Recollections of Misgendering

Recollections of Misgendering

I was watching a video which has been doing the rounds. It is of a fracas in a shop when a customer feels they have been “misgendered” by a sales assistant. As I watched them argue about the use of “Sir” and “Ma’am”, and saw their emotions rise, I had the thought that this is a very modern problem. My instinctive response was another nostalgic thought of  “In my day we never .. ..  ..“and so on. I allowed myself to imagine that such problems never really occurred  when I was young, and that I, and my age cohort, had a much easier time. Though, in Britain, we would still have been upset it anyone had used the term “ma’am” as we would have felt they were being deliberately sarcastic. But later, when out running, I recovered the memories of when I had been “misgendered” in my youth. I had thought that times had changed but perhaps not.

About two generations ago, in the seventies, there was  a veritable frenzy of misgendering. I was an adolesecent, thin, and boyish. I was waiting for my facial hair to arrive and longing for  reason to shave. I knew I didn’t look manly or macho therefore I needed an alternative style to appear winsome and interesting to the opposite sex. It was the time of psychadelia and I leapt into this trend’s music, books, drama and fashion with gusto. Surely no one would fail to see that I was a mature man with knowledge and discernment when I immersed myself in this counter-culture. Surely no-one, or at least one person, at least one female person, could see how interesting I was and would want to start a relationship with me.

Unfortunately I had not thought this strategy through adequately. While knowing the music of Cream and Jefferson Airplane, being familiar with the books of Huxley and Thompson, and having sat through the films of Bunuel and Antonioni were valuable plus points. This knowledge did gain me entry to many conversations at parties. I was able to hang out with other wise and enlightened people. But the strategy did not work out as I had anticipated. Unfortunately the fashions amplified my problems. I grew my hair long (The hair on top of my head that is) and I bought bell bottomed trousers and cheesecloth shirts. Togged up in my purple bell bottoms, multicoloured tie-dye short, with my long freshly-shampooed hair dropping down the back of my Afghan coat, it was pretty difficult, especially at a distance, to know what I was – a boy, a man, a girl or a woman ? The psychedelic fashions rather than make me look like an adult manly-man had made me look like a young girly-boy. This was not the outcome I had planned.

I can recall many times, in queues, people behind me passing by with a jaunty “excuse me Miss“. Similarly  people in lectures calling out to the “girl up there in the back. Yes, you, the girl with the long hair“. These were mortifying events for a young man insecure in his masculinity. They were public and embarassing. However, the only anger I recall feeling was with myself for my lack of machismo, or at the world for the unfairness of having this late developing physique. I knew there was no malevolence from the person doing the misgendering. I knew they had made a mistake and could even entertain the possibility that they had a twinge of embarassment. I never argued with them, the sooner this episode passed the better. I had no desire to prolong the embarrassment or to invite more people to be aware of what was happening. The less people who were aware the better for all concerned. I am so glad this was before the days of social media where my discomfort could be spread around the globe in minutes

There were of course times when the misgendering was deliberate. I recall that the barmen in the harder city pubs would make a point of noticing the long hair that I and my friends sported (“Will you ladies be having Babycham then?”). Likewise, after arrest by the police at demonstrations I never doubted that the mistakes the policemen made (“Excuse me miss is this your placard ?“) were anything but deliberate. In this situation we would generally play to the audience as we were on ‘the right side of history’ and part of the countercultural revolution. We would play up to their errors as flamboyantly as Mike Jagger could strut his ambiguous stuff on stage. On these occasions their faux misgendering was just grist to the mill and a sign that we were winning. This was not upsetting, they hadn’t made a mistake, they knew our gender they were just upset that we didn’t play to their rules.

Although I can understand the distress caused by misgendering I presume most occasions occur by accident rather then design. In these circumstances tolerance and respectful apologies seem the obvious course of action. Between civilised people these errors need not cause more than minor momentary distress. When it occurs deliberately, and without provocation, then like any other insult anger and ire are the appropriate response. Though I would still wager that maintaining the civilised posture is more likely to win the day.

