There is, i realise, something of a rhythm to misgendering. And its mostly nowadays on the phone.
Still, unexpectedly, it has the power to upset, to disturb and in this instance, to reduce me to tears. Why? Read the rest of this entry »
Oh dear: its not just when dealing with trans stories that the Mail sometimes gets it wrong. But how ironic that a story about a techy person making a balls-up technically should, itself, be subject to a technical balls-up.
The UK’s Telegraph newspaper was today accused of displaying outright contempt for the trans community as well as a callous disregard for the feelings of relatives of deceased lawyer, Sonia Burgess, by deliberately going out of their way to misgender the victim.
I do love my dancing. Its fun, joyful, good-natured stuff: a room full of women, some fit, some not, bouncing around to the commercial rhythm of zumba.
Two classes, actually: the delightful Siobhan, who is an absolute natural to lead a dance class, and reminds me of “Sally Bowles” at her most playful on-stage; and Cheryl, who is a bit more matter of fact and aerobics instructress-y.
So. Its fun. And in the last couple of weeks, I feel as though its making a difference. Though not quite as much as if I’d transitioned earlier. (Cause then i’d just be a super-dancer!)
Imagine: pre-transition, I lost 4/4-and-a-half stone dead weight. Good call, health wise, but left me looking like I’d had a particularly bad attack of stretch marks. Then, slowly, bit by bit, the dance has worked its magic. I’m still a bit stretched, but not by much.
On Monday, I did Siobhan’s dance class and.. .i am starting to get the moves…starting ever so slightly to improvise around them. And my tummy is not exactly flat, but its decidedly toned.
(Note to anyone out there reading this: any tips for improving suppleness at the waist and pulling my waist in at the sides?).
Tonight, back to Cheryl’s. Not quite so fun. As I said: more aerobic than dance…but some dance all the same. And good-natured when Cheryl has most of the class turning right and one embarrassed lone woman (half the time, me!) is turning left.
I stay to the back of the class (cause I’m tall), which means sharing my space with a couple of much younger women. Younger, giggly women!
The cool down at the end was hilarious, mostly because the pair weren’t taking it seriously. One (Monica?) had forgotten her exercise mat and was trying to use her hoodie as floor covering. Only she kept tangling, with the main result that she looked like nothing less than a pink hobbit. This set her off, as Cheryl was instructing us on the finer points of placing one foot on the opposite knee, then linking our hands through the gap to support both legs (it probably only makes sense if you DO exercise regularly).. .
.. . and that set her friend off.. .
.. .which set me off. This was definitely silly schoolgirl territory and I half expected at any moment for Cheryl to call over: “You three! Stay behind after class and write out 50 times ‘I must not snigger during crunch time’”
I was in a good mood (can you tell?). Earlier we were doing a step which required us to be on tiptoes and then raise our arms in the air and extend our fingers. Oh, so elegant!
Except I was standing under one of the fans that had been turned on to cool us down. “Ow! What the…?”
I realised, just in time, that I had been about to give myself an impromptu nail trim.
Monica spotted and burst out laughing. Her friend inquired what was so funny. “Oh”, says Monica: “she just caught her fingers on the fan”.
Yay! Correctly gendered with no hint whatsoever of political correctness, family pressure or.. .well.. . anything. Sometimes, in public spaces, work spaces, political spaces I wonder if remembering to gender me as female is ever so slightly forced. So when someone gets it right without the least hint of the above… does it reflexly, without being asked… it still gives me a certain glow inside.
Luckily, no real damage to my fingers: and a massive boost to my self-confidence.
jane
xx
Oh dear.
A nice young man (andrea’s description – not my own) rings to sell us the merits of a government scheme for insulating our loft. On learning that andrea is not the man about the house, he ventures that he should speak to “her husband”, who is probably better acquainted with the loft than she is.
Possibly true, as andrea has an intense dislike of crawling around in confined spaces, but perhaps a bit of a stretch.
So andrea agrees, whilst pointing out that I’m not her husband, but her partner: that I’m not a bloke, but a woman – and my name is “Jane”.
Oh. That’s fine, the young man responds: “I’ll call him back later”.
Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!
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