Vivienne at large!

In the last few weeks my desire to express Vivienne has risen enormously, culminating in a series of public outings over the last couple of weeks, which have been unbelievably successful and affirming.

Having Vivienne time isn't easy. We both have full-time jobs, and between us we have a bunch of kids that have all sorts of things on: school, sports, music, social lives, you name it. However, there has been a series of days where I have managed to get some completely free time. It was time--it was past time--for Vivienne to get out and about.

My partner Missy could see that I had been getting cranky because I was feeling increasingly feminine, but had no opportunities to express it. So she asked me what I wanted to do. The top item on the bucket list was to go dressed to the cinema, so that's what we did.

Please turn your phone to silent.

There were a few matinees which I wanted to see. Normally I like thrilling action-adventure blockbusters--but as Vivienne, I feel much more comfortable to watch more emotional, dramatic or historical films, and in my town there is a cinema which specialises in arty-type films. We settled on a historical costume drama, which had no lightsabres or giant robots to be seen anywhere.

Missy helped me to pick out an outfit which would work. My tendency is to do more. More makeup! More nails! More shoes! She suggested that I tone it down to an outfit which a woman would actually wear, and she had a really good point. I've pointed out before how I tend to become voracious when dressing after a drought.

I am naturally aiming for a compromise with both my outfit and makeup. In one direction, there is too much, and I look like a clown, or a bad drag queen, or a caricature of a woman. In the other direction, there is too little, and I look like a man. Somewhere in the middle is a sweet spot, where I can look, if not exactly like a woman, at least like someone who is trying to make a go of looking like one. Previously I only had my own frame of reference to guide my choices; now I have Missy's sensible viewpoint.

Day One

I felt completely comfortable until we got to the mall and I got out of the car. Suddenly I was aware that everyone's eyes would be on me. This wasn't a frightening sensation, but probably the sensation that the meerkat has when out on the Kalahari desert. We walked into the cinema. Missy ordered the tickets, and I stood behind. The attendant (a woman) spotted my nails, and said they were lovely. I was taken aback by this sudden compliment, having been out for a total of about ten minutes. "Thank you!" I responded. Then she looked at me, having not really looked at me at all. She must have clocked my man-voice, and I braced myself for some sign of discomfort, but there was none. (Missy chided me jokingly for my deep manly voice, but I don't have a fem voice, and I was totally unprepared!)

We made our way into the cinema, which of course was dark and quiet. We got the luxury seats and watched the film. I couldn't believe how lovely it felt. I wanted to pinch myself. None of the other people paid us the slightest attention, though I felt as if I had a huge flashing neon sign above my head.

I came out of the cinema floating on air. This is the sensation some people call the pink fog; others gender euphoria. I drank it all in. I wanted to absorb as much of it as I possibly could.

Still getting used to the handbag thing.

Missy had an appointment for about an hour. I could retreat home, or I could go to a cafe and wait for her. Cafe of course! This meant two new things: going somewhere on my own (already!) and also visiting the ladies' room. But I felt pretty comfortable and pretty confident, and I walked into the cafe. The ladies' room was near the entrance, so I went straight in. It was empty, so I just used a stall, straightened up my clothing, checked my makeup, and came out. I took a table, ordered a drink, and sat looking out of the window, unable to believe this was actually happening. My interactions with the wait staff (male and female) were pleasant and ordinary; again they must have clocked me instantly, but they seemed completely comfortable with me for a customer. When Missy came back to pick me up I was still happy and floaty, and this feeling lasted for the rest of the day and into the evening.

Day Two

The following day, Missy was at work. I had the option to dress again--or I could do ordinary stuff (as if!). I decided to dress and go out on my own. I wore the same outfit as I had before, and I went back to the same mall. It was much more crowded than the day before!

I was so nervous at first that I decided to just stroll around. I was extremely self-conscious! There were so many things to remember, including a whole new way to walk and carry myself. I had, of course, been practising, but it's one thing to practise when there is nobody looking, and it's a different kettle of fish if you feel like everyone is looking at you!

At first I jumped at every noise. As I passed a sports store, I heard a burst of male laughter from within. At the time I was sure it was directed at me, but in retrospect, there is no reason at all to think it was. I began to look up and take notice of the people around me more. A woman coming the other way caught my eye, and smiled. I smiled back. Was it because she clocked me, and was being reassuring? Or was it because women sometimes smile at one another when they make brief eye contact in the mall? I was especially fearful of large, muscular men. I fear that, of all people, they are the ones who would express their discomfort most vocally.

I braced myself for strange looks; for weird expressions; for expressions of distaste. Nothing. Nothing at all. Nobody seemed to pay me the slightest notice. Was that, I wonder now, because they were silently sniggering and pointing behind my back? Maybe. Or maybe I just didn't stand out enough for people to notice me (and I am sure most people are wrapped in their own business, so that if you mostly blend in, you become effectively invisible). Or maybe (and here's the kicker) they did actually notice, and clock me, but were not bothered in the slightest?

Hot as any Hottentot?

My self-imposed task was to buy sunglasses for Vivienne. The weather has been bright and sunny lately. I could hardly buy sunglasses for Vivienne in male mode ("Do you think these would look good on me if I was wearing a wig and a frock?"). And sunglasses add a layer of disguise.

I went into the sunglasses shop, and approached the counter. The assistant, a young woman, said "Can I help you?" I smiled and said "Yes, I'm looking for sunglasses to go with this look," and indicated myself. She didn't seem fazed in the slightest, but asked me how much I wanted to spend, and then showed me lots and lots of frames, several of which I tried on.

Every time--every time--I looked in the mirror, it was a surprise to see Vivienne's face looking back out at me. The assistant was lovely. I told her I wanted large round lenses, but she suggested a few alternate frames. Some of them didn't work at all, but some of them looked really good. Eventually, I settled on a pair, and bought them. She asked me if I had shopped there before, and I laughed and said "Yes, but I didn't look like this!" and she laughed too.

When it came time to pay for my parking ticket, the attendant smiled and asked if I was having a nice day, and I said "Yes, it's lovely, thanks!"

In the afternoon I went for a long stroll round the park. With my sunglasses on, nobody looked at me at all, and I seemed to blend right in. I went into the little cafe next to the park and ordered a drink, and sat writing my journal with my lovely fountain pen and its lovely sparkly ink. Other patrons came and went, and nobody seemed in the least troubled. I once wrote in this blog I considered this simple activity to be pie in the proverbial sky, and here I was, doing it and loving every moment.

Reflections

You would think that no human being could stand this amount of pink fog, and perhaps you would be right. There is a definite sense in which Vivienne time seems to stand apart from ordinary time; no work, no commitments, no obligations. It's probably the same sense of "getting away from it all" that some men enjoy when golfing or fishing--but surely it's much more pleasurable than either of those activities? In any case, after a couple of days, I had to come back down to Earth.

But my reflections are these. First, going out as Vivienne seems to be OK. That is, nobody seems offended or horrified. The people of my town seem very tolerant, which is extraordinarily gratifying to me. Why should this come as a surprise? Perhaps because I've had about 20 years of being told how disgusting crossdressing is (by my ex-wife), and though I knew that her view was very skewed, some of it had inevitably sunk in. To discover that it isn't right; that people are apparently totally fine with it, has come as a revelation, and a delightful one. My biggest goal, in all of this, is simply acceptance, as I have written before.