I never get misgendered now. Age came and took the dubiety away. Everyone, even at quite a distance and without spectacles, clearly sees an old man. I’d be flattered to be mistaken for a boy or a youth, or even a girl, but I’m fairly certain that this is not going to happen. However, I am also happy to know that now I have left the age where  I believe aspects of my identity should and do define me. It is no longer important to me whether you think I’m old or young, male or female, straight or gay, black or white, or any other distinction. The only thing that concerns me now  is what you think of what I say and do and whether I think, on reflection, I have said or done the right thing.

 

 

 

‘Milkman’ by Anna Burns

I may have chosen to read this book even if it hadn’t been chosen by my Book Club. It is a story from the ‘Troubles’ in Belfast told 51Oyp+6sFzL._SL500_by a young woman from the republican side of the divide. As I grew up in Lanarkshire, in Central Scotland, where sectarian bigotry was rife; where we had red, white and blue painted unionist kerbstones on the pavements; where “F.T.P.” and “1690 ya bas” were sprayed on many gable ends; and where most childhood encounters started with the far-from-innocent question “What school do you go to?”; this is a period that captures my attention. So even had it not been chosen by the Book Club I would probably have started to read it. However, it is only because of the book club that I persevered.

Milkman, by Anna Burns,  was the book which won the Man Booker prize this year. It tells the tale of “middle sister” and her “maybe boyfriend” and their experiences in Belfast in the 1970’s. The places are never named though it is very obvious where they are. The protagonists are never clearly stated as the I.R.A., U.V.F. or British Army but are always easily identifiable. Indeed no character is named in the story, all are ‘named’ by descriptive terms such as, “maybe boyfriend”, “tablets girl”, “the international couple”, “third brother in law” and so on. This latter idiosyncrasy does wear thin after while but surprisingly it does help the story flow. I used to find when reading Russian sagas I’d be thinking “Which Anatolya is this one ? Is this Sergei’s wife or Anastasia’s sister ? ” This does not happen in this book there is never any mistaking who is “the real milkman” as opposed to “the milkman”. Indeed this was an interesting quirk which did give the character of overhearing gossip or hearsay to the novel.

The problem I had with the book was twofold. Firstly the writing is densely packed. A stream of consciousness oozes out with sentences extending over ten lines before meeting a full stop and paragraphs running over pages. Even just looking at the book it looks dark grey, there is little white space breaking up the text. I found reading this style hard work and fatiguing. Especially as some paragraphs were simply strings of synonyms or repetitions of the same fact slightly differently. It was taxing, tiring, very fatiguing, draining, arduous, exhausting, sapping and sometimes burdensome. There was never any doubt that Anna Burns owned a thesaurus.

After a few days, despite my best intentions, I hade made little progress and was ready, with some misgivings, to abandon the book. But it was the Book Club book and I’d have to discuss it the following week so I had a dilemma. I decided that the best course of action, one that I’d used successfully before,  would be to cheat – I’d listen to the book on Audible.

This was a revelation. After a few minutes I was drawn into the story. The narrator Brid Brennan was simply superb. Her voice, with a clear Northern Irish accent, brought a vitality to the text that I could not see when looking at the printed page. It was akin to sitting on a bus and overhearing a couple, seated behind you, relating a story. It was fascinating to hear despite being rambling, discursive and overinclusive. It really did bring out the paranoia and illogicality of living in sectarian areas in the middle of periods of strife.

It is strange that this book is so different in the two differing media. I could hardly recommend it as a book to be read. But as the script for a radio drama, or other production, I could hardly recommend it strongly enough. At first when I had noted that  it had won the Man-Booker Prize I thought of emperors and their new clothes. I thought perhaps it is a book aimed at writers rather then readers. But having listed to it I realise I was wrong and this clearly is work of a very talented author. I may go back and try and actually “read” the book but I am content to know that I “listened” to it and enjoyed it.

