to help and be present; Mary focuses on the sorrow and sadness of her love of Jesus - not a romantic love, though I suspect the song-writer meant it this way, but I read it then and now as a very different set of things - Jesus is touched and allows her to do as she will with her ointment, so rich and so rare. His body He leaves with them still, whilst commending Judas's concerns - alluding that the two are actually speaking of the same thing.
Not Mary Magdalene.
Not yet anyway.
I have anonymised the faces of my Boys lest they be searched out.
After that visit I'll admit I rather fell apart. I got told off over the work chat again, whilst failing to remedy any of the chaos. My Mum turned up at a low ebb, I was frustrated, stressed and angry with myself. Things had been going well after the huge leak, I had left on Sunday with a feeling that I might actually have done good. I had gone to Abbi's and just had a beautiful evening - I introduced her to New Wave and New Romantics with a dawning realisation of what it was that I had always found intriguing about those things. I had seen a front cover of a newspaper magazine with a famous pregnant person posing on the front and finally been able to recognise that my feeling on seeing it was a sad kind of jealousy - not envy or even proper jealousy - it was a feeling of wistful longing tinged with the realisation that no, I could never feel that or know that feeling. I admitted it for the first time. It hurt to admit, hurt to embrace, hurt to even let it in a little bit. But I did it.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I'll think of the poor. Tomorrow, she said, not today. The song reminds us that as long as there are the poor and needy they shall be the body of Christ - My body will hang on the cross of this world tomorrow, he said, not today - and reminds us that, as Christians, we stand with the powerless, the poor, the oppressed or we don't stand for anything. And at no point do I read in this song and the lyrics that I continue to love any call to judge which of those that Jesus calls His body are worthy or not. At no point do I recall Jesus questioning why people needed company, healing or recognition - merely that they needed what He could give, and what He urged His followers to do as well. Jesus broke bread with prostitutes, tax collectors, those mired in sin and adulterers. He cured on the Sabbath, He rode an ass, He let Mary wash His feet with rich ointment and wipe it away with her hair. I'll pour it all over the feet of the Lord, and I'll wipe it away with my hair, she said, I'll wipe it away with my hair.
My love who is going away...
I haven't seen my eldest since the night where I messed it all up. Taking a disciplinary on the chin, losing another job? They are meaningless through this lens.
As is any success I achieve.
I went in early the following day, my Mum was still in bed, and chatted to my boss. I think, I think, it went well. My boss asked what I would have done if the discussion had been more of a disciplinary and I stood to lose my job - would I then not take all the responsibility? I responded that whether or not it was down to what I did was irrelevant to my actions, only to her judgement, I would take a sacking on the chin. I could not, I will not, blame others - even if they are to blame - because I would be dishonest to do so without knowing more. I didn't care, I said, why there was chaos, only how I should go about fixing it. Whatever had happened after I left on Sunday until I came back in wasn't my concern - that was for the people running those shifts - and though I was disappointed and upset I trusted the people with whom I work and so must assume something had happened. In the meantime, my job was to fix as much of the mess as I could. So that things could slowly return to normal. "You'd take a disciplinary rather than deal with someone who wasn't fit for a post?" I was asked, "No," I replied, "I have dealt with people in the past who couldn't do the job they had; no, in this instance that's not my call. I would take it on the chin and find out later. The most pressing and important concern is fixing the mess and making sure other people don't have to."
And as I walked in the autumn sunshine and lengthening shadows, though I grow no taller but smaller, I realised why the song resonated with me then and now. The wind blew my hair into my face, I brushed it back and I knew, with perfect clarity, that I would happily pour ointment on the feet of my Lord, earthly love or Saviour, and wipe it away with my hair. And Martha and Mary will find me again, and wash all the sorrow away, He said, and wash all the sorrow away. I identified with Mary. I always have, I always will. The outcast whom Jesus loved and who loved Jesus in return. But not romantically. There's a connection twixt them that defies any of the books I have read on it or the discussions I've had over the hyears. I have posted about it before, I rate her as the first apostle - the first to see the risen Christ. The appellation that she was a prostitute by tradition later on. She, Mary Magdalene, was an outcast who clearly sat ill with the rest of the male disciples, but who, like Mary of Bethany, sat at the feet of Jesus. Magdalene was devoted in a way that Bethany wasn't; emotional in a way that Judas couldn't understand (though I actually agree with Judas more in a rational sense - This ointment it could have been sold, and think of the blankets and think of the bread, you could buy with the silver and gold, he said, you could buy with the silver and gold) and who touched Jesus Himself.