Second, I think for me, the key is to not pretend to be a woman: I shall surely fall short. Instead, I can simply be myself, and let people make of me what they will. The woman in the sunglasses shop didn't seem remotely uncomfortable with my attitude or presentation. I am hopeful that with time and practice the anxiety will fade and the pleasure and comfort will grow, but even if it doesn't, where I am right now is fabulous.

So far, everything has been completely wonderful. I fear that there may yet be an event, which in my mind I am calling The Puncture, where I have a truly unpleasant encounter with someone, or some other experience which really puts me off going out like this. The reason I think such a thing will happen is that a part of me thinks that moments of bliss must be balanced out somehow, for the universe to keep turning. But the reason I think it might not, is that very few people (and I've read a lot of stories) mention events like this.

In any case, for each time I go out, and meet smiles and acceptance, it adds to the store of goodwill and optimism in the bank. As these experiences accumulate, it will become harder and harder to demolish the pile, and easier and easier to accept that an occasional uncomfortable encounter represents the exception, not the norm.

The End of Days

This is a post which I have been dreading to write for a very long time: the one where I talk about the end of my marriage.

Despite my very best efforts, my marriage has ended. And the ultimate reason is my cross-dressing. I guess by posting this I can both help myself to go through the necessary grieving process, and also help other people out there who might be contemplating similar problems.

What it feels like when your marriage is ending

My wife and I met in continental Europe in the early nineties. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was living in another country, and spoke several languages. She was artistic and adventurous, where I was scholarly and conventional. We were both students at the time, and we were both seeing someone else. But there was definite chemistry. In the days before the Internet, we wrote long letters to one another. By a series of very unlikely steps, we saw each other again. I graduated, took a job, and in my first holiday, I went to visit her. By this time, she was living in the US, and we were both single.

I persuaded her to come to the UK, which she did, and we immediately moved in together. We married in the late nineties. My family adored her. My uncle (an academic) praised how clever she was. My grandfather said she was the most beautiful bride to walk down the aisle of our local church. Many people have, over many years, complimented me on how lucky I was to be married to someone like her.

I knew all along, of course, that my gender was not completely congruent with my apparent identity. I have known this ever since I can remember. I can remember wanting a pink blanket in kindergarten and being told I had to have a blue one. But I did not tell my wife any of these things.

Grotesque: Corporal Klinger

Partly I did not tell her because of shame: I was in my mid-twenties, and I knew next to nothing about my gender. Wherever I looked, crossdressers were figures of scorn, of ridicule. They seemed grotesque, repulsive. A great example would be Corporal Klinger, the MASH character who is trying to convince everyone he is crazy by dressing as a woman, so they will throw him out of the Army (har-har, what a wheeze). My internal identity was completely different to that. She already had a name in my mind. I pictured Vivienne as being like a wild animal, trapped and roaring in an unbreakable cage. Although I didn't quite know who Vivienne was, I knew that she and Klinger had nothing in common.

The other reason I didn't tell my wife was that I believed that being married to her would cure me. My trans feelings largely disappeared when I was with her, and I believed that I could choose to put crossdressing aside permanently. ("When I became a man, I put away childish things"). This was (I now realise) a very naïve belief, but nonetheless a fervent one. I was trying very hard not to be trans.

Of course it didn't last. About three years into the marriage, I broke down in tears, and told her my secret: that sometimes I like to dress in women's clothing. She was utterly shocked and horrified. That was the inflection point, the point which marked the start of the downward slope which has led to the end of the marriage.

At first things didn't really change. I purged. That didn't last. In all fairness, my wife tried to have a look at crossdressing, and see what it's about. One time we even went to a transvestite ball (I was in male mode) and she spoke to the other people to hear their stories. She was fascinated, sympathetic, charming. She made a very powerful impression on the people there. But as we came out, it was as if the door slammed. We got in the car to drive home. She didn't want to talk about it; didn't want to acknowledge it. Sitting in the darkness, I realised that she was probably shocked, digesting the implications of all of this. But she would come around. In a few days, we would be able to talk about it. But we never have; not one word from that day to this.

Never mentioned: crossdressing

And then there was the Dolly incident. My wife went to Manchester with her friend for a girly weekend. Unknown to them, their hotel was hosting an extravagant transvestite event in the ballroom. It was big, brash, loud and undeniable. My wife and her friend, both very attractive women, were cajoled to join the fun, and they did: laughing and dancing the night away with glamorous trannies. The following day, they got talking at breakfast to a few of them, and my wife said she was amazed by how normal they seemed: ordinary, pleasant guys. One of them, "Dolly", gave my wife his website details. She checked his website a day or so after coming home (without telling me) and was horrified to see pictures of him pouting in lingerie with his penis on display.

This one individual didn't intend to harm me, but did so very severely. What was he thinking? That she would be aroused? That she would think it was cool? Instead, she formed the very solid (and hard to dislodge) impression, that crossdressers, even the nice ones, even the "normal" ones, are not just after glamorous frocks, drinking and dancing, but are perverts behind closed doors. Thanks, Dolly.

It took me a while to realise how my wife has the ability to compartmentalise things in her life. It is as if she can take the idea of Vivienne, and all the trappings, all the accoutrements, and put them in a box, which is never acknowledged, never opened.

My wife came from a non-Western culture, where the behaviour of both men and women is rigidly proscribed. Even though she has lived in the West for decades, there are certain things which, to her, were not negotiable, and one of those things was that her husband mustn't wear a frock. It was even OK for other people to do that, as long as it wasn't her husband. She expected an alpha-male: indestructible, unshakeable, always in control. Never uncertain. Never vulnerable. Never tearful. Such a man would make her feel safe. That seems not wholly unreasonable, but there are two problems with it. The first is that I am not that man. I am not him today, and I have never been him. The second problem is that such a man doesn't actually exist.

Trapped: Vivienne

So she put Vivienne into that box, sealed the lid tightly, and pretended that Vivienne didn't exist. But it seemed that the harder my wife tried to suppress Vivienne, the harder Vivienne demanded to be expressed, to be heard, to be acknowledged. I searched for ways to explore Vivienne's identity without threatening my marriage. I joined the Beaumont Society, in the hope of opening a dialogue with like-minded people, but (as I say in my article) that didn't help much. I explored dressing, and had one or two makeovers. Eventually I started this blog.

What I wanted, most of all (and still do, I suppose) was simply acceptance. I wanted to be able to express this tender, vulnerable side of myself to the person who mattered most to me in the world. Vivienne wasn't just about the clothing; she was about the roles and expectations placed upon me because I happened to be born a boy. I wanted to have conversations with my wife about it, not strangers on the Internet. I wanted to dress at home, not in makeover shops in other cities. I wanted to be accepted for who I am, not for who she (and in fairness, everyone else during my upbringing) told me I ought to be. I wanted to enjoy being myself, being whole.

Instead, she insisted that this side of me was disgusting, unbearable. It must never be spoken of, never acknowledged, never accepted, never tolerated. But gradually that disgust, that poison, began to leak out of the box. It began to be aimed at aspects of me which were not associated with Vivienne. My wife began to gradually shut me out, to express John Gottman's Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: the evocative name he gave to the behaviours which start to appear when the death-knell of a relationship is ringing loud and clear. We were four for four. And it was utter agony for me.

It didn't matter that I put rigid boundaries around my dressing. Four episodes a year, or less, and always, always in complete secrecy. We could not go shopping to a department store without her fearing that I was looking at the female mannequins and picturing myself in their clothing. She came to view Vivienne as the other woman, the one who came first in my affections.