 

 

The Ovine Death Wish

Farmers and smallholders often hold the view that sheep are born with a ‘death wish’. Much of sheep farming is less to with ways to breed, rear and grow them than to working to stop them killing themselves. You make fences to stop them hurling themselves in front of traffic. Once the fences are strong they manage to garrotte themselves in the wiring and resist all your attempt to pull them out. If there are no fences they’ll try  getting entangled in the branches of hedging. If there is anything poisonous they will find it and try it, and I am not convinced they don’t lure in the dogs, foxes and crows that cause so much trouble. If the Samaritans ever consider expanding to the animal kingdom their first new section should be for sheep and their suicidality.

As there is less forage at this time of year the sheep become more adventurous in their search for food. They climb higher,WhatsApp Image 2018-12-29 at 16.37.30 reach farther and jump deeper than they usually will consider. This was the problem behind today’s escapade. I had noticed when out walking that one of my neighbour’s ewes was standing knee deep in a bog. It was looking perplexed but un-distressed and I presumed just enjoying a new range of forage. In the return leg of my walk, a half an hour later, I found her in the same position but now sunk to her shoulders and clearly tired and fearful. As I went to see her she become more frightened, struggled a little (as she was tired), and due to her struggling sunk a bit lower into the bog.

I didn’t have much time, I needed to get a rope and to get her out. It was late afternoon and it would be dark in half an hour or less and at he rate of her sinking she could be fully under water in that amount of time. I ran home and retrieved my waders and a rope. I don’t like running at the best of times but I have discovered a new horror – running in waders ! This is almost an impossibility, although you try to make all the right running movements, the constriction of the waders holds you back so you make little more speed than brisk walking. You look as ungainly as it is possible to look and the noise of rustling waders is sure make certain that anyone in the vicinity will know to turn and look for a free laugh.

Fortunately when I got back it was still light and I was able to drag her out with the rope. WhatsApp Image 2018-12-29 at 16.31.15She was exhausted after her struggles and cold to the core. She couldn’t bear her own weight though (other than being cold and wet) she had no injuries. Fortunately I spotted  a local passing in a pick-up and managed to get his help. (He was driving slowly after a fit of laughter caused by seeing somebody trying to run while wearing waders). Between us we managed to get the ewe over the wall, into his pick-up and have her taken back to the farmstead to get dry and warm. I’m optimistic she’ll be fine after this. But I am also certain that this won’t be the last time this winter we will be dragging sheep away from their doom; they are drawn to it like moths to the flame. It is the way of things.

On the plus side I always find the week after Christmas a rather flat and sad time. The modern Christmas seems to have lost both its Christian and Pagan roots  and to have become something rather greedy and egotistical. So I welcomed this opportunity to help an animal in distress, and my neighbour, and the happy outcome brightened my day.

 

 

 

Lesson from an old brown hen

Lesson from an old brown hen

Today started dreadfully.  It was cold, but sunny, as I started my rounds to feed and water the animals. When I opened the door to the first henhouse I was stunned with what I saw. A brown hen was in the middle of the floor dead, her head bitten off and near her body. The partial corpses of three small chicks were scattered around the base of the hut more or less eaten completely. The turkeys were cowering in the corner as were some chickens and one solitary chick. Something had got in during the night and taken four of our birds in one attack.

Brownhen
Old Brown Hen

I took this badly as I was very fond of the old brown hen. In human terms she was clearly geriatric and would have been drawing her pension. But she battled on and this year, well after spring had ended, took it upon herself to go broody and hatch out two late chickens. She was an excellent mother to these two, she never left their side and she shepherded them through the day to make sure the turkeys didn’t bully them out of their share of the food. Her surviving chick has looked lonely and scared today as she hangs around the edge of the, now paltry, flock.