My Youngest was over this morning, I played soldiers with him. We had a good time. And my hair is long enough to wipe someone's feet for real. The person who I took over from on Monday was ill, very ill, I couldn't expect them to have not left things undone. On Sunday the person I handed over to was demotivated and sad, tired and not in a good place. I could no less blame him for taking my jump start and doing nothing with it than I could judge that boy who heard the hymn, felt it pull and resonate but not know why. For dearer than all the poor in the world is my love who is going away, she said, my love who is going away. After a curry, my Mum and I watched the film The Duke and it was unexpectedly brilliant (I don't know why it was unexpected, Jim Broadbent is amazing). But for my hormones I would have been blubbing at several points, and as I listen to this hymn on repeat again today I find that the tears are finally pricking - I shan't cry though, my hormones have prevented it for three days so far and continue to do so. For Kempton Bunton the love was entirely for humanity - I am not me without you, you are not you without me. A beautiful film, a beautiful message if you have ears to hear it and eyes to see.
So, speak it softly, but there is maybe some good news.
See that flag there? I bought it Moscow in 2001, it has been in every classroom in which I have taught ever since. Sad to think it's likely been lifted by a student. It is literally irreplaceable.
The photo is not from where I most recently worked, this classroom no longer even exists.
I was in school today to pick my stuff up. My lovely colleagues had packaged 18 boxes(!) worth of stuff, including resources for lessons that I know are still in use (for my next teaching job). Of course, I left those, I shan't ever have another teaching job. At least, if I ever do, it'll be so far in the future that my resources would be out of date. Besides, I have all the electronic versions anyway. Missing was my 'Keep calm and stay autistic' mug and my USSR flag from Moscow - likely lifted by student souvenir hunters which is... well, par for the course, frankly. I've lost a fair amount of stuff over the years at that place, lifted by students and never the right ones that I don't mind having it.
I digress. My friend was there to supervise (I can't be more specific) and revealed that a mistake had been made: I shall be paid for the next two months. My friend had noted the mistake, ensured it was going ahead, and then ensured that the school would not be asking for the 'mistaken' pay back from me. Which they informed me of very carefully. This is why one treats everyone with respect, one never knows when it will be repaid in full. I am very grateful, of course. Sad, still, that this is how it ends, but grateful.
Yes, here.
Yesterday another friend from work met me out at a local pub and bought me beer like a proper gentleman. It felt very strange being bought drinks, let me tell you, and brought a 'sorry you're leaving' card from colleagues at work who were frustrated that no mention has been made of me there for the last five months. It was a genuine tear-jerk reading the messages in there, somehow I managed only to have to be careful and not smudge the mascara. Some days this last week I have ended up having to reapply thinking about how it's all gone and how I shan't ever be back in the classroom. No full on sobs or tears yet, still powered by examination adrenaline at the moment.
Is this the lesson I needed to learn anew? Is that what all this was about?
I didn't realise it was an SNL skit! I just thought it a figure of speech. Still, yes, the reason I have gone radio silent (apart from here, which functions as a kind of therapy I guess) is that I really don't want to be a Debbie Downer - which I know I can do.
Friends. People offering help, in small ways and big, in subtle ways and without even realising that's what they were doing. Friends gathering round, offering ears and more, and just... being friends. Hugs online, messages just checking in over WhatsApp and social media, e-mails offering the kind of things one would be too embarrassed to ask for, asking questions about the children in person, saying I looked 'beautiful' or buying me beer.
I said it was one of the big themes of the last five months, maybe I needed to really feel that again. And so I am going to try and parse all that goodwill, that genuine love, from friends and actually feel it. Most of my life I have batted it away, not in a nasty way (I hope) but trying to fade away from it all as though I didn't deserve it and couldn't rely on it: if only they knew the real me, kind of deal. Well, turns out I didn't know the real me, no one did, until very recently. I'm still learning about the real me, but my friends probably saw more hints of the real me than I did. New and old. In the past and still today.
It wasn't when I held aloft my sword and said "for the honour of Greyskull" that fabulous secrets were revealed to me, and one can quibble the definition of 'fabulous' regarding the content of those 'secrets'. Still... Not bad for image manipulation on powerpoint. I mean... It's not good either, but...
Over the last week or so I have been reading Hannah Gadsby's memoir Ten Steps to Nanette after being sent a link to an article culled from it in the Grauniad (today began with reading an article there about Scotland's Self-ID gender law being called 'bad law' by transphobic groups typified by the article as 'gender-critical groups anxious about the rights of biological women' but with the only credible evidence being supplied by the majority that support the change in Scottish law - despite the article placing the GCs front and centre and as the 'normal' from which all other views deviate - it was a fascinating insight into how language can be used and weaponised). I finally finished it in the IKEA cafe over a couple of cups of tea and a hot chocolate. It has been an emotional read. In order to avoid crying, which I did successfully, I posted on the Book of Faces and used some glib commentary.
Then, after walking home and making lunch, I watched Nanette on my Mum's Netflix account as I ate. This may have been a Bad Idea.
"Straight white men: pull your socks up. That's right, fashion advice from... a lesbian. That's your last joke from me."