It didn't matter that the other aspects of our lives were good: I had a good job and provided a good standard of living; we lived in a lovely house and had lovely kids and lovely friends. I didn't have any other obnoxious habits: gambling, drinking, drugs. That was all outweighed by the fact that I was not the alpha male that she thought she married.

Corrosive to relationships: fear

I see now that she was motivated by fear. Fear that I was going to start having sex with men. For the record, this was never my plan, and still isn't. Fear that I was going to start taking hormones and having surgery. Again, this was never the plan, and it still isn't. Fear that I was going to completely come out, and start showing up at the school parents' evening in a skirt and heels, where I would be a figure of contempt and ridicule (no matter how polite they might be to my face), and a cause for the kids to be mocked or bullied. Fear that other people would look down upon her: what on Earth possessed you to marry that freak?

The antidote to fear is communication, and this was another sticking point: she just would not communicate. The prospect, the existence of Vivienne, was so terrifying, so repugnant to her, that she could not have an ordinary conversation about it. I would talk, and she would not listen. I would listen, and she would not talk. It wasn't just that she didn't talk to me. She didn't talk to anyone: didn't confide in a close friend. Her fears were grinding around inside her, destroying her on the inside. On the outside, she began to shun me openly. The intimacy dried up years ago. To describe what happened, I can't do better than the words of Yoda:

"Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering".

But we still pretended, to the outside world, that everything was fine. For myself, I did everything I possibly could to keep the show on the road. I moved us here to New Zealand. But coming here permanently, we brought Vivienne, and all the other problems, right along with us.

Fabulous but unworn: shoes

In among all the agony were glimpses of hope. Just occasionally, she would buy me girly gifts, such as this pair of fabulous wedge heels. As soon as I opened the box, I was excited and I wanted to try them on. But the look of disgust on her face, as I did so, made me instantly take them off, and I have never worn them since. I think she was really trying to make it work. But in one sense, these glimpses of hope (she bought me the shoes; she must hope I liked them) were actually worse than nothing at all, because the false hope, and the let-down afterward, were especially difficult to bear.

I started to take antidepressants. They were not a solution, but they helped me cope with the daily grinding agony of my life. I am still on them. And I took us to counselling. Good counselling, with a highly-recommended professional psychologist, who saw us for two years, together and separately. But even with his help, we were unable to negotiate, to compromise. My intake of alcohol and comfort food jumped sharply upwards.

In order to illustrate my despair and agony at my situation, I often used the phrase burning to death to describe how I was feeling. I was trying to show how desperately miserable I was in my life: I was desperate to change, to move, to get out of where I was. But, in a very real way, I was also being consumed. Each time we had an argument; each time she stonewalled my feelings, I lost a bit more energy, a bit more commitment. I knew I could not hold on much longer. I knew that one day, the last bit of energy would be gone, and the marriage would be dead.

It didn't matter. My wife was unable to change. And I don't mean this harshly. I realise now that, whether she chose to or not, she could not change her feelings. As for me, I had played my last card. I had nothing left to offer.

I remember the exact moment I realised that the marriage was over. For years, there had been two paths in front of me: the path to stay and try to fix things (which was painful, and exhausting) and the path to leave and start again (which was painful, and exhausting). But always, when I looked at those two paths, the path to leave always seemed the more painful. But one day, the see-saw just tipped the other way, and it has never tipped back. I realised, with sudden clarity: I was never going to be happy if I stayed in this marriage. The realisation was terrible but inescapable.

I can't heeeeeear you!

When I told my wife it was over, she was astonished. Where did this come from? she wanted to know. Didn't you hear me when I said I was burning to death? I replied. But it turns out she didn't get it: she couldn't grasp it. She had denied it, pushed it away, in the same way she did with Vivienne: it's too painful to contemplate, so I will pretend it doesn't exist.

Since then, her anger has gone from being red hot to being blue hot, like a blowtorch. The thing she feared most, that her husband would leave, has come to pass. She cannot--yet--accept that she helped to bring this about. She cannot accept one iota of responsibility for what happened. It's all my fault; that's her truth. And it's OK.

I have called this post The End of Days, because it really feels like that from my point of view. I am losing my lovely home, and I now live in a small rental house. I will get shared custody of my children. That cosy image I once had, of having a nice job, a nice wife, a nice house, and nice kids, and being happy, has turned out to be an empty dream. And unfortunately that dream ends here.

This blog has been profoundly healing for me in so many ways. It has helped me to crystallise my feelings about myself, and my gender, and my identity. Although it's long, this article is only a drop in the bucket compared to thirty-odd volumes of hand-written journals. That banner at the top of the screen? That's one of my journals, and one of my collection of fountain pens. I write every day, when I get the chance, and I have used those journals to explore every possible avenue, every possible way, to keep the marriage on the road, to keep myself sane until the kids got a bit older, to conceptualise my wife's behaviour in different, more manageable ways. I know I am leaving this marriage having tried my absolute best to save it, using every resource I possess.

I also offer these experiences to you, my readers, in case some of you are in a similar position, and these insights help to crystallise your position.

I know that all is not lost; that there will be a new chapter in my life soon. But I don't know what it will look like, and that uncertainty is a fresh kind of agony for me. Where will I live? What will I look like? What will I wear? What will happen to the kids? What will happen to my wife? What role will Vivienne play in my life? I have no answers to any of this, and discussion will need to wait for another day, and another blog post. Meanwhile, let's close the book.

===
Addendum

Katie Robbins wrote a powerful and thought-provoking article, with a similar theme, which you can read here. And hers is a lot shorter!

Faking It - Part Two

It's taken me a while to come round to writing the second part of this article. You can read the first one (written in March 2015) here. Now that I read that article again, I am amazed to realise how far my journey has come.

Much as I adore Freakonomics Radio, that wasn't where I first heard the idea of Faking It. Instead, it was a British TV show which premiered in the year 2000. The premise was simple: they would take an unlikely ordinary person, have them intensively transformed and coached by a team of experts in a particular field--for a short time--then the contestant (known as the "faker") would have to perform in front of a panel of judges (who know they are looking to spot a fake), to see if they could pass.

Title card for the show

As one example, take the very first episode. Alex Geikie, a gentrified English youth from the Home Counties of England, who liked to ride horses, had to pass as a hard-man bouncer in an East London pub. He was coached by Tony Agastini, a kick-boxing champion. Alex shaved off his hair, gradually ditched his pukkah accent in favour of East-End hardman talk (think Guy Ritchie movies), learned to fight by getting beaten up by Tony's girlfriend (!) in the boxing ring, got fake tattoos, and finally worked as a bouncer for a night, among real, hard-bastard bouncers.

Guardian: At RADA, Alex was coached in talking common: "The word fuck is desperately important to all Londoners. Fuck you, fuck me, fuck off! Lengthen the vowel. Let the breath be the impetus. Farkin' 'ell! Don't smile! Mean it." In grammar: "I was, you was, she was, they was."

After a month's training, Alex was one of several bouncers at the Hippodrome on the night of the England v Germany match and the head of security failed to spot the imposter ("Nah! Honestly?"). Tony was much moved. "It's like seeing your kid walk and talk for the first time, innit? Very proud. Very proud. But he should be proud of himself too."