DSC07844
Surviving Offspring

 

This type of attack is usually the result of a weasel and we were troubled by these last winter. Sometimes a fox will do the same pattern of removing the heads but there was no way for a fox to get access into the henhouse. I scoured round the area to find out how this had happened and found, once I moved some chicken droppings, that the wall of the henhouse had bowed. This had created a gap, just big enough to poke my little finger through, but big enough for weasels to gain access.

dav
1 cm gap – enough !

I spent today fixing this gap and checking all the other henhouses for similar problems. As I worked away I remembered the old phrase of locking stable doors after horses had bolted and felt bad that I had missed this and let it happen. We usually loose a proportion of our stock to predation by hawks, foxes and the like. I take it as a fact of life, they need to live also. Though I must say that I find the ways hawks eat their prey alive very cruel, and the way foxes and weasels will slaughter all in a hutch, but eat only a few, very wasteful. But what was making me feel bad about this was that I had missed the gap developing. I should have seen it and fixed it before the weasels found it, I am meant to be the more intelligent animal.

DSC07847
Pretty Boy lacking wives

This evening I have merged this small flock with another. We had one very pretty cockerel I didn’t feel we could send to the pot and he had hardly any wives. He would occasionally make unsuccessful forays into the other cockerels’ areas to try and lure hens away. Here, at least, was a solution to his problem. This evening he is tucked up with the turkeys and some new wives. Over the next few days they will have to spend their day in the hen-run associated with this house (rather than roam free) until we know that they see themselves as a family; as members of a small new flock.

This old hen has also done something very useful. She reminded me of a valuable lesson. Halloween is meant to be the time that we think of death and the departed but this has largely gone to be replaced by a another secular fun day for adults and children alike. A month after Halloween this old hen reminded me, because I felt ashamed,  to think about death. To think that once people have died it is too late to go back and fix things. We should look around and recognise that now is the time to do things, not later on or tomorrow. If I am not careful the regrets I could have in the future could make todays’ sadness seem very minor. There are lots of gaps that need fixing and things which need checking and I shouldn’t wait until a calamity makes me realise this. For this reminder I thank her.

 

I know what not to do.

Margaret Anne Bulkley lived the last 56 years of her life disguised as a man. At about the age of 20 she took on the persona of James Barry in order to Matriculate at Edinburgh University and study medicine. Following this, in order to practice medicine, she maintained this pretence by living as adr_james_barry_28surgeon29 man until her death. When she died in 1865 (coincidentally the year Elizabeth Garrett became the first woman to qualify as a doctor) she had pursued a successful medical career and been promoted steadily becoming Medical Inspector General for South Africa. During this period of pretence it is believed that she managed also to give birth to a daughter while the world still respected her as a successful and powerful man.

We only have to look back a little time to see how much progress we have made. In the past so many of our personal and social roles were held to be closely tied to our sex at birth. Today we do not bat an eyelid when a woman wishes to be a surgeon, a man a nurse, a girl a footballer or a boy a dancer. We don’t think of very many roles being necessarily tied to biological sex. The days when women had to pretend to be men to pursue their desires have gone.

We should remember the travails of women who wanted to pursue aims at the time which were held to be only suitable for men – Joan of Arc as she tried to lead armies, Dorothy Lawrence who worked as a war reporter, Margaret Bulkley  wishing to be a doctor, and countless women who fell in love with other women. Remembering these women will stop us forgetting the ignominious aspect of our history which forced pretence on the few who were able to follow their dreams and stopped so many from even taking their first steps towards them.

We now tend to think there is a rather loose relationship between gender roles and biological sex. Something that is more important for groups and averages than something to be applied to individuals. The  biological differences we have are often subtle, and may help explain why one group is over-represented in one area or another, but are rarely felt to be important for the individual in their selection of, or for, activities.