For much of my life- No, up until very recently I have viewed myself as a pretty average cis heterosexual white middle-class man living in a part of the world where people like me get to be in charge. I have never been terribly comfortable with what other people I assumed were like me did with the power they accrued and, well, was aware of my privilege - for all the good that seemed to do. I was aware of the ways in which I did not fit and assumed that these were fine. After all, no one knew about them and I could mask any parts that slipped out reasonably well. My ASD diagnosis in 2017, for example, was fine - I looked mostly the same as the dominant neurotype and knowing the difference was okay. Then, of course, there was the whole gender thing - but I'd stuffed that deep down until very recently.
As a consequence I had always assumed two rather huge things:
1. The best thing I could do to promote diversity was sit down, shut up and listen to the voices of minorities. Or, if I couldn't do that, at least make an effort to amplify and shine a light on their voices and experiences. And women too - they're not a minority, they just had less power than the patriarchy.
2. I did not have any trauma.
I don't recall the date; but the exact location, on this map, is burned into my mind with such intensity that I have never been back.
The field no longer exists, thank God.
The bit everyone knows is that, at University during a game of rounders, I wigged out over the rules and stormed off. Indeed, I would often get angry and waspish with others throughout University and beyond, into my life as a teacher, which manifested without warning and often over things others could not see nor understand.
Less well-known is that the reason I stormed off in that game of rounders was my profound and total shame at why I was upset. We were playing a silly game, there were no rules. It was a stupid point and I had no right to be upset about what was happening. But I couldn't stop the anger, I couldn't control whatever the Hell the emotion was that was bubbling up and I was aware of how silly and stupid I was. In shame, with burning ears and tears, I walked two miles back to my student digs and locked myself in my room, rocking and sobbing for an hour or two. Alone. In later life I would often storm off, flounce out of online spaces, then diligently return when I had the strength to apologise or delete the worst of my typed invective. In shame. I argued with people and they had it worse than I, being white middle-class heterosexual cis male, and I had no right to get upset over the things I did the way I did. Shame. Shame. Shame.
And, of course, since last April I have had to warm up to the notion that I am not cishet. Or male. Indeed, that I actually am a minority. And I am struggling.
Because I do have trauma. About my autism and my gender. But I have internalised the notion that, as a white cishet middle-class male, my trauma is not the same as the kind of trauma others experience. I have internalised the incorrect lesson that I should not go intruding in spaces that have been carved out of the cishet white middle-class male dominated everywhere else because they were specifically created to be away from people like me. Except that I am not people like me. I never was. I am autistic, and always have been, and I am trans, and always have been.
The last written page. Sums it up nicely. Without spoilers.
So I read the memoir with baggage. And I analysed some of that on my walk home. And I made lunch. And then I watched Nanette, with my raw wounds opened a bit, and I didn't cry, but I came close. And, as I wrote this entry, my Mum rang. She's been with some of the older family members and their children - people of my grandparents' and parents' generation. Some she has told some she has not. She's coming to visit next week, not sure when, and is not yet ready to come along with me to Chams to ask questions. It's hard. Like it was for Gadsby's mother, the heart-rending admission: "I regret raising you as if you were straight when I knew, before you did, but knew the world wouldn't change for you; so I tried to keep you safe." That bit wasn't in the book, so it hit me like a sledgehammer. My Mum: "I never knew and I think about how hard it must have been for you to hide something like that, I only did it briefly with your Auntie June [it's Mum's Aunt, not mine] and I realised just how hard it must be, must have been, for you, your whole life..."
I just don't know how to speak to that. Because she's right. And I spent so long doing it and got so good at hiding things that I forgot what it was that I was hiding which is why I get confused so easily by little snippets from the past in diaries or stories.
Hmm, needs more cooking. I'm not sad, I'm not angry, I am mid-whirl and analysis.
They say an image can paint a thousand words and, well, I can get very wordy. So, in an effort to just share the happiness of today I shall post images!
On my way to Church - FaceApp decreed female. Roman label suit. I took this to check for hair on my face.
A family of Canada geese.
Hawthorn (I think) spills out from nettles and brambles by the canal.
Looking toward the railway. Old wetlands.
Yellow and white contrast with the canal.
I like the reflections captured here.
I like the framing here and the splash of red from the houseboat moored up ahead. You can just make out the white-washed cottage.
Everything is improved by framing with a bough above... Not sure about the yellow sack. The focus was supposed to be the bridge.
A selfie didn't seem appropriate, but this shadow shot will suffice. I'd changed into a skirt and t-shirt because it was warm and sunny.
No idea why this figurehead was in the trees, but I like it.
A boat putters in the distance, who knows what folkloric creatures hid at the sound of my approach?
In the dark of the shade, bees buzzed and unseen birds foraged, dinosaur like.