The show drew very positive reviews (such as this one from the Guardian, which is where the quote above comes from, written by Nancy Banks-Smith). Subsequent episodes featured burger flipper Ed Devlin who was trained to be a chef (by Gordon Ramsay, no less); classical cellist Sian Evans who was trained to be a nightclub DJ; and cleaner Sharon Pallister who was trained to become Scarlet Fever, a burlesque performer, by Immodesty Blaize with input from Dita von Teese. You can see this last one starting here on YouTube.

I've already mentioned on this blog how I believe that there is something liberating about stepping outside your normal life, and being someone else for a while, and how I wonder if some actors and other performers enjoy this aspect of their work. It's this, I think, which the show attempts to recreate.

The show has several brilliant features. First the fakers are deliberately selected to be hopelessly inappropriate for their adopted roles. Almost all are quiet, soft-spoken, lacking in self-confidence, set in their ways. They all have a metaphorical mountain to climb to pull off their new roles. Second, the mentors, often in initial despair or exasperation, become fond, and eventually proud of the fakers. Third, the fakers almost always manage it: to pass unnoticed by judges and onlookers. Finally, it's clear that the experience of the training--and the faking--opens up new and undiscovered vistas for most of them; they discover qualities in themselves that they never knew they possessed. In short, it is visibly life-changing, and often this is very emotional for them. It all makes for extremely compelling television.

The producers made at least one follow-up episode, where they revisited the fakers a couple of years later. Almost without exception, they had reacted positively to the experience. I notice, for example, that the Scarlet Fever episode was uploaded by Scarlet Fever herself on her own YouTube channel.

Drag: Dave Lynn

There are only a few episodes of Faking It available on YouTube, and this is not one of them. However, the Guardian reviews are very helpful and give a real flavour of the episodes.

One episode featured an ordinary bloke (who has asked me not to mention his name) who was to fake it as a drag queen. His mentor for the show was veteran British drag queen Dave Lynn. This episode was one of the most popular episodes of Faking It ever produced. The normal hour-long episode was stretched out to 76 minutes, because there was so much good material to include.

Lynn and the Faker strike up an unlikely friendship, helped perhaps by Lynn's straightforward, matter-of-fact approach to a man shaving his legs, wearing stilettos and false eyelashes, tucking ("you sort of shove them back in their sockets"), and all the other activities required to become a drag queen.

We follow the Faker through a series of increasingly uncomfortable experiences. More than once, the producers may have thought that their show wasn’t going to happen.

But he sticks with it until the end. Later, he struts his stuff on the stage, in full drag, and the judges don't spot him as the fake. At the end of the show, the Faker muses about his initial prejudices; how he felt he had overcome them, and how shallow and misplaced he now felt they were. It's a powerful moment.

Guardian: But what made Faking It so gratifying were the clear, measurable results of the experience for both student and mentor. The Faker was euphoric in his realisation that life is a great big fruit salad, and that "prejudice is just balls" (and therefore best tucked out of sight). Dave Lynn, the hardened old pro, softened up and admitted that he'd learned even more about his place in the world. The two bosom buddies closed with a duet of Stand By Your Man; seldom have the words "sometimes it's hard to be a woman" rung so true.

The episode resulted in Dave Lynn getting a considerable boost in popularity, and he made several subsequent appearances on TV. He’s still doing drag.

So what relevance does this show have for me? I don't especially have any affinity for drag as an art form. I've never been to a drag show. I think drag is a form of performance art, whereas Vivienne feels very much part of my identity; an inextricable part of me, not some persona that I adopt when I get dressed.

I suppose the first part of it is that I am envious. Our Faker gets four weeks of intensive tuition in performing as a woman: make-up, clothes, hair, shoes, gait, the works. Perhaps four weeks would be too much, but I certainly feel I could use a few tips from the experts about how to improve my overall look as a woman.

Second, there is permission. All of the fakers in the show get encouragement, verging on a requirement, to step outside their ordinary world and embrace something entirely new: a new way of doing just about everything. Some of the rest of us (i.e. me) hesitate at every tiny step outside the comfortable boundaries of what others expect of us. The fakers blasted those boundaries wide open, and did it with the support of those around them. And for each of them, that must have been a very powerful and long-lasting experience. Faced with the end of my marriage, I am contemplating what the new me will be like. Some of those boundaries will need to be redrawn: but which? And I will need to make my own permission to make it happen.

Ultimately, though, the people in the show are literally faking it. After the credits roll, they can, if they choose, return to their previous lives and pick up where they left off, as if nothing had happened. This is not true of me: Vivienne remains an awkward, uncomfortable part of my life, and my future life will need to include her, one way or the other. The faking it, for me, was pretending Vivienne didn't exist.

Men's Underwear and Fight Club

One of my correspondents, Scott, emailed me with a question this week:

What do men's underwear and Fight Club have in common?

Manly: string vests

The answer is obvious. Brad Pitt looks good in both! But Scott has a point. He goes on:

Men get seriously squeamish talking about their underwear. They don't like to talk about wearing it, or buying it, or whether it's comfortable or uncomfortable. This is in stark comparison to women, who blog about their bras and openly talk about their favorite styles of underwear online and in the break room at work.

Men hate shopping for underwear in stores. They avoid sales people and other shoppers. They buy "extra" stuff they didn't need to take the focus off of the underwear at the cash register. And they wait until their old underwear is falling apart before buying new.  Why do they hate buying underwear so much?

Men's underwear has really never been built for comfort, but guys never talk about that.  They don't openly discuss what they are wearing, or how it is too restrictive, not supportive enough, or causes chafing.  Guys just "deal with it" as the stuff of life. This is rather interesting, because underwear is worn longer than any other article of clothing, yet guys put the least thought into it.



So let's take a look at some of these assertions. One of my favourite ever books is called Why We Buy: The Science of Shopping by Paco Underhill. Insightful, impeccably researched, light-hearted bordering on hilarious, it's a wonderful book which made me think in a whole new way about shopping. Underhill runs a company which observes shoppers: how they interact with retail spaces, with products, with other shoppers, with parking and escalators and trolleys. And every gesture, every movement, is recorded and quantified. How long a consumer spends looking at item A before putting it back on the shelf and buying item B. As a result, Underhill knows how shopping works.



I do all my own modelling, you know.

Underhill's book has an entire chapter called Shop Like a Man. It describes men's behaviour when they shop for everything: groceries, clothing, power tools, detergent, cars. And it contains this observation:

We caught a signal moment in the life of the modern American male on videotape. A man was browsing thoughtfully at an underwear display when he suddenly reached around, grabbed a handful of his waistband, pulled it out and craned his neck so he could learn--finally!--what size pants he wears. Try to imagine a woman who doesn't know her underwear size. Impossible. Someday soon, we can all hope, every man will know his.

Underhill's observation lends credence to Scott's point above, that men hate shopping for underwear. He makes the point that, traditionally, women have bought the man's underwear: Men have always bought their own suits and shoes, but women, traditionally, shopped for everything in between. Another point he makes is that stores are not well-designed for men; they are often designed with women shoppers in mind, and as a result have a host of subtle discouragements to men to shop there.



Sir, do you have any budgies on your person?

To take Scott's next comment: men's underwear has never been built for comfort--until recently, that is. I bought some "performance briefs" (for men), like these Jockey ones. They are made of a black synthetic material, which is snug and stretchy. The waistband is neat and holds well. The fabric is breathable and doesn't smell, which makes it ideal for cycling (which I do a fair bit of). But here's what really struck me: those briefs are surprisingly similar to some women's panties. Overall, they are so comfortable that I plan to phase out my cotton briefs and go for these entirely. To be clear, they don't "do it" for me in a crossdressing sense; they are just comfortable and practical.