If a child is born today with desires and aims that have been traditionally been seen as the domain of the other biological sex this is not an insurmountable problem. They may face some resistance, but as society improves this should lessen, but there will be no need for transvestitism, nor any pretence. They can aim for their dreams regardless of their biological sex. They don’t have to don the clothes, or names,  of the other sex and they don’t need to hide or alter their biology.

Thus there would seem no call for a boy who wants to follow gender roles traditionally seen as female to transition and alter their biology. Likewise any girl who wishes to pursue traditionally masculine roles or activities  need not alter their bodily appearance. The gender roles that we are often concerned about may have some of their historical development related to our biology (increased muscle mass may have lead us to see the army as a masculine role, for example) but most now are determined purely socially. Thus if someone feels the roles that they wish to pursue are discordant with their biology then the solution is social. The solution is to push for that role to be open to both biological sexes not to alter the person’s biological sex to fit the social role.

If people want to change their biological sex it must be for reasons other than wanting to pursue what are felt to be sex-inappropriate roles as the barriers facing them are considerably less than the barrier posed by the option of changing one’s biological sex. It would seem that the term gender dysphoria does sum up the primary reason for the desire to transition to the other biological sex. It is not a positive desire to be the other biological sex but rather a distaste or unhappiness (dysphoria) in being in the body you find yourself within.

This is not an unusual feature of psychological disorders arising in early adult life and especially around puberty. In addition to gender dysphoria, dysmorphophobia (a belief that one is disfigured or deformed) and the eating disorders (anorexia nervosa and related disorders) share the core belief by the patient that their body shape or configuration is wrong for them. These are serious, debilitating, and dangerous disorders with extremely high levels of distress and a significant mortality through suicide. Our understanding of these disorders is very poor and our treatments are of only limited efficacy. But we never mistake the faulty body image of the patient with anorexia, or dysmorphophobia, as the solution and make that the target of our treatment. We never offer pointless plastic surgery someone who believes their face deformed nor accept that the patient with anorexia should just continue to fade away and die as they see themselves as too fat. Instead we try and help them adjust to their body, and life, as it is and find ways to live with this.

Unfortunately with transgender patients we break with this tradition and offer to try medications and surgery to make their body fit with their internal thoughts. If such medication and surgery diminished distress and eased the patient it might be seen as a useful, if surprising, therapy. Unfortunately it does not appear to do so. The evidence is scanty but, as the American College of Paediatricans pointed out, work undertaken by Sweden’s Karolinska Institute does not find that surgery to transition people from one sex to another reduces the rate of suicide which remains, sadly, much higher than that in the population as a whole.

I have steadily lost the certainty of youth as I have grown older. I am now much happier to accept that I do not know the answer to many questions. Increased knowledge and experience has lead to reduced acceptance of simple or glib answers. However, although I may not know what to do I sometimes know what we should not do. In this case, whether people want to pursue a life in the gender roles that differ to those of the  body they were born within, either from a desire for the positive aspects of those roles, or from a disgust of their own bodily configuration, then attempts to alter their biological sex would appear unwise. At an individual level, obviously it is their choice and they may do with their bodies as they will, but any unbiased observer would counsel them against this as it is  unlikely to lead them to future happiness. At a societal level, I fear we may look back on this period sadly; we saw the problem of defining peoples’ roles by their genitals which forced the likes of Margaret Bulkley and others into dreadful situations but came up with the solution of making peoples’ genitals match the gender roles ! History may not be kind to us.

Auld Claes an Parritch

Our visitors have left and life has returned to its usual boring pattern. It was great to see the family, and to hear all the news, but it does break all the usual rhythms. It is more than worth it but it is also welcome to turn back to the plainer life again. Although I enjoy eating out and discussing politics into the small hours I can only do it in short bursts so it was pleasant to get back to the normal chores and activities this week.