No walk is complete without a beer. This one is a cherry stout and raven themed. I sat in the beer garden and mused on blossom. The barman used exclusively feminine diminutives to talk to me. I kinda loved that.
I read a brace of blog posts that gave me pause. One of them full of unrestrained joy, the other more mixed, and I reflected on how different things were there to my own experience. Then I wandered to a nearby supermarket, got a cheese sandwich and wandered vaguely in the direction of another urban conurbation. From here, to the bluebells, I wondered what to say to those posts. In the meantime, I had a warm fuzzy feeling from being called 'darling', 'sweetness' and 'love' by the barman.
A house that seemed out of place. Or, perhaps, a Genius Loci had carved a space amid the encroaching urbanisation for this country house...
A shiny time-travelling car was not what I expected to see on this walk (now approximately five miles in).
Halfway and someone's garden had some nice colour contrasts. Not sure how well that shows up here: purple, red and russet.
An interesting hollow tree overgrown with ivy and contrasting sunshine. What fae lives here?
A couple of lads were filming bike jumps in the woods, they referred to me exclusively as male, which was odd. But a family were navigating some brambles and nettles on a narrow path and referred to me exclusively as female. So... no idea what's going on there. Can't say I wasn't having fun though, because I was having a lot of fun.
A carpet of unexpected bluebells in the sunshine.
Slight change of angle produces a different take. Maybe a bit more Goth? I should get me a parasol.
Final photo, some four miles from home, and a mild with vanilla pods.
Ultimately, today I tried to do rather than simply dream. I've said before I like the look of Cottagecore so, today, I made a conscious effort to capture some of that aesthetic and weave it.
It's time to keep my positive momentum going. So, with thanks (apologies?) to Ian Drury and the Blockheads and Faithless, here's another three reasons to be cheerful!
Eee hee hee, they're lavender! (and black, sure, but that's not important).
1. The first of these comes about from yesterday when I wandered out on my usual walk of a Sunday. I had an extra time with the Middlest coming up, so I went out in the morning, ish, in glorious sunshine and decided to keep going on the path by the canal for longer than I usually do. There was wildfowl, there were insects, a railway line, abandoned mill-workings, farms, fields, hedgerows, enormous houses, house-boats. It was a lovely walk. And I ended up in a place we almost lived when we moved to the part of the country in which I now reside unexpectedly. And there was an Asda. With George clothing. Now, see, the first pair of shoes I bought in feminine style ever were £5 from George on sale. As were the first ever boots. I have a soft spot for George, is what I'm saying. So I wandered in. And there was a pair of trainers for £16. Naturally I spent the money I almost certainly do not have in order to finally own a pair of shoes in the colours allowed for women (being variations on purple and pink). I cackled all the way home (no, really, I kept doing it and I had a stupid grin plastered all over my face that I think was slightly off-putting to the poor souls I passed on the way). I even wore them to collect the Middlest (along with that dress I wore for my outing [ha] to my gaming vegan cafe local favourite) and... yeah. They were my footwear of choice today too.
Not sure the contrast is clear here, but the Double Wear has more red in it.
Baked into the fabric of this blog is the struggle I have always felt to try and be compassionate. Compassionate to myself, to my children, to Tilly, to other people, to family... you get the idea. My CBT therapist said that if I was unable to be compassionate to myself then there was little hope of being truly compassionate to others - something I absolutely wanted to do and felt that I failed to do for most of my life (and, indeed, most of the time generally).
I once said I could never feel like this.
Well, I don't mind admitting that I was wrong because I have. I did. This weekend if not before. Right down to the hair. This... this is the future isn't it? The feeling, not necessarily the look.
Keep this in mind as I get into Thursday.
First of all, I was asked to talk with a colleague - don't know if I ever gave her a pseudonym - we shall call her Pauline. I've spoken about her before, new child, everything seeming hunky-dory on the relationship front, she has been interested in my, in her words, "strangely accurate and nice" takes on parenting and, especially, motherhood. Gee, wonder why? She was the one who guessed when I was 'coming out' to people at the start of the academic year. "We don't get to talk nearly enough!" she opened.
Her child, it turns out, is likely autistic and she just wanted someone who understood what that meant to talk about it. As it went on though it became apparent that she is having a hard time of things generally and, amazingly for me, that she trusted me to listen. My listening, in fact, was active enough that she not only felt heard, but validated and strengthened. Several times she remarked that I was really helping and really good at listening properly. She kept saying that we needed to talk more often, that as bad as she was feeling I was making her feel better. I'll be honest, this took me by surprise. Firstly that we had such a friendship in the first place and secondly that I was actually being told that I was compassionate. Imagine that! And, as bad as everything seems to be and have been for her recently, I'll admit that it was a really empowering(?), affirming(?) hour-long conversation for me. I mean, at the end I'll confess that I was teary eyed at what she was going through, but I also felt as though she was telling the truth when she was saying that our conversation was helpful and I felt like I had useful things to say. Second of all, there was not even a hint that there was anything other than friendship here - I wasn't being off-loaded on as one would societally expect a woman to do with a man. There's never been a hint of that, and, well, I guess now I know why but, also, it was very apparent.