I think men's underwear is a microcosm of masculine attitudes. First, in general men want clothing which is practical and functional. Job done, moving on. Our fathers and grandfathers wore string vests and braces and other unattractive accoutrements. They would have snorted with scorn if you had offered them a selection of snug, comfortable underwear: "What's wrong with pants knitted from old sandbags? They never wear out!" As a result, men's underwear has tended toward the plain and functional, the sort of thing you would wear while sawing logs or changing an engine block.

Second, women's underwear has (I believe) been frequently seen as being sexy. Women wear sexy underwear underneath their day clothes to make them feel special. I am sure it is no accident that many crossdressers begin with wearing underwear as their first and most cherished female garments. Women's underwear is attractive to look at; it has all sorts of little details and features adorning it. The fabric is luxuriant: lacy or velvety. You wouldn't wear that for mundane physical jobs; you would wear it to feel fabulous, at a party, out for the evening, for a special event. That goes along with the traditional image of women themselves as being delicate, fragile creatures.

Batman probably wears underwear like this.

Men don't wear underwear to feel sexy; they wear underwear to hold their bits in place. And on that subject, those of you who haven't spent much time Down Under might not have come across one of my favourite pieces of Australian slang, which is that tight swimming trunks for men are called budgie-smugglers, the idea being that the bit down the front resembles a budgie tucked in there. Cheep cheep!

I think the field of men's underwear probably is changing. I think it is becoming OK for men to buy their own underwear; I know I do. Is it OK to choose underwear for comfort? I think so. Many companies are now deliberately marketing underwear which is designed to be fashionable and comfortable for men. (This image is from Tommy John).

But, as with skirts for men, I don't quite think men are ready to rethink the relationship they have with their underwear. This underwear, pictured (the grey number), is indisputably comfortable and practical, and is definitely cool; the sort of thing which would look great in the changing-room at the gym. It looks like something Bear Grylls or Daniel Craig would wear. But here is what I see. It still says tough. It still says rugged. It is still (resolutely?) unadorned, in that gunmetal-grey colour. It might possibly be something a woman, or a gay man, might describe as sexy (though the occupant might have as much to do with that as the garment). But it definitely doesn't seem like something that most men might describe as sexy. It seems designed to evoke feelings associated with masculinity: preparedness, resolve, decisiveness, leadership. Let's face it: James Bond doesn't wear underwear which makes him feel sexy.


Crikey: you could smuggle a whole aviary in this lot!

As I have mentioned elsewhere on this blog, for both women and men, beauty is something associated with women. So for underwear to make you feel sexy, it seems that both women and men turn to underwear associated with women. I've already drawn your attention to tights for men, but Australian company HommeMystere seems to be taking their lingerie collection for men to a whole new level: I see gorgeous little details. I see lacy. I see frilly. I see delicate. I see fabulous. I see some very awkward-looking male models! I also see their marketing seems deliberately heterosexual: sure, your girlfriend is gonna love you wearing that!

I also give an honourable mention to HerRoom, an online lingerie retailer which provides a very detailed section about lingerie shopping for men: forthright, welcoming and helpful (though it's not easy to find it from the front page). The wording and layout says: hey, if you're a guy who likes lingerie, we have no problem with that. Let us show you something you might be interested in.

Though I am quite impressed by HommeMystere and HerRoom and their approach (surely another sign that whatever men like to wear, it's all good), I am certain that they will remain on the periphery of the male market for a while yet. Men's underwear is already very in touch with Fight Club. What it needs is to get in touch with Titanic, with Mona Lisa Smile, with Mamma Mia. And that might mean breaking the First Rule.

===

My thanks to Scott for suggesting this topic. I've also written a blog post about men who like long nails.

Faking It - Part One

One of my favourite podcasts is the one from Freakonomics Radio. Presented by Freakonomics co-author Stephen Dubner, and frequently featuring the other co-author Steve Levitt, it is a whimsical, funny and fascinating look at the "hidden side of everything". If you haven't read the book, or its sequel, you should stop reading this and go out and do so immediately.

The fundamental premise of the books is that economics isn't just about money: it's about incentives of every kind. Any kind of gain or loss, any kind of reward or punishment. And that humans respond to incentives in predictable ways. The book provides many astonishing examples of statistical evidence of its claims, but the podcast builds on some of the details. Here is a partial transcript from the episode Faking It.

Dubner: You keep kosher. How kosher do you keep?
Kara: Extremely kosher. We allow no non-kosher foods into our kitchen, our refrigerator; we have three different sets of plates, plus another one for Passover—the whole nine yards.
Dubner: What’s your relationship with bacon?
Kara: (laughs) It’s secret and illicit–It was probably the first thing that I started cheating with.
Dubner: You cheat with bacon?
Kara: Again, not in my own kitchen, but I’ll go out and order bacon and pancakes. But at home it would be simply pancakes.
Dubner: Now, does you husband know about this?
Kara: He knows, he knows, he’s very forgiving.
Dubner: He knows because you tell him, or because you come home with the scent of your lover on your lips?
Kara: (laughs) A little of both, I have to admit.
Dubner: So you’re not really faking it with him, correct?
Kara: Correct, but we don’t tell my mother-in-law.

If you're thinking this post will be talking about how it feels to be a man who sometimes pretends to be a woman, then you will be disappointed. This post is about how my "ordinary" daily life involves faking it. This post touches on a previous post of mine which deals with privacy and secrecy, which was also inspired by a discussion on a podcast. Dubner really got me thinking.

Dubner: If the human psyche were a big map, nestled somewhere between the Sea of Cheating and the Valley of Lying, you’d come to the Kingdom of Faking It. I know what you’re thinking: No– I don’t fake it.

But actually I was thinking: yes, I do, every day. The examples which he provides are very similar, uncomfortably similar, to how I go about my life. In the example above, a Jewish woman admits to enjoying bacon, despite maintaining the façade of rigid observance of Jewish dietary laws. In another example in the podcast, a happily childless couple living in the Deep South pretend to attend church and pretend to be trying for a family because it is easier to get by in a society which expects those things. (They have gone so far as to choose a particular church which they pretend to attend, so that if the conversation gets a little more detailed, they are not immediately revealed).

Dubner even goes so far as to describe in detail Barack Obama's attempts to convince his voters that he is a regular churchgoer, and how he came a cropper when the preacher he claimed to admire turned out to have said some very questionable things.

I went to a private high school. My parents saved hard to get the money to send me there. I rubbed shoulders with kids who were from very wealthy families, and very quickly learned that my own modest background just didn't stand up. As a result, I started to pretend that I had travelled widely; that my father owned a luxury sports car; that we were wealthier than we really were. I hated myself for this pretence. I hated the fact that I had to be careful not to get caught out in a lie or a contradiction ("Wait a minute, I thought you said it was a green Aston Martin?"). I hated that it made me feel so inferior that I had to pretend to be something else, just to fit in.

Why doesn't Kara come clean? It seems to take a lot of effort to keep kosher as rigidly as she does, and yet she admits she breaks it with relish. Why not simply say: hey, I like bacon! Deal with it! Surely it's harder to maintain the pretence than just to abandon it? But I get it. By standing up, distancing herself from the observances of her community, Kara would be sending out a powerful message of dissonance with its core values. It is a lot easier to pretend, in front of people, and scoff her bacon quietly, behind the scenes. (There is a good chance her mother-in-law is doing the same!) And those societal forces extend right up as far as the President.