The winds last week had taken a couple of smaller treesimg_20181120_1132078543333336891314098.jpg down in our upper wood so it was a good time to consider cutting and collecting these. These were quite a distance from the house so I decided that I’d do this the slow manual way with the bow saw as we have a rule that if I’m using the chainsaw there must be somebody else about at the same time. This means if I come to grief there is somebody to call for help. So doing the work manually meant my wife could stay at base and get on with the tasks she’d organised.

      img_20181120_1152154132124722120551776.jpgHowever, I also have ulterior motives for avoiding the chainsaw. If I use the bow saw I feel that I can skip one of my exercise sessions for the day. It is much more fun to be deep in the woods working up a sweat than to be wearing trainers and plodding round the lanes. Further, while working I can listen to a podcast or two (The chainsaw makes it impossible to hear anything) I have gotten a little behind with my listening so it was an opportunity to catch up.

  There is little that can beat working in the woods for physical and mental relaxation. After a few hours of labour it felt as if life was back to normal again. After a period of fancy eating and dressing up it’s very nice to get back to wearing my usual working gear and having our regular simple fare – or to return to  auld claes an parritch as we used to say in Scotland.  
 

Sheep in wolves clothing

I don’t often feel sorry for politicians but today I have had a smidgen of  sympathy for Theresa May.  We have found ourselves, in Britain, in the midst of political chaos and Theresa May is at the centre of this political storm. She inherited the task of organizing Brexit even though, at heart, she was not keen on this course of action. Although a ‘remainer’ she felt that, as a politician, she is a public servant and should try and enact the wishes of the electorate who voted for a course she did not agree with. Perhaps she should have realized from the start that she would not be able to meet this challenge as all her instincts on the matter would be wrong.

However, she battled on and created an agreement of sorts with the E.U.. This agreement is exactly what one would expect if a conservative remainer had been given the task of organizing Brexit; it barely takes Britain out of the E.U., keeps it in the customs union, protects the interests of business and commerce, and manages to offer even less democratic involvement  than we previously enjoyed. This is unlikely to be acceptable to those who wanted Brexit and also unlikely to be picked up by those who want to remain.

So I feel sorry for her. I think she did try diligently to do what she thought was the best for Britain and I think she genuinely feels she has found a middle ground which will give breathing space for an organized transition. Unfortunately all she has done is split her own party in two, made her own position untenable, and left her with the impossible ask of getting a deal through parliament that neither side of the debate accept. It would have been better if she had rejected the challenge, and said that her heart was not in it, but through a sense of duty she tried and we are now in the middle of chaos.

The Labour Party is not in a great deal better position. Jeremy Corbyn, who at heart was a Brexiteer, has found himself fighting for the remain campaign (or at least to remain in a customs union or, better still, the single market) because it allowed him to attack the Conservatives and benefit from their disarray. His party will now oppose this deal because it benefits the party political battle between them and the Tories even though much of the deal would, in fact, be acceptable to the Labour Party. I don’t feel sorry for Jeremy Corbyn, however, as his difficult position did not arise from doing the right thing but through his duplicity.

There are solutions to the crisis which Britain faces now. One path would be to leave the E.U. without any formal deal. This would lead to turbulent times and there may be some, hopefully short-term, economic damage. Eventually new arrangements would be forged and we could create our future.

Another route would be to call another referendum on this deal  (or remaining), the so called Peoples’ Vote. This would lead to turbulent times and there may be there may be some, hopefully short-term, economic damage. But this method would not create any new arrangements. If the vote was to “leave” then we are back at start again. If it were to “remain” then how long would it be for calls of “best out of three” and the debate resurfaces.

The other route, which might forge a more lasting solution, could be another General Election. If the parties line themselves in accord with their actual sympathies, which may mean a split in both Labour and Conservative parties, then we can vote on whether and how we wish to leave. Whoever wins would know the mandate they have and would actually want to implement this. Whether it is to stay, stay or leave with modifications, or leave the intention would be clear and the negotiators would be those sharing the aspirations of the voters. What we have now is sheep pretending to be wolves as they organize the next hunting expedition. This does not work.