Speaking of the future, here's another old image from this place that might be attainable. The suit, not the woman in it, because the woman in it would be me, not her.
On the Friday I came out to my Head of Year too. She started smiling about halfway through my explanation, "You know where I'm going, don't you?" I asked. She grinned, "Yes, but I know you need to say it." So I did. And she just gushed. I mean, it was surprising. She told me that she really valued my friendship (news to me, we're friends?!?) and that she recognised just how kind I was with her and all staff, how much she welcomed my compliments on hair and clothing over the years as she never felt that they were creepy or given with ulterior motives. She said that I should always feel free to come and discuss anything, she was so pleased that I had trusted her with this information, and she would welcome further conversations about anything - but, obviously, for me to choose when and on what. In fact, she said, she'd always considered me one of her female friends and now she had confirmation of why. Reader, I don't mind admitting, I had a bit of a lump in my throat. it wasn't until later, though, that the enormity of what had been said really filtered through. She, we shall call her Gemma, was essentially saying that I was a compassionate person and reflecting that compassion.
And, you know, this could also be the future. In a positive way.
I already felt a little like that this morning if I'm honest, and I wasn't wearing eye make-up today.
As agreed with Tilly I came out to the children. First the Middlest was with me alone. We'd attended the switch on of the Christmas lights and Eldest had got a bit anxious about the crowds (she's not slept properly for a week) so had retreated to bed at home, she was thus not with the Middlest and I. Tilly and I had also arranged for me to have the Smallest alone on Sunday, as Middlest had a club on the Saturday that I was accompanying him to after dropping Eldest off at her Saturday thing. Anyway, yes, I came out to the Middlest, who seemed largely uninterested. I made sure he understood the ramifications, he did, and then wanted to watch another youtube video together, play some Pokemon and then go to bed and snuggle - like we always do. Sure enough, in the morning he was utterly positively uninterested in me wearing a stuffed bra and with full eye make-up and far more keen on having a shower, watching a video together and then going to his club.
Coming out to the Eldest, Middlest was sat in the back of the car grinning all over his face as he realised he had been told ahead of his older sister, and she... Well, she squeed in gfangirl mode and, if she could have exploded in a bang of glitter and Pride, she would have done. Eldest had many questions, ranging from silly to serious, but all well-meaning and delivered with breathless excitement. Honestly, if she could, she would have painted my walls in the transgender flag colours. It was a positive experience.
I do love the top, to be fair.
I was wearing my cat-eye glasses most of the weekend too. These are not they.
At the club, held in my vegan gaming favourite cafe local, I mentioned to the owner, we shall call her Misty, that the Middlest now knew. "Oh that's great news!" she said, grinning from ear to ear, "I guess we'll see more of you when you bring him!" And, then, "You know, I really like your top. It really matches your complexion, skin-tone... You've chosen that well and with care. And I love the colour anyway!" Dear reader, I was unaware how starved I have been for compliments like that in person until, after saying thank you and turning away, I realised that I had to collect myself and got more than a little bit teary again. I'm not even on hormones or anything, I've apparently just been this emotional.
Evening with the Eldest was spent watching One Topic on YouTube - worth a look if you like memes - and dealing with her questions. "So, can I technically have two Mummies now?" Alas, no, I shall always be her Daddy, no one said they had to be male "Aw" and "Wait, you're on Team Girl now! Make the requisite sacrifice of a mean bigot online, special two-for-one offer to get in the Council; we meet on Thursdays!" to "Are you wearing a bra? You are? Cool! I knew I'd seen it, it's like a girl superpower. Oh! You'll have those too!" and "Yes, I'm nervous about it all, but I'm also really excited! No, don't hold back, it's hard to wrap my head around but I'll get there and it's easier if you do it... all at once, so I can get used to it." She's only thirteen. Again, hugely affirming. This morning was more of that, all positive, and then it was the Smallest. I remained dressed, stuffed bra, and he just wanted me to play cars and watch snow with him and sit by his side whilst he played a computer game. Oh, and mash cars into the stuffed bra as "that's what I do with Mummy's milks! Oh, Daddy is like Mummy but with duz rather than muz, I can read that now, Daddy!"
Why have realistic transition goals when I can imagine myself like this in the classroom. Only not teaching integration, because... well, no.