I am sure that most people who are doing this are not doing it for malicious reasons, but because the little white lies slightly oil the wheels of society. It's easier to fake it, to blend in. And to some extent, all of us, from the greatest to the least, is doing it too, to some extent.

Dubner: I’m a big fat faker, just like... Brian, the guy with a fake church, and Kara — that’s the woman who can’t tell her kosher-keeping family how much she loves bacon. Scientists have a framework for talking about this problem: signalling theory. It’s my way of telling the world that I’m a good friend; I’m not a sociopath; I’m a good candidate for that job you’re offering, or that last slot you have at an Ivy League school, or the sex you’re willing to have with someone. I’m faking it because I want you to like me, and I know I’m not worth liking (my italics).

I included this quote because it sums it up perfectly for me. It explains why, at school, I felt I had to concoct fake skiing holidays and fake sports cars, because I felt that my own personal qualities were insufficient.

And it also explains why, right now, I am faking it as an ordinary man with an ordinary life. I hide my crossdressing identity, even though that costs a lot of effort, because it's easier to just pretend it doesn't exist in public, then do it quietly, behind the scenes, where nobody can see. And, just as in high school, I hate the way that makes me feel. I am also fearful that if people find out, there will be unpleasant consequences. But I am also fed up; fed up of the effort it is costing me to make the pretence, and fed up of the sensation that people like the person they think I am rather than the person I actually am.

Portrait of Vivienne by Hannah

But lately, something has changed. I have come out to two of my friends. The first is a woman, whom I respect and admire greatly for her wisdom and compassion. She would also describe herself as a feminist, which gave me pause, and I sounded her out first by trying to engage her in conversation about the whole bathroom thing.

We were sitting in a café, and she knew I had something to tell her. I more or less blurted it out, and then started to talk about it very rapidly, but she silenced me by holding up her hand. "It's fine," she said. "It's cool". And there it was. I had more acceptance from her in the ten minutes of that conversation than in the ten previous years from my wife.

She asked a lot of searching and penetrating questions: had I considered hormones? Or surgery? I was disarmed by her directness. And all the way home, I was anxious: how would it affect our friendship? But there was also a great sense of relief, of being unburdened.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I was talking to a male colleague. Again he is a man I admire, for his emotional awareness, his insightfulness, and his ability to relate to his masculinity without compromising any of these things. And again, I told him. He was visibly surprised, but has also been completely accepting. This second time around, it was easier to have the conversation. I wasn't sure I would get much sympathy from a man, but he tells me he completely understands it. Again he was curious, but about different things. Did I have a fem name? How did I choose it? Did I go out dressed to clubs to meet others?

I told both of my friends about this blog, and they have both visited. It seems not to have affected my working relationship with either of them, and they don't seem to have lost any of the respect for me which I think they both had to start with. Both of them, independently, have said they would like to meet Vivienne, and I will be sure to let you know if this happens.

Whether I tell anyone else, or whom I tell, I am still not sure. I already feel much better about myself. Both my friends have been able to see the positive side, the funny side of crossdressing, which are aspects of it which I haven't really been able to enjoy much. What I was looking for, most of all, and got from both of those wonderful people, was simple acceptance. Now I no longer feel like I am faking it, at least with those people, and I feel that the closet door has sprung open a little wider.

And to quote the punchline of a very old joke, it's better than bacon.

====
My thanks to Hannah for the lovely portrait of Vivienne. You can check out Hannah's blog here.

You can find the followup to this article here: Faking It- Part Two.


Frightening the Horses

When asked to comment on a supposed homosexual relationship between two of her colleagues, British stage actress Mrs. Patrick Campbell (her stage name) made a comment which has become legendary.

Does it really matter what these affectionate people do-- so long as they don't do it in the streets and frighten the horses!

Hay! How you doin'?

I suppose there are two ways to look at this comment (which has been widely quoted, misquoted, and even mis-attributed). The first is to interpret it as saying that homosexuals should keep themselves hidden from public view. The second way to interpret it (and the way I choose) is to take it as a whimsical remark saying: who cares what they do? What harm could possibly come of it?

This quote came to mind when my attention was drawn to this article, Conservative Men in Conservative Dresses, which was mentioned and discussed over on Thorin's blog. Written by Amy Bloom, and published in Atlantic Monthly in 2002, it is a ruthless (but not wholly unsympathetic) critique of male crossdressers. Bloom is observant, smart and articulate, and the article is well worth reading in its entirety. But it really hurts, and I've been struggling with my reaction to the article all week. The sub-title, taken from the body of the article, is this:

The world of crossdressers is for the most part a world of traditional men, traditional marriages, and truths turned inside out.

And the first line begins:

Bloom: Heterosexual cross-dressers bother almost everyone.

In the first half of the article, Bloom describes crossdressers. Distinct from transsexuals; distinct from drag queens. She talks to Ray Blanchard, and repeats some of his well-trodden dictums. Some of these, you will know, I agree with, including the one that crossdressers don't want to be like women; they want to be like men think women are. She talks to Tri-Ess, and quotes some of their material. So far, so non-descript. However, this material is probably new to the readership of the Atlantic, who are probably unfamiliar with the background.

Blanchard: Of course it's not relaxing. Heels and makeup and a wig and a corset? It's preposterous. Even women don't find that relaxing. Relaxing is a pair of sweatpants, clothing that doesn't even feel like clothing. Cross-dressers want to normalize this, to have it seen as relaxation and self-expression. Cross-dressing is an attempt to resolve an internal conflict, and it's not about fabric. If we had clothing for men and women that was identical in every way except men wore shirts with four buttons and women had shirts with five, cross-dressers would want more than anything to have the shirt with five. We don't know why.

Matronly: the Two Ronnies

I happen to agree with this viewpoint; it's not about the clothes! I would say that my crossdressing feelings are not about the clothes but about the role or expectations society has for me. It's a question I often ask myself (and consider on this blog): what would happen if men and women were all truly free to wear whatever they want? I think Blanchard's interpretation of the answer is as good as any other. And I absolutely do have an "internal conflict", whether it pleases me to admit it or not.

Bloom: This seems to me to be the heart of cross-dressers' dilemma, and the heart of mine in writing about them. Cross-dressing is a compulsion, but we must not see it as a sickness. A good wife should tolerate it because the man has no choice, but it isn't too hard to tolerate because it's a gift. It is about fun and pleasure—and it's a necessity. The necessity of cross-dressing is frightening to the men and to their wives, and their wish to tame it, to characterize it as a preference and a gift, is understandable.

In the second half of the article, Bloom deliberately goes on a cruise, with 25 crossdressers and their wives. She takes time to get to know them, motivated by an interest "in the less common ways in which people inhabit their gender". Bloom describes the appearance of the crossdressers.

Bloom: I have met cross-dressers whose presentation is just this side of Christina Aguilera [but] they look more like my formidable fourth grade teacher, a big, tall woman with a bolster-like bosom, thick legs, sensible pumps, hennaed hair, and twin spots of rouge on her cheeks. They have the matronly look so common to straight cross-dressers. A pronounced face requires pronounced makeup, and after the false eyelashes and even the subtlest contouring of the wider jaw and the thick brow, one can look beautiful or ridiculous, but one cannot look like most of the women around.

How they see themselves?

