Ms Pritchett took her seat again. It was obvious she’d resumed listening mode, because there was silence for ten or fifteen seconds and she seemed in no hurry to break it.
‘Grandad,’ I said finally. ‘Ah, Grandad.’ I took another tissue because it’s best to be prepared. I pointed at the manuscript. ‘Everything in there about Pop is true. Everything. Sure, he had difficulty understanding when I first told him, maybe three years ago, but who wouldn’t? I remember he said to me, “But, Roberta, why would you want to be a boy? Boys grow up to be men and men are blankety idiots. It’s men who’ve caused all the blankety wars in history. It’s men who blankety hurt women. If I could, I’d be a woman, because men are the blankety scum of the earth.”’ I rubbed at my nose with the tissue. The way this hour was going I’d be doing a good impersonation of Rudolph by the end. Unfortunately, I’d left my festive antlers at home.
‘So what did you say to that?’ I must have been quiet for longer than I thought, lost in memories, because Ms P doesn’t normally have to jog me.
‘I said, “That’s the point, Grandad. If I could. But you can’t be a woman and neither can I. It’s not a question of me wanting to be a boy. There’s no choice involved. A boy is who I am.”’
‘Did he understand?’
‘Not really. Not fully. But you know what’s more important, Ms P? He tried. He tried so hard. And he accepted me, loved me, for who and what I am.’ I placed my hand on the pile of paper. ‘That’s what I hope is in here.’
She nodded. ‘And your father?’
‘Oh, Dad.’ I laughed. ‘He was so embarrassed that night of the award ceremony. Didn’t speak to me for four days, came home that night rotten drunk. But before that he was normally okay – provided the subject of me being trans never came up or, God forbid, was ever discussed. Mum called him the fat ostrich. The golfing ostrich with his head in a bunker, showing his bum to the world.’
Ms Pritchett smiled. ‘But not openly supportive.’
‘Oh, Ms P,’ I said. ‘You want everyone to be perfect.’
‘Sometimes I think I’d like you to act like a thirteen-year-old. You’re way too mature for a kid of your age.’
‘No pleasing some people, so snotty poo bum bum,’ I replied.
‘Do you think trans people grow up quicker?’ she asked. There was genuine curiosity there.
I gave it thought because it had never occurred to me before.
‘I reckon,’ I said finally. ‘We have to deal with things others don’t. As you said, I’ve struggled to get to where I am now. Plenty of pain and suffering that most people can’t even think about. And probably more to come.’ I pointed at her. ‘But you’d probably know better than I do. You’re the authority. What do you think?’
‘I think I’m not trans.’
I laughed at that. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Earlier you thought my book was … what were your words? An idealised world. Something about me writing a world I wanted to exist, but that didn’t, not really. That’s not true, Ms Pritchett. It does exist. I think people are good and kind. Generally. Sure, there’re bad people out there. Whoopy doo. But I didn’t want to write about bad people, partly because that’s my choice, partly because they’re on the wrong side of human history, but mainly because I feel good about myself. I feel normal. Perhaps that will change, but at the moment, I feel normal.’
We gazed at each other for a few moments, then Ms Pritchett snatched a tissue from the dispenser and dabbed at her eyes.
‘Get the hell out of here, Rob,’ she said. ‘You’ve overstayed your hour and your welcome.’ But she smiled as she said it.
The walk back to the bus was hard work, especially since the heat was trying to suck the life out of me. Anyone who could, stayed in air-conditioned cars or buildings. We pedestrians shuffled along like the walking dead.
I had my earbuds in, my phone tucked into my jeans pocket. Sweat trickled down my forehead.
But I felt good, walking to the beat of a song only I could hear.
I want to sincerely thank all who talked to me about the experience of being transgender. In particular, I much appreciate the frank and open responses of Stephanie Spillett, an ex-student of mine, who spent considerable time answering my, at times, very personal questions about gender dysphoria and her experiences in primary and senior schools. Ira Racines, another ex-student, and now a prominent member of the LGBTQI+ community in Darwin, who works with trans kids from time to time, read the manuscript and made many constructive comments, guiding both my thinking and my writing. I also had an illuminating conversation with Daniel Alderman, who works closely with trans people in Darwin, and he made many perceptive comments about the portrayal of transgender people. Lucy Gunner, a leading Pride organiser in the Top End, read the manuscript twice, which is above and beyond the call of duty. Some of the dialogue in this book was unashamedly stolen from her and I’m grateful for her guidance, good humour and intelligence. Thanks also to good friend and excellent English teacher Cathy Hood for reading the final copy and offering valuable insight.
It goes without saying that any errors or clumsiness or lack of sensitivity that may remain within these pages are my responsibility only.
Scot Gardner, author extraordinaire and good friend, read the first draft of A Song Only I Can Hear and made his normal perceptive and constructive remarks. Another fabulous author, Michael Gerard Bauer, very kindly read the [nearly] final version and was generous enough to speak highly of it. Thanks to both for the way they have always supported my writing and for being genuinely thrilled when I have achieved anything in the way of success. My publisher, Jodie Webster, has been with me from the start of my writing career and her belief in me has been unwavering. Readers often have little idea of the importance of an editor in shaping a book, making it the very best it can be, and the huge amount of time spent in doing so. My editor, Kate Whitfield, has edited this book with her customary care and sensitivity and I thank her for all her hard work. Thanks too to Carey Schroeter and Angela Namoi who have taken my books into the international market.
Although the epigraph in the opening pages is commonly attributed to Oscar Wilde, I’m aware that this attribution is doubtful. But whoever said it, the spirit of the words felt true to Wilde, and he, in turn, feels true to the spirit of this book.
Finally, my family has been exceptionally supportive, as always. Thanks to Lauren, Brendan and more distant family members who’ve egged me on from afar.
As for my wife, Nita, well, not only does she give me the time and the encouragement to write, but she is also my first reader, someone whose judgement I trust and have always trusted. I don’t think I could write without her support and belief. And, of course, it helps that she sings a song only I can hear.
Barry Jonsberg’s YA novels, The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull and It’s Not All About YOU, Calma! were shortlisted for the CBCA awards. It’s Not All About YOU, Calma! also won the Adelaide Festival Award for Children’s Literature and Dreamrider was shortlisted in the NSW Premier’s Awards. Being Here won the QLD Premier’s YA Book Award and was shortlisted for the Prime Minister’s Award. My Life as an Alphabet won the Gold Inky, the Children’s Peace Literature Award, the Territory Read, Children’s Literature/YA Award and the Victorian Premier’s Literary Award and was shortlisted in the Prime Minister’s Literary Awards, the CBCA awards, the WA Premier’s Book Awards and the Adelaide Festival Awards.
Barry lives in Darwin. His books have been published in the USA, the UK, France, Poland, Germany, Hungary, the Netherlands, Slovenia, Brazil, Turkey, China and Korea.
‘Jonsberg has created a memorable heroine in Candice, whose determined attempts to heal her family and understand her place in the world will stick with readers.’
– Publishers Weekly
‘In My Life as an Alphabet, Barry Jonsberg has an uncanny ability to take on the persona of a very special 12-year-old girl and to keep the reader totally entertained from chapters A to Z.’
– The Courier Mail
A Song Only I Can Hear Page 18