Also on Saturday evening, dropping off the Middlest, Tilly had a conversation with me in the doorway. She had a friend over, going through some stuff, and had been supporting another friend whose partner had recently died (they'd been living together for fifteen years, but he had two ex-wives who were unaware of Tilly's friend until she had to organise the funeral, and Tilly's friend's parents didn't know about the relationship until about an hour before he died) and had had a glass of wine. She was slurring, upset, and then... splurged. It was like the conversation with Pauline again, but less warmth I guess - all mixed up about how she should have told me to 'fuck off' and how, three weeks after she had tried to split up with me, I'd set an ultimatum for her to decide what she wanted from our relationship as she caught a bus home - I don't recall this, but I'm sure it happened. How she had always felt lonely and now she knew why because she wasn't a lesbian. Thus we had wasted the last fifteen years. Yes, my top did look lovely, was it from Gap? It was the sort of top that she loved to wear. Was that why I wore it and was I offended by the fact that she had similar clothes? No. Also, yes, of course I had felt teary after a compliment, because she had never given any and now she knew why, because she wasn't a lesbian and she had been mean, a dick, cruel even.
Another image once used tngue-in-cheek but, now, increasingly within reach.
But so had I. I was shit, all that time, because I was miserable and unhappy and not myself. I had been shit because of her, because she wasn't a lesbian. And now... now here was I living my best life, supporting friends and even her and she was trapped and lonely and stressed and sad, keeping it together for everyone else but struggling. The kids were doomed, they would never be able to look after themselves and she couldn't keep supporting them forever. I did pitch in here, as I don't agree with this assessment of our children: our children are much better than this conversation was suggesting, far more mature, and perfectly fine with being independent in ways that the vast majority of students I teach are incapable of being (or, perhaps better put, seemingly incapable of being). Whatever else I think of Tilly, she is primarily responsible for how good our children are at being fully functional human beings who are keen to help and keyed in to how people are feeling in a positive and compassionate way.
I honestly find myself thanking Him Upstairs a fair amount these days. Will I be dressed more like this the next time I'm in church?
C'est possible.
Tilly now had to face up to the fact that most of what she was doing was for a dopamine hit and had been an attempt to just avoid me and the problems in the relationship. Now we were apart, she had to face up to what she actually wanted and she'd never had to do that before, hiding behind just doing things to avoid being alone with me. She missed my parents, her family was shit at support - she always ended up supporting them - and she always felt that my parents were able to support her. She had deliberately stepped back when we split, they were for me, and now she regretted that because she missed being able to talk to them. To talk to actual parents as a child. Hell, I was even making her feel awful now because I was being so nice and accommodating when she was being entirely unreasonable. Besides, my hair looked good and I looked so happy these days and she had never been good enough because she wasn't a bloody lesbian.
It was a rough hour's conversation, but also... affirming and empowering again, maybe? I felt more or less positive anyway, even if I was a tad irritated that I'd had to leave the Eldest alone for longer than I would have liked. She, by the way, was fine - having had time to empty her bag of litter (as directed when I left) and find some things she thought she'd lost in there and read loads of memes about Pride and K-Pop (her two favourite things).
And so, after that mammoth text-dump, that's been the weekend. And, you know what, like Abigail Thorn said of herself: "I ask myself: do I feel like a man or a woman? Mostly, I just feel... happy."
Work is over: hurrah! Somehow I have survived since starting on this particular trough and I've made it to the other end where there is nothing pressing to do and I have had two free-ish days. I have drunk a lot of beer and I have pootled in the heat. I have finished my marking (yes, I marked enough to cover a lost contract when I got chucked off one contract for not being on standard). Okay, yeah, that needs some unpacking but now is not the time nor the place. Suffice it to say that I have survived and we have enough money for the year ahead. And, you know, a little bit extra. Which is nice.
I am indebted to a friend for this link which is awesome.
Whilst still at work, earlier on, I was asked to take part in a series of lessons that a retired teacher runs to, well, get Year 12 students discussing stuff. There is no curriculum as such, no exam, no real aim: just a series of lessons that asks difficult questions and occasionally provides answers. But there is also time and encouragement for students to take the lead and request stuff. This year I was requested to do Desert Island Discs, so of course I did because I have a monstrous ego and need to be validated.
Now, the list I chose for the lesson was not great. I agonised over it for a good month and was still playing with it (to the point of dropping two songs and bringing in two more on the fly) until the last minute. However, they were carefully curated and you may not be surprised by any of the choices. I shall share the list I shared then here today and then, maybe, share some other ones in a future post as I worked through the sort of things that I could have shared had it not been in the context of a school. As I'm sure is clear, there are parts of me that I am not thinking are particularly good ideas to share in normal conversation just yet. That sort of thing will be left to future generations, one hopes.