She describes how most of the crossdressers are eager to talk about themselves (something I can certainly relate to!) But then Bloom starts to discuss the wives.

Bloom: Sometimes the wives wish to come, to support their husbands and to enjoy the trip, or to hang out with other wives, like golf widows or wives in Al-Anon. Some come because their husbands need them to. Happy wives are everyone's favorites, but happy or cowed, enthusiastic or grimly accepting, the wives at these functions are simultaneously objects of much public appreciation and utterly secondary to the men's business.

It would be easy to dismiss this entire article as full of hostility, but I don't think it is. I think it is the result of someone who has really taken a good look at crossdressing, and come to her own (somewhat ruthless, but not entirely unsympathetic) conclusions. I suspect that Bloom and Helen Boyd would find much common ground.

Bloom: I come to see why so many women find themselves sympathetic to cross-dressers: Women are raised to be sympathetic, and protective toward the vulnerable, and there is something sweet, unexpected, and powerful about being a woman and sympathizing with a man not because he demands it but because you genuinely feel sorry for him, for his debilitating envy and his fear of discovery and his sense of powerlessness to live as he wants.

Debilitating envy? Check. Fear of discovery? Check. Sense of powerlessness? Check. Add in guilt and shame, and it would be a full house! But for me, the most powerful parts of the article are the vignettes of conversation with the various crossdressers and their wives. Here, she discusses "Felicity".

Bloom: On the third night of the cruise Felicity comes to dinner "en drab" as they say, looking like what he is— a heavyset Baptist minister who worked construction in his youth. With a flourish the headwaiter delivers roses to his wife, to applause from our four tables. Felicity puts his big hand on hers and squeezes it. He makes a toast to their thirty years of marriage and to her goodness and support. He begins to choke up; her remote look never changes. I can see that she is not pleased that he decided to dress like a man for her tonight. She is not pleased that he is so grateful to her for trying to believe that he cross-dresses only because he cannot express his warm and nurturing self while wearing trousers. Nor is she pleased, God knows, to sit with a bunch of men in makeup and dresses, some modest, some outrageous, some passable, most not, and call it an anniversary party.

Felicity says, "It's like there are three of me in this little boat: the husband, the cross-dresser, and the minister. I can hear the falls approaching, and I know, I know with all  my heart, one of us will not survive this ride." He begins to cry, and I get tears in my eyes. As I hand him some tissues, his wife glares at me and says, "You sure do get involved with your interviews".  She must think that some pretty fancy footwork is required to wind up so sorry for the crossdresser and not for the wife; when I look at her sympathetically, she almost spits. Pity from people like me is not what she wants either.

The men I met were by and large decent, kind, intelligent, and willing to talk openly. Their wives were the same, many of them under the additional pressure of having to make the best accommodation they can to a marriage they did not envision and do not prefer.

The final section is the one which Thorin quotes; the one where Bloom talks about crossdressing as an exclusively sexual fetish.

Bloom: The greatest difficulty people have with cross-dressers, I think, is that cross-dressers wear their fetish, and the gleam in their eyes, however muted by time or habit, the unmistakable presence of a lust being satisfied or a desire being fulfilled in that moment, in your presence, even by your presence, is unnerving. The combination of the cross-dressers' own arousal and anxiety and our responsive anxiety and discomfort is more than most of us can bear. We may not mind foot fetishists, but we may not wish to watch them either.

Wearing her fetish?

This notion touches on what another of my correspondents called, with unmatchable turn of phrase, "wanking in public". It is clear that Bloom considers this to be what crossdressing is: a sexual fetish expressed publicly. Perhaps she is worried about the horses.

So much for the article. Why does it upset me so much? Because I can see truth in it. I can pretend that none of it applies to me, but the fact that it makes me deeply uncomfortable doesn't make it wrong. I seem to fit Bloom's model pretty well: educated, professional, intelligent, kind, and willing to talk openly.

I do wonder what other people see when they see Vivienne. I am sure they don't see the same as I see. I wonder if they look at me with abhorrence, with scorn, or with pity, with silent tolerance rather than open acceptance. But I can cope with all that. What is worse is something Grayson Perry touched on: crossdressing causes everyone a lot of pain; the crossdresser himself, and his spouse (and sometimes their kids).

My wife really struggles with crossdressing, and we are a long way from her coming with me on a cruise where I can wear a dress every day. And yet a very good description of my wife would be "having to make the best accommodation she can to a marriage she did not envision and does not prefer". Grimly accepting, indeed.

I had hoped to summon a series of carefully constructed arguments to demolish Bloom's article, but I find I cannot. What she describes is not my present, but it comes uncomfortably close to what might possibly be my future.

Interestingly, Atlantic Monthly doesn't seem to have this article available in its online archives, though other articles from the same issue are available. I wonder if it has been deliberately withdrawn, and if so, why?

I can make some points, though. Whether Bloom likes it or not, my own crossdressing desires will never go away. I would rather not be this way, and I would really rather not cause anyone else (especially my wife) any discomfort as a result.

The fact that this is the way I am does not make me a bad person. It does not make me cruel, manipulative, exploitative or otherwise objectionable. Trust me when I say, I have a host of positive attributes. There are a lot of behaviours out there which are a lot worse than crossdressing, which seem to be tolerated.

I think things are changing. I don't think all crossdressers fit with Bloom's archetype (even she says as much), and I think that public crossdressing is becoming commoner (and less noteworthy) all the time. A generation ago, if we had seen two men or two women showing affection publicly, there might have been societal discomfort or even overt disapproval. These days, it's no big deal any more (though no doubt, disapproval persists in some quarters). Is homosexuality a fetish? Are gay people acting out their fetish in public? Surely homosexuality is all about sex? Actually no. But people may well have felt that way once. And in the same way, perhaps crossdressing will come to be accepted as nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody bothers any more to ask why some people are gay. The accepted answer is: they just are.

I can promise you one thing in closing. No matter what I wear, no matter how high my heels, or how red my lipstick, the horses will not mind one little bit.

===
Addendum 24th September 2014

I sent an email to Amy Bloom via her publisher, telling her the article was continuing to provoke debate, and inviting her to comment. I received this reply:

Sorry! I wish to thank you for the invitation and say that I am currently up to my eyes in a new novel. I don't have the psychic room, right now, to engage with other, interesting projects.

Regards,
Amy.

I am naturally disappointed that she has declined to discuss the article with us. If she changes her mind, I will be sure to let you know.

That Whole Bathroom Thing

One of the issues which seems to really face trans people who are out and about in society is what toilet they should use, and what reaction they might face when they get in there. Can it really be that much of a big deal?

Unequivocal: Bathroom Sign

This topic entered my mind the other day when I went to work and noticed a sign which looked a bit like this one. It might be worth a discussion of what this sign actually says.

This sign is an example of what linguists call proto-writing; the sort of thing you see on road signs and the like. The idea is that the sign conveys a message which is clear even to people who cannot read, and is designed to be culture-independent. It contains a diagrammatic representation of two figures. One of the figures is a rudimentary outline of a human body, where the other has a triangular body to represent a dress or skirt.

Nowhere on this sign does it say "Men" or "Women". Genitalia are not depicted. Chromosomes are not discussed. The presence or absence of any characteristic is not questioned, other than some vague depiction of clothing.

It would seem quite reasonable, according to this sign, for people wearing skirts to turn right, while people wearing trousers should turn left. So why should anyone object if a man dressed in a skirt wanted to turn right? But how many women, wearing jeans, would turn left?

