by Wendy Jones
I’ve got the best of worlds being British and being black. Being black as a woman is fun. I’m light; a lot of people don’t really consider me black because I am mixed. My mum’s Trinidadian, my dad’s from St Kitts but they’re mixed-race on my dad’s side. A lot of other black women think, ‘You light-skinned people make me sick,’ and that we think we’re better than people who are darker than us. But I would love to be really, really black – to be darker. I find it mysterious, sexy. I like darker women.
I reckon I’m the kind of person no matter what colour I was, I’d embrace everything about being a woman. We’ve just got it over men sexually. We can dress a certain way. Like today, if I pull my top low I’m sexy. I’ve got the hat on, I’ve got lip gloss in my car, my eyes are done. Then I can take my hat off, pull my hair out, curl it up, put jeans on, heels on, some make-up on and I’m somebody else. Every day I could be a different person. My friend always asks me, ‘What’s the look today?’
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Transgender
Margery, 71, London
‘I went through puberty at fifty-seven’
‘When I was twenty-one I met my other half. Met at a dance in Hackney Downs. A day of infamy! Day of destiny. That was September ’65 and by August ’67 we were married. Five kids in twelve years. You may wonder how. So do I. When I was a man I wanted to be a woman so I found it almost impossible to perform. I wanted to have sex as a woman. I’d rather be underneath than on top. I don’t think she really understood that at all. Wives don’t normally understand; I wouldn’t expect them to. I wouldn’t expect any wife understanding their husband wanting to take the woman’s role; the subservient role. Most wives wouldn’t understand that; well, normal wives wouldn’t. Some wives like domination.
At five I wanted to be a girl. I saw my mother’s bra in a cupboard and something in me snapped. I can still see it: salmon pink, shiny. And I had to have it. From then on I was obsessed with women’s underwear. Fetishistic fantasies, that’s what the psychiatrist called it. I had a fetish about women’s underwear. I just wanted it. To touch it, hold it, wear it. All day. My fantasies were about masturbation wearing women’s knickers. That turned me on. That really turned me on. But that’s not unusual. A lot of men like wearing women’s knickers. Yeah, I reckon so. Not that it’s generally talked about but I think it’s true.
And I had a thing about women’s clothes, not just underwear, but nice dresses, two-piece suits, everything. My mother caught me with her dress on when I was twelve. She got a surprise. So did I because I didn’t think she was coming home early for lunch. She said, ‘Oh, take it off!’ That same outfit I’ve seen in the Victoria & Albert Museum, it’s a John Frieda outfit, 1954. Very smart. Sex was very taboo when I was a child. No one ever mentioned sex – it’s a wonder they had sex actually.
I wanted to be a woman when I was getting married. But I thought it would go away. I thought it would just wear off and I’d be normal like everyone else. I was completely wrong. It got more intense. I couldn’t get rid of this thing out of my head. Whatever I was doing it was in my head. I was washing-up, I was thinking about becoming a woman. When I was in the bath, I was thinking about it. I was eating dinner, I was thinking about it. I was at work, I was thinking about it. It was what was in my head all the time.
I didn’t know if having sex would solve it because I’d never had sex before. We were both virgins when we got married. I had sex when I was married. Many times. Didn’t enjoy it, though, it was a chore. Because she wanted it. I never wanted it. I wanted to be penetrated but I didn’t have a vagina. My body felt all wrong. I hated the old penis. I hated it. I hated the sight of it, the look of it, the feel of it. Just hated it. Because it’s unnatural. What woman would want to have a penis? I wanted to have sex as a woman. Yeah. But I didn’t have a vagina. Very frustrating. Like someone in a wheelchair who wants to walk but their body won’t let them. And I wanted to have the child. I’ve always been jealous of pregnant women. So I did the next best thing. Don’t know why, to be honest, I had so many kids!
They say ‘trapped in the wrong body’. That’s a very true way of putting it. I was never gay. I had a day or two thinking I’ll try and be camp, and it just wasn’t me. I’m not at all camp. I’m common! You’d never see me acting in a camp way. Women don’t! What woman acts in a camp way? No one. Gay men do. No woman would act like that, it would look ridiculous.