So, in the meantime, here's the list:
1. It's a Sin - Pet Shop Boys
I wanted to have at least one by the Pet Shop Boys, obviously, I am a big fangirl. And, also, it offered windows of opportunity to drop subtle hints. I initially wondered about using Why Don't We Live Together because of the amazing lyric "the woman in me shouts out / the man in me just smiles" but figured that the song was a bit long just for that line. Instead I went with the far less subtle It's a Sin because it was one of the earliest songs of their's that I liked (well, 1987, close enough) and it became very much the soundtrack to my internal monologue. I was dimly aware that it had to do with sexuality (it's about Tennant's homosexuality at his Catholic school) but mainly it summed up my own thoughts about, well, me. I wasn't homosexual but the idea that everything I did, do and will do being wrong was something that resonated. I didn't put it quite like that in the lesson, and the questions, it turned out, were pre-ordained and not connected to the songs I had - I think I threw the guy running the show.
Anyway, yes, this song heavily influenced my early years and informed my outlook on life as well as my own thoughts about my own choices. Because of course it did. From the classical chord changes and the clever lyrics to the use of synthesisers and aspects of UK life that don't translate that well elsewhere (not least Manchester-Blackpool area, putting me firmly in that part of the 80s that was inhabited by these people) it's not hard to see how this influenced my... everything. I wanted to use it as a springboard to talk about the musical, Closer to Heaven, and how the song twixt Straight Dave and Lee made me cry on the way into work that morning or the significance of You Choose making me cry in 2005, but I didn't.
2. It's Grim Up North - the KLF/the Justified Ancients of Muu-Muu/the JAMMs
This one was because I discovered it in 1992 and thought it was amazing. The video is pretty cool (the M62, in case you're wondering) and I love the way it works even though it totally shouldn't have the effect that it does. There's just something about the way the listing of towns and cities in the north is evocative and poetic even though it's just some Scottish bloke reeling off place names at a leisurely cadence. Then there's the build and the fact that it ends with Jerusalem and manages to really bring home the Dark Satanic Mills part of the anthem rather than the idea of building Jerusalem in Britain. By the bye, every question in Jerusalem can be answered with an emphatic 'no' in case you're wondering.
My interlocutor pointed out that the singer had never been to Yorkshire as he pronounced the 'h' in Harrogate and Huddersfield (though, to be fair, so do residents of either place if not the rest of Yorkshire) and that allowed him to segue into questions based on the fact that I was from Lancashire. I would have rather spoken about the sue of crows in the sound and the fact that the KLF burned £1m to prove a point (made on the end of their first album where a bonus track talked of burning GIROs) but it simply wasn't to be. I do an assembly/lesson on greed that ended with me burning money based on what these guys did and I've been doing that since about 2006. I'd've done it earlier but I didn't have my Thatcher scheme of work even vaguely planned until 2006 and that's when it became relevant. This song and an assembly by my History teacher about smoking (he burned £20) were the twin inspirations for that.
3. Jesus Freak - dctalk
I am sorry but I am not even vaguely embarrassed about this one. At the time I had been introduced to dctalk as being controversial in the USA and, honestly, I can see why they were. On both sides of the Christian divide. However, back then, I didn't see it. I fell in love with this track significantly later than the recording of it, sometime around 2001, and didn't own a copy until 2009 and Tilly buying me the tenth anniversary of the album. It stood in on the day for the whole of CCM (Contemporary Christian Music) and thus was supposed to offer a gateway to chat about my faith and journey at University. It didn't go that way because no one was prepared for this one. However, it also offers me a chance to talk now about it. I think I have spoken extensively of my faith before, so that need not detain us here, but one aspect I have not spoken of.
At University the second time I went into it hard, as I do most things, and decided to be a better human being. Part of this was my own meanderings about masturbation. Now, I don't hold with the 'self-harm' bollocks and was merely looking at it from an addiction point of view. I read a series of thoughts who all went to the same nub of the issue - if it controls you rather than the other way around then it is unhealthy. So, I tried to prove that it was not controlling me. I did this, initially, by not wanking except on Fridays (no shit, for real). Then I decided that wasn't enough control. I went 8 months in one go without wanking in 2001 and then settled on about once a month between 2002 and 2004. I went back to once a week with Toby, then went back to once a month for the year between Toby and Tilly. When with Tilly it was relegated to 'after I saw her' and now we're back up to once or twice a day.
Point is, there was, and is, a part of me that really likes these songs. They bring back a time in my life when I genuinely felt in control of things despite firmly giving up said order and control to My Favourite Imaginary Friend Who I Believe Is Not Imaginary And Created The Universe. In these dark days, feeling decidedly out of control in my life, they form an attractive contrast. As it was, we talked about Cliff Richard and how CCM was, for a time, at the cutting edge of the music scene. Because it was. I couldn't find my copy of Ha . Le . Lu . Jah by thebandwithnoname and it turns out that youtube simply doesn't have it, so I can't even share it here. If you do get a chance to have a listen, even if you don't believe, do - it's worth it for the styles of music alone.