Different cultures

I know, of course, that this sign is a convenient shorthand. We know what it means, even if what it means isn't quite what it says.

This sign isn't quite as cross-cultural as it purports to be. In some countries, robe-like garments are common for both men and women. On a trip to the Middle East once, I was amused to see a toilet sign which had identical images for male and female, wearing robes, except that the female one was pinched in around the middle to represent a waist, where the male one wasn't.

I didn't take a picture of the sign, but this one is reasonably similar. It is a reminder that our Western cultural norms are not shared worldwide; that some cultures would look at the figure on the right (above) and decide the skirt was indecently short.

Trans people can find themselves in a real pickle about bathrooms. For example, Victoria Askey says of her transwoman spouse Treva:

Victoria: I hate the fact that she has to go through... wondering which toilets she can use without causing problems. I mean, use the men's and get beaten up, use the women's and get some female complaining, use the disabled and get someone complaining, and this can all be in front of my children. Some people don't seem to think before reacting. I hate the fact we are stared at. What happens if we go some place and she needs to use the toilet but there is no option to her? Then we have to come home just so she can pee.

Meanwhile, Rachel in Auckland reports this:

Rachel: After my drink, I need to visit the ladies room, weaving in and out amongst all the tables, a pretty blond woman stood (6ft 2 in heels to my 5ft 11) and motored her way to the ladies, just beating me. After she entered, she held the door open for me and smiled.

And Megan, one of my correspondents, writes:

Megan: To my surprise, women are somewhat friendly and just assume you're gay and have no interest in them. One particular outing, a young lady about 22 or so noticed the stall door lock was broken and asked me to guard it while she was in there. Fox watching the hen house came to mind! As she left, she guarded it for me.

Victoria is in the UK, Rachel in New Zealand, and Megan is in the US. So perhaps there is a cultural aspect to it. Perhaps some countries (or cities) are fine, where others are not. So hard to know for sure. Why do I have to rely on the word of my correspondents? Because I don't (yet) go out dressed, so I have never had to face up to this problem in a practical sense.

The solution?

I don't doubt that there are dozens of stories, good and bad, about trans people in bathrooms. I found myself in a debate with some radical feminists on the Gender Trender blog about this issue. Though I tried to be reasonable and balanced, it didn't work; I was roundly flamed, and everyone had plenty of fun calling me "Mr Vivienne" and so on. I suppose some people resort to insults because they can't argue articulately.

Nonetheless, some of them had a point to make, and I think it's worth bringing out that point here. How would a woman feel if she went into a public bathroom and found someone who was clearly a male-to-female transgender person?

Some women, such as the women that Rachel and Megan met, seem to be genuinely untroubled. It seems no big deal to them. But I am reasonably sure this isn't true of everyone. Some women might feel really uncomfortable. Some women might feel threatened, or in danger. How do those women react? Most likely they say nothing, avoid eye contact, hoping that this unwelcome interloper will quietly go away. That reaction may be misinterpreted as acceptance. In other words, just because the women in a public bathroom don't run screaming when a crossdresser walks in, doesn't mean they are all comfortable and accepting.

Random Radfem:  It is also not the responsibility of any woman to object to your presence. Most woman are not going to confront a man- probably a much physically larger man- in an enclosed private room. No matter how uncomfortable they are made to feel, it is safer to get out than to risk the chance of being physically attacked if the man in question is mentally unhinged.

Seriously inclusive

I think that some male-to-female transgender people deliberately seek to insinuate themselves into spaces which are traditionally women-only, as a means of validating their identity as women. The radical feminists see this as a violation, a masculine act: the imposition of male privilege on other people, whether they object or not. Nonetheless, I don't see this. I see it as being essentially a personal thing, perhaps even a selfish thing:  I think the transgender people are trying to say: “look what a real woman I am”; rather than saying “women do not deserve legal recognition”. I don't accept the radical feminists' express accusation, which is that any trans person in a women's bathroom is a sexual predator with the intention of molesting its occupants.

(I am reasonably certain that a crossdresser visiting the men's bathroom while dressed, would provoke anger, outrage and bewilderment. Mind you, this isn't a subject on which I have read much at all).

Why is it that bathrooms have become the battlefield upon which these bloody conflicts are played out? In this wonderful article from The Atlantic, journalist Julie Beck analyses our attitudes to public bathrooms.

Beck: The public collides uncomfortably with the private in the bathroom as it does nowhere else, and the unique behaviors we perform stem from a complex psychological stew of shame, self-awareness, design, and gender roles. This culturally agreed-upon separation creates unique single-sex spaces. There is perhaps no other arena that so stridently reinforces gender separation and difference.

Biologically speaking, men and women don’t need separate bathrooms—they’re using them for the same reasons. While there are a few functional differences—many men prefer to pee standing, women need receptacles to throw away tampons and pads—it’s not hard to imagine a unisex bathroom that would, at least in theory, work for everyone.

The public bathroom is therefore a focal point in the behaviour of men and women. Beck comments that men and women behave very differently in public bathrooms. Women are more relaxed, chatting, sharing makeup, where men avoid eye-contact, don't speak to each other, and don't even stand near one another if they can help it.

This cartoon came from a website for librarians.

As an aside, I am indebted to Beck's article for making me realise that I am not alone in being too uncomfortable to pee in the presence of strangers. Where possible, I choose a cubicle in public toilets, because I need privacy, otherwise I can't go. It seems there are plenty of people out there who are worse than me in this regard!

Overall, then, these are my thoughts about the whole bathroom thing. First, I think that men who wear women’s clothing in public are, in general, politely tolerated. While I completely welcome this, I think this tolerance is a privilege; I do not see it as a right. (And, as I have mentioned on this blog, there are some people who are not helping the cause here).

Next, I think that women should be entitled to safe, women-only spaces, for any reason they think fit, or even for no reason at all. For me, this means that they are entitled to object to the presence of a trans person in the women's public bathroom. If someone objected to my presence in any public space (e.g. a mall, an airport, a library) I would quietly leave without making a scene or causing a disturbance. If someone objected to my presence in a women-only bathroom, I would immediately leave without question. I do actually worry that it might offend someone or make them uncomfortable, and for me at least, this would not be OK.

I think that things are changing. I have noticed several restaurants in my town which just have a series of unisex cubicles. No problem. Beck's article says that gender-neutral public bathrooms are now mandated by law in any new or renovated building in Philadelphia. In addition, see here for the story of parents using the law to force a school to allow their transgender daughter to use the girls' bathrooms. Once again, the tip of the iceberg.

While transgender people are trying to get into the women's bathrooms, women themselves now have access to a range of devices which allow them to pee standing up. Nonetheless, I suspect it will be a while before women are elbowing men out of the way at the urinals!

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My thanks to Tasi, for drawing my attention to Julie Beck's article and Lexie Cannes' article, and to Melissa Lyn for the Unshelved cartoon, which came from this webpage. See also here for my comments about the tampon advertisement featuring a meeting between a woman and a crossdresser in a public bathroom.

Addendum 27th April 2016

The bathroom debate continues to feature prominently in public media, with several US states enacting laws which restrict which bathroom trans people can and cannot use. Other states have had similar laws thrown out.

Meanwhile, the Huffington Post has produced this interesting article which summarises and synthesises the status quo. In addition, Lexie Cannes has written this eyebrow-raising article which contains reports of several women being thrown out of public bathrooms for being mistaken for transwomen. Ouch!