I didn’t tell the wife how I felt. I didn’t dare. I never told anyone until 1991 when I was forty-seven. That’s not unusual; a lot of people keep it very hidden. When I did tell people, no one believed me. That was the funny thing. I told Mrs R I wanted to be a woman and she thought I was having a joke. Mrs R, the wife. Mrs R, I call her. Everyone thought I was having a laugh, having a joke. A weird joke. I was being serious; they thought I was having a laugh. Can’t make it up, can you?
I tried to talk to Mrs R but she just blew up and I thought, I’m not talking to her. This is impossible. I couldn’t talk to her about changing sex; anything else you were okay. And to be honest, up to a point I didn’t understand it. When I was a teenager I would go to Foyle’s bookshop but there were only books written in 1901 by Freud, and Krafft-Ebing in Germany talking about conversions. No idea what they were talking about. I suppose you could say that I was suffering. I wouldn’t choose to be transgender, I must admit. It’s a cross you bear. I think in life things happen and you get tested as a human being.
The first twenty years weren’t too bad with Mrs R. The last fifteen were hell. Well, she got very menopausal, financial pressures, kids; this feeling I had got stronger, and we came out of sync. So we just sort of grew apart, I think. We had a lot of rows about how I felt, and I decided at that point I couldn’t, wouldn’t, talk about it. I clamped up and I told myself if the opportunity to express my feminine side came up again I’d take it. And in 1997, six years later, Mrs R became very absentminded. I didn’t notice it at first. Eventually she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, you see. At fifty-three. And it got progressively worse. By 2001, I was her full-time carer. She was doubly incontinent. Very tiring being a carer, because I couldn’t get out of the house. Worked from home, couldn’t really go into the office.
Then, 8th January 2002, she suddenly decided she wouldn’t eat dinner. She said, ‘I’ve already eaten dinner.’ I said, ‘No, you haven’t’ – because I was doing the cooking. We had a hospital appointment booked and they kept her in. And I thought, I’ve got a day off. Two days later, 10th January, I decided, ‘This is it, I’m doing it – because I can’t see her coming back.’ And I decided, ‘This is it, this is the day of decision.’ I started buying women’s clothes, underwear, make-up, anything. I rang up the doctor’s office and saw him 11th March 2002. Things began to move now. He said to me, ‘I suppose you want hormones?’ I said, ‘Yes please!’ He wrote a prescription. Went round the chemist, got them within half an hour.
Female hormones make you weak. I have lost a lot of muscle power, but I think at seventy-one you do. What the doctor said to me at the beginning was I would grow breasts like my mother but two sizes smaller, I’d be very temperamental because I would be on hormones, and I’d probably gain a lot of weight. Well, I’m not at all temperamental. And the breasts are much fuller – the hormones made them grow. Fabulous, fabulous! Love it. They grew very slowly; after about two years I hardly saw anything.
I had started to visit trans clubs, started to make friends who told me about a private clinic. Around that time I had a really mad period, that Christmas I did twelve parties in thirteen days: trans clubs, discos and dancing. I was exhausted afterwards, I thought, it’s bloody hard work being a woman! Constant partying; one pub after another.
I was dressing as a man and a woman. I was getting up and dressing as a woman in the morning. After lunch, I was dressing as a man to go to work, then being a woman again in the evening. You can’t do that for very long. It screws your head up. I wanted to dress as a woman. I went through the stages of being a transvesti
te first. There’s an enormous difference between someone who’s a transsexual and someone who’s a transvestite, it’s not the same at all. A transvestite doesn’t want to get rid of his bits. Whereas a transsexual wants to go the whole way. Everything.
There’s a thing called the Harry Benjamin Gender Dysmorphia Scale. Harry Benjamin was a noted psychiatrist in the 1960s in New York. Gender dysmorphia is a big word meaning mental confusion. Harry Benjamin realised people with gender dysmorphia actually form a pattern, and he classified them from stage one to stage six. Makes sense. I’ve painted a picture of it; it’s called Gender Disorientation Scowl. Stage one is a guy who dresses as a woman once a month and gets a kick out of it. Stage two is when someone might dress once a week. Stage three is someone who dresses every day. Stage four is a non-surgical transsexual: you live as a man as a woman. Stage five is what they call a true transsexual, moderate intensity: everything but the operation. It’s not essential. Stage six is you do the whole lot, everything, got to have the operation. There’s no question, you’ve just got to do it. And that was me: stage six.
