We Need To Talk About Trans (again)
Yes, like an idiot, I'm going there...
Nobody in their right mind would write about The Trans Debate at the moment. Those who do (Janice Turner, Suzanne Moore, other brave and seasoned female journalists) are brutally and relentlessly attacked for their ‘gender-critical’ views (ie, they don’t believe a man can say he’s a woman, and become so). The remarkable J.K. Rowling, who boldly waded into the arena when she could have been counting her money and coddling her Gen Z readers’ sensibilities regularly receives death threats, and, perhaps even more annoyingly, wails of betrayal from readers who assumed she agreed with all their social and cultural views because they liked Harry Potter so much when they were young.
‘The discourse,’ as they say on Twitter, when they mean mud-slinging and intransigence, is horrifically combative on the Trans front. In row A are the Wokerati (TM, The Daily Mail), the alert-to-injustice Millennials, the steeped-in-human-rights-rhetoric Gen Z-ers, plenty of LGBQTAI activists and a lot of people who don’t really mind what other people do as long as they’re not causing harm. Plus a great many self-ID-ed people who feel they’re a man or a woman, as opposed to their biological sex at birth, and won’t let the wrong physical plumbing get in the way of their rightful sense of gender.
In row B, increasingly, are angry, middle-aged women. They’re joined by quite a lot of other LGBQTAI activists, some straight men, puce right wingers who don’t like the whole idea of ‘blokes in frocks’, and a number of Trans people who don’t believe self ID confers the right to use dedicated women’s spaces.
To generalise, this debate rarely includes F to M transsexuals. They are not the ones kicking off in any direction, largely speaking, they are simply dressing and/or living as men, perhaps using men’s spaces, but unsurprisingly, most men don’t seem to object - as presumably, unless they’re fully post-op, they’d prefer to use a cubicle. Male prisons, too, are not an easy option for the F to M trans person - or for most other men. It’s less a debate, more a negotiation based on what feels comfortable for trans men and cis men to share.
However, few use the phrase ‘cis men’. ‘Cis’ means ‘cisgender’ - “a term used to describe a person whose gender identity corresponds to their sex assigned at birth.” The prefix ‘cis’ is Latin, meaning ‘on this side,’ as opposed to ‘Trans’ - ‘on the other side of’, or ‘beyond’.
In recent times, however, the term ‘cis-woman’ has been regularly used by both Trans and non-Trans people (usually worried local councils who are trying to craft a leaflet about periods without offending anybody). Many women object to having their biological sex turned into a signifier of ‘non Trans,’ and cannot understand why there can’t be ‘women’ and ‘Transwomen’. Besides, if you’ve fully transitioned, surely in the eyes of society, you are no longer a Transwoman but simply now a woman.
Here, however, is the core of the problem. Because while the Trans debate is toxic, damaging and even lethal - the general (as yet legally unproven) assumption is that the rhetoric of anti-Trans hatred is to blame for the tragic death of 16 year old Brianna Ghey last week - it appears impossible to define what a Trans woman is, was, or should be.
For some, Trans is a feeling - a sense of discomfort with one’s own biological sex, a yearning to be the other, and the steps taken towards that goal, whether that means wearing a dress and nail varnish, or undergoing full surgery to become as close to female - or male - as is medically possible.
For others, it’s a pipe-dream. Many women argue that there is nothing that makes a woman ‘female’ about historical, socially gendered constructs such as appearance, oppression, expectations and relationship roles - including, of course, motherhood. But a biological woman is still female whether or not she wears men’s clothes, plays with trucks growing up, has short hair and runs a blue chip company without ever having kids. A biological male is still physically a man in a dress, giggling, with a wig on, regardless of how female he may feel in his heart. Social signifiers are not enough to render self-ID valid, though it’s clear that acceptance as their chosen sex is deeply important to the mental wellbeing of Trans people.
What does it mean, though, to transition? Adult women have lived their lives as girls, often aware from toddler-hood that they must be polite, careful, kind; lived through teenage years negotiating predatory men, learning to avoid dangerous situations, learning what society allows women to do and be, and under pressure, always, to be attractive, generous, thoughtful, slim, a good friend, a good wife, a good employee, a good daughter, a good mother.
