OK. I’ve posted before about this sense of “joining the sisterhood”. i don’t want to overdo that, because of course, i’m still nowhere near knowing or understanding the life of a ciswoman (one born and raised as female).
Still, there are conversations that now feel open to me: gloriously, brilliantly open.
At the weekend, i took the boy out to a party. In between the sulks and removing him bodily from another small boy (who had had the temerity to ruin his game by shouting “blast off!” when it was HIS rocket and HIS game), i sat and chatted to one of the mums.
A bit about me and trans. That is, of course, par for the course now. But then we sidled off into the realms of make-up: threading, best way to remove hair, skin toners. Utterly, utterly pointless, trivial stuff.
And yet, i felt myself glowing inside. All those years of conversations with men that never quite gelled: likewise, all those conversations with women that never quite broke some barrier. Now, here i was, chatting about a subject i had never really chatted about before – and in a way i had never known.
As various friends have commented over the last few months: “you are such a GIRL”. Or slightly more sophisticated: “you are so femme”. Yes. I confess. I am – and so much of what has happened since coming out has been a coming home. The freedom at last to be me and not some artificial abstracted version of same.
So why the sadness? Because when i told my partner, she owned that she couldn’t ever remember having a conversation like the one i’d just had. And she has grown up female.
Of course, she adds: its not a sort of conversation she can see any point to. It wouldn’t interest her at all. Still, behind that denial, i detect a certain wistfulness. its like, i’ve just been granted admission to a club neither of us ever knew existed and maybe, just maybe, she’d have liked to have been asked if she wanted to join.
I fear she may take her revenge by wearing tweed and smoking a pipe.