August 2002, I’d made a lot of friends at trans clubs and we went to Brighton Pride. I decided to take no male clothes at all. It was Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and it was brilliant. No problem whatsoever. Then in October I heard about this place in Somerset. It’s like a holiday camp for trannies. There were about a hundred and twenty people on the site. I dressed as a woman for eleven days, non-stop. Brilliant. I came back to London and I went to the office and the boss said to me, ‘Oh, you don’t look very well.’ And I said, ‘Don’t I?’ He said, ‘Have you got a personal problem?’ because he knew about Mrs R, and I said, ‘Actually’ – I thought, buggered if I’m not just going to tell him, I don’t care, I’m just going to tell him – I said, ‘I’m changing sex.’ I mean, there’s no way of getting round it, you can’t say it in a roundabout way, can you? And he said – this is really like Monty Python – he said, ‘Well, I’ll have to speak to someone in Human Resources about this.’
He said to me, ‘Human Resources looked into it and they couldn’t find anyone.’ I’m working for a building company, there was seventeen thousand people in the company and they couldn’t find anyone else like me. There was, but they didn’t know, obviously. Then my boss said, ‘If you want to come as a woman, you better let us know.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m coming on Monday morning!’ Turned up Monday morning. Wig. Dress. Everyone stared for about two minutes. Two-minute wonder. I’d been working there six years. There were a hundred and seventy people in the office. I reckon I could have pulled half of them men!
I thought it was brilliant because it was moving fast now. Two months later, my friend changed her name to Pam. I thought, I’m doing that. So I saw a solicitor – fifty quid it cost – and legally changed my name by deed poll. Margery, because it’s clear, it’s unambiguous and it’s old-fashioned and you can’t be muddled by it. It’s definitely a woman’s name. And my second name is Dawn because my middle name was Derek, so I kept the same initials; it’s easier for signing cheques. I’m practical! New dawn, new life. Easy. When I changed my name the person I was died that day. It was quite an emotional day. I was fifty-seven at that time. It was like someone died, but another person was born.
By June 2003, I was having laser treatment – it’s painful. They put this thing on your face and it kills the hairs. Six sessions. I’ve never had any hair on my chest. Or I’ve shaved it off. Had some on the arms. July 2003, I went back to the private clinic. I said to the doctor, ‘I’m thinking about surgery now.’ He said to me, ‘You’re ready, are you?’ And I said, ‘Yeah, I think so.’ Because I’m a person who can’t do half a job. Being me, I took some very far-reaching decisions very quickly. I took an extreme position. There was no question, there was no ‘Do I do this or do I do that?’ No, you have surgery, you dress as a woman, you change your name, everything, everything, everything. Whatever needs to be done you do. Some people think, ‘Oh, I don’t know, shall I change my name? It’s a big step. Got to tell people, got to tell family.’ I said, ‘Whatever it is I’ve got to do, sod it, what the hell.’ Bit scary but …
So the GP arranged for me to see a private surgeon, a Mr Evans, in a very nice hospital. Cost me nine and a half thousand quid. I paid for it! I want things now; I don’t want to wait. It’s a very slow process to go through the National Health Service; a lot of people take five years. There’s a big hospital in London that treats two and a half thousand people a year. They do three operations a week. The hospital really will not entertain you going on hormones and having surgery until you show total commitment. You have to do what’s called a real-life test: you’ve got to live as a woman for two years. If you’re halfhearted – ‘Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know’ – you ain’t going to get surgery. But I’m a different person from what I used to be. I used to be a person who planned and waited patiently for things. Now I’m not. I want it now. Mr Evans booked the surgery, and it was booked for 7th March 2004. Two years after Mrs R went into hospital. So I actually lived as a woman for seventeen months before I had surgery.
Then I had to see a psychiatrist at Hove to get a confirmation for the surgery. Some people actually regret it. One in ten is called a regretter. I said to him, ‘Well, I know what I’m doing. I’m fifty-eight, if I make a mistake, it’s down to me.’ If you’re fourteen years old you might not know what you’re doing, but at fifty-eight if you don’t know what you’re doing, you never will. By that point I’d been married, I’d had five kids, I’d worked for forty years as a chartered surveyor, I owned a house, if I can’t be in control of my life by then, I never will. So the psychiatrist just said, ‘Right’ and he rubber-stamped it and that was it. And so at that point there was a hundred and forty-four days to go. To the surgery.