A man has had very different life experiences. Pressure to be hard, not to cry, to be a big boy, to look after the weak, to use his strength and intelligence to the max, to be a driver of society. It’s difficult to see how the dramatic code-switching required to become the other, after a lifetime of absorbing the world’s conscious and subconscious messages, can be possible.
But let’s say it can. Say you decide you’re a woman or a man now and will dress, act and think accordingly. What does that look like, beyond caricature? What parts of ‘woman’ or ‘man’ are you, and what are you not? There was a post-op Transwoman columnist in one of the nationals a few years ago who used to write breathlessly about ‘girlfriends’ and being in ‘girl mode’, choosing dresses and shoes. But ‘girl’ is not a mode, it’s a biology.
This, then, is why so many of us have difficulty assimilating Self-ID into our liberal understanding. I have so much sympathy for anyone who feels ‘wrong’ and wants to right their relationship with themselves and the world. I would never want to tell anyone how to dress, be, speak, or look.
But for most women, the argument is not about those things - it’s entirely about fairness and safety. Fairness, because biological men are physically stronger, and should never compete in female sports; and safety, because women’s spaces exist for good reason. Often, women feel threatened, at home and in the world, by men. Women barely ever rape, they rarely commit sexual assault, they seldom make a man feel uncomfortable and intimidated as he walks home. For self-ID’ed Trans people to access women’s toilets, hospital wards, shelters, prisons or groups - particularly support groups for sexual assault, violence or abuse - is inevitably a threat, because while the majority will want only to share and be in those spaces, others will want more - a fact grimly proven, many times over.
Where, then, is a safe space for Trans people? Who are, of course, sometimes - often - also in danger of abuse and predation. Some have suggested a pass to use the disabled loo. Perhaps there should be Trans wards, Trans refuges - but they would require funds that don’t exist, and risk large chunks of real estate lying empty until needed. Doesn’t it make sense, then, to allow Trans people to use the places that correspond with their chosen sex, whether pre or post op?
It does for them, of course. It confers dignity, acceptance, understanding. I wish we could simply embrace that concept. But for me, and many other women, the risk to vulnerable women and girls posed by changing rooms and toilets, refuges and wards admitting men who simply ‘feel’ like women, or claim to, is untenable.
There are more ‘out’ Trans people than ever before. Their needs must be met and hate speech entirely rejected - but as with any newly recognised section of society, there must be a plan in place that works for everyone; cis, gender-fluid, Trans and otherwise. So far, it seems, we haven’t even come close.
LOCH-ED UP: My Life in Rural Scotland
This week… We’re getting a Bad Kitten
Those bored to death of my animal situation, look away now. I’ll explain myself briefly. I’ve always loved them. All animals. When I was seven, we had a baby chick who had escaped from a box on its way to the lab, in the back of a taxi. My mum felt it running across her feet and asked the driver what it was doing there. He said she could have it for 50p, so she brought it home and it grew up thinking she was a giant hen, following her round the kitchen. When it outgrew the 1970s tiles and pine bench seating, it moved to the greenhouse, where my rabbit, imaginatively named ‘Flopsy’ lived. The cockerel fell madly in love with Flopsy (a boy) and spent most of his life trying to mount him, until he was safely removed to Pet’s Corner (not a euphemism, we visited, alright?) after he started crowing at 4am on our small suburban street.
Alongside the odd couple, we had cats - so many cats, a great chain of them stretching from Florence in 1973 to Spook, my best darling, who died in 1993 aged 16 and broke my heart. In between there were baskets of kittens, randomly acquired Persians, chunky siblings, angry strangers who wouldn’t share a bed, a long, furry parade of them. Blot, Sinbad, Mabel, MiniMabel Percy, Fluffy (I know, I know), Edna, Moppet, Tigerfeet, and many more, all sicking up bits of mice in the laundry and dragging semi-conscious birds through a banging catflap at midnight. How I loved them. My last cat, Cowpatch, (because he looked like a beautiful cow) died two years ago aged 20, drifting away on a Sunday morning in the kitchen, while our two spaniels sat guarding him on the dog-bed. I (and my son, who had been his co-owner most of his life) were devastated. So upset, in fact, that until recently, I couldn’t envisage a new cat, because he was too special. When you’ve carried your dying cat round the orchard in a sling so he can hear the birds, the sorrow is too much to even consider starting again.