4. Motorway to Damascus - The Divine Comedy
This was the B-side to a single my brother picked up called The Frog Princess - a bitter diatribe of a comedy song that was really quite nice. I think he'd been through a bit of a break up and that spoke to him. I stole it, it was a tape single, one night and fell in love with the b-side instead. I recorded it and now it's one of my staples. To me it summed up that whole environmental message that had been burned through the 1980s and was actually making a difference in the 1990s. I learned the lyrics and fancied myself capable of singing them on the way to school in Sixth Form (along with Let Me Entertain You by Robbie Williams in case you're wondering). It became something of a mantra. In the lesson it became a chance to talk about owning an electric car, something the retired teacher was and is interested in, but I wanted to talk about the power of music in activism and subversion in, well, everything. It was a bit of a tough choice between this and The Beloved Sweet Harmony to be honest but the latter's video and lyrics do rather lend themselves to something a tad more sexual - which I never realised until I was much older.
Whatever, the point is that the song scratches my surface and hints at my world-saving complex that still occasionally shines through like the shiny dog-turd that I have become. Mainly it's bollocks and we're all doomed, which is fine, but the song talks about a time afterward. "When the silhouetted ruins / of the crumbling cooling towers / are but / ivy-clad reminders / of a long forgotten power. / Must the monkeys leave Gibraltar's rock / and ravens flee the tower / before we'll look / and see ourselves / for what we really are?" Why, yes, Mr Hannon, yes indeed. Also, I have part of a half-baked novel predicated on this song. Obviously it's an alternate universe with a Socialist Republican Britain and a world-ending environmental apocalypse because of course it is. Incoherence! It's why I stopped writing. No, really, that plot-line is literally the reason I stopped.
5. Come Undone - Duran Duran
I had Liza Minelli here with something from Results as it was written and produced by the Pet Shop Boys and has amazing tracks that summed up the time before my Dad left. I was going to use it to sum up teacher training and being married and all that guff. At the last minute I dropped it and replaced it with this. Mainly for the video but also the words. I hear tell that the song is supposed to be a birthday gift to Simon LeBon's wife and that is probably true. I hear pain and sadness. I hear depression and being unable to show who you are inside and how that eats you up. In the lesson not much was said about this, it came so far out of left field and was so unknown to the teacher in charge that it was virtually ignored. It is from Duran Duran after they were famous in the doldrums of the 1990s. It is, to me, the song of longing. I was listening to it the first time I broke up with Toby as I drove home and it made me stop the car to cry. It still makes me cry.
Not because of a break up with Toby. No. Because of all the things inside that never get to come out. Because of all the things that I didn't have words to explain at the time, like Genderqueer or ASD, and all the things I still can't adequately explain because the words do not yet exist. I briefly mentioned the crying thing in the lesson, probably part of the reason we moved on so quickly, but I have to say the video helps. I'm sure you can see at least one reason why but also the drowning woman. For want of a better metaphor, that'll do for now. It might take a little crying but it does rather work in coming up for air. This was supposed to be the penultimate song but we ran out of time on the day so my sixth choice (again, I was in two minds) was never shared.
6. Girls and Boys - Blur
As it never happened in the lesson, I get to finish things tonight with a choice I knowingly didn't share and did not include. Now, obviously, this is because of the songs connections to cross-dressing and transsexualism and all that jazz. However, for me, it's mainly due to the fact it was the song I chose one night in my third year at University to play with friends in a bar. Kirsten, for twas she, took me to one side and asked me if I were a cross-dresser because if I were that would be okay and they would all support me in my choice. She claimed that it was simply the choice of song that had tipped her off and that it was only that. I stammered, stuttered and said very little of anything. In effect, I closed it down despite laying clues to that effect for the best part of two years by that point. This song, therefore, became imbued with what might have been - if only I had admitted it and accepted the support on offer. I can only guess at what may have been able to happen.
A double reason for this song then: it's central message and the longing for going back and fixing my own mistakes. And this one was unforced and egregious. I certainly wouldn't be where I am today had I done things differently the first time I played this in public and that may or may not have been better. Who knows, eh? I like to think that things would be better.
If you've read this far, well done! I hope I didn't bore you too much. I mean, if I did, what the hey, you chose to read this far and so I shan't apologise, it serves no purpose. Oh, and yeah, that chastity device I said I would never buy? Well, I kinda did with some money left over from the extra marking I did. It's here. I shall be honest and say I am looking forward to trying it out because then I can dial back on the wanking a bit (I'm slightly perturbed by the frequency) and maybe even enjoy the fact that there's no sex on the horizon or beyond. It's due later this week sometime. I'm torn on whether or not it's exploitative of Tilly and her lack of needs in this direction but, ultimately, I'm feeling horrendously selfish and a bit of a dick, so I shall embrace it and double down. Why the fuck not. The world is going to Hell and I figured I may as well get there first.