Eventually March 2004 came round. The operation was booked for Tuesday. Monday morning I go down the hospital in Brighton with me suitcase, booked in. By the evening I’m terrified, because I’ve got surgery the next day. Some people, they think you can put your coat on and walk out. But I thought, ‘If I do that, I’ll be back in two years, there’s no choice. I’ve got to see it through.’
Tuesday came round. Remember waking up after surgery and thinking ‘Six times seven equals forty-two – I can think.’ Because people had told me stories of how they’d seen demons afterwards. The operation was bloody painful! You’ve got to be mad to do it. On the first night I was on a liquid diet in hospital. I had this bandage right up, very tight, and so what happened over a day or two I began to fill up with wind so the wind is pushing up, the bandages are pushing down and after three days it’s fucking agony. I’m beginning to think, ‘What have I done?’ I couldn’t wee because I was so swollen. I had a catheter stuck to me leg. After five days the bandages came off and I had a bath; they helped me. I actually got up and collapsed. I had to have an oxygen mask. That’s normal, you know, most people do. The fifth day, they took the bandages out.
Inside there’s a big hole where the vagina is. The penis is inside out. They used the skin. It’s a normal vagina. A man couldn’t tell the difference. A man wouldn’t know unless I told him. I’m told a lesbian could, but not a normal guy. He might find it more difficult physically, because I wouldn’t open as much as an actual woman, I don’t think. Having been married as a man I know about these things. It smells different. A natural-born woman has certain odours from her vagina which someone who’s trans doesn’t have. The depth is limited as a trans woman, there’s just a wall, whereas a woman who has babies has got a whole thing behind it: cervix, uterus, and all the rest of it. I wee like a woman. Sitting down. It’s great! I love it! It’s one of the pleasures of being a woman, having a wee. It feels natural. I’ve got a clitoris. Oh, it works! Oh yes! Oh yes! When I had the surgery my body stopped producing testosterone so there was nothing to stop my breasts growing. When I had surgery they began to grow very much better. I went through puberty at fifty-seven. What a girl of twelve would be, I was that.
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I left hospital on day eight and went to a B&B in Brighton and I stayed there for eight weeks – I thought, ‘If I’m ever going to spend money on me, this is it.’ Every day I wandered round Brighton looking in shop windows. I reasoned, ‘If I walk around the streets all day I’m going to heal up faster.’ I went through stabbing pains as nerve endings reformed. You’ve got to be tough to do this, I tell you! You’ve got to be really tough to have a sex change and have surgery. Physically and mentally tough. I wouldn’t recommend it for light-hearted people. A lot of my friends say, ‘Oh, I can do it.’ No you can’t, you’ve got to be tough.
The children – bloody hell – they were quite shocked, but they just have to put up with it. The youngest is thirty-five. I mean, I don’t have children, they’re adults. They call me Dad, their husbands and wives call me Margery, and the grandchildren call me Nana. I think it’s gradually dawning on the oldest grandchildren. Mrs R, she died. She turned into a vegetable. She didn’t know anything, not at all. My oldest son is freaked out about it. The rest are okay. He’s inherited my worst male attributes: he likes arguing with people, very argumentative, hates gay people, I think. He assumes I’m gay and I’m not. I tell him to sod off. Well, it’s just too late, they’ll have to lump it, won’t they? I’m not reverting back to being a bloke. Why should I? I live my life for me, not for other people. I’m in charge; I give the orders now, if you see what I mean.
When I meet people today they think I’m a woman. Well, I am. They don’t know and, unless I speak in a really deep voice, they won’t know. My voice has probably changed very slightly. If I went round in big wigs and high heels people would stare at me, but I don’t. I haven’t worn make-up for thirteen years. Can’t be bothered. I’m not trying to pull. People treat me differently now. I would say they’re nicer, on the whole. Men are much more accommodating to me as a woman, they call me ‘love’. Blinking cheek! I like it. Makes me laugh. I always get a seat on the train. I’m like an old dear with my shopping basket. I have this strange feeling I’m turning into Miss Marple, with my little hat and my flat shoes, a bit nosey and bossy. I’m a sensible conservative. I used to be a man but I’m very conventional. I just want to be absolutely normal. I’m in a conventional neighbourhood, living a conventional life, doing conventional things. I’m totally normal, more or less. And it’s easy. For me it’s very, very easy to be normal. There’s no effort. Everyone tells me I’m cool and trendy and I think I’m quite boring actually! I’m just so conventional.