Until now. A few months ago, I began to feel a vast, cat-less sadness. I couldn’t love the dogs more, but they have a very different energy - twirling, keen-o bark-gremlins, if you will - to the slow, haughty peacefulness of cats. I began a campaign to make Andy also want a kitten. Given that he’s allergic to fur, easily stressed, spends his life managing the dogs, we live in a two-bed one-storey cottage and we’re currently extremely skint, he was less eager than me.
However, I outlined all the positives (“I really want a cat, I miss cats, I’ve always had cats, cats are great”), and eventually, he accepted that a kitten was happening. We agreed on a male tabby, and I posted online and scoured groups and vet’s notices and quizzed friends in a bid to try and procure one.
There are, it seems, no tabbies in Scotland. Maybe they died out with the witches, I don’t know. In the end, however, someone on a local group suggested someone who lives on Islay (a small and misty island of the inner Hebrides, known for its whisky distilleries and bird population) who might have kittens, and suggested I get in touch. The whole thing was very much like an amateurish drug deal, with tentative approaches and awkward talk of money.
It turned out the kittens did exist, but the only one not spoken for was an all-black female. Basically, a witch’s cat from a far isle. Obviously, I said yes, and the owner began to send updates.
“She wanders around like she owns the place” said her first message. “She’s trying to hunt our Labrador.” At this point, the kitten was three weeks old.
A few days later, she reported that our small girl was “already climbing up the curtains.”
The following week, “She’s a feisty little thing. Standing in the food bowl, growling at the others.”
We went to meet her in a car park as they were on the way to the ferry. The drug deal vibes were strong as the owner opened the box and a little ball of black spikiness launched itself up the side. “Oops,” said her owner. “She’s a bit of an escape artist.”
She’s ready to come to her new home in ten days or so. Today I had another update. She’s been wormed, screamed violently, bitten the owner and spat her medicine out. I’m beginning to think my fond ideas about peaceful cat energy might need a dramatic rethink. First, we have to introduce her to two spaniels who believe our family is already complete.
I think we’re going to need a bigger cottage.
RECIPE OF THE WEEK: Baked egg with ‘ham’ and cheese
A baked egg is a favourite of the King, apparently. Though he probably has his baked with rubies and some kind of swan sweetbreads. This, however, is peasant-ishly simple, and very delicious when you want a fancy breakfast.
Serves 1
Ingredients
1/2 tsp olive oil
1 egg
2 slice vegetarian ham (or real ham if you’d rather)
2 tbsps creme fraiche
1 cheese triangle
1/2 tsp Dijon mustard
20g cheddar
salt and pepper
Method
1 Preheat the oven to 180°C
2 Grease a ramekin with the oil, and fit the ham into it so it creates a basket.
3 In a separate bowl, mix the cheese triangle, creme fraiche, salt and pepper and mustard.
4 Spoon the mix into the ham basket, and make a hollow. Crack the egg into it, and add more pepper.
5 Grate the cheddar on top.
6 Bake on the middle shelf for 15 minutes (ten if you want a runny egg). Put a baking tray underneath to catch any overspill.
7 Serve with toast soldiers or crackers.
Thank you so much for reading Decommissioned. I appreciate every reader and every share or comment. Please do subscribe - it’s in your inbox every other Thursday.
Really well said Flic. I hate the way it becomes about which side you are on. My clever geneticist friend says there are 11 ways of defining our gender, roll on the day when the DM decides to explain that!
I think this is one of the most intelligent pieces I’ve read about this whole minefield: it says everything I’ve tried, unsuccessfully for the most part, to articulate when I’ve entered the transgender discussion. I’m just going to forward it to people now and say: “This. This is what I think.”
Thank you. Love these substacks.