4. Dress Code
Spent yesterday with Marla at her house, painting a sign for the Chronic Cramps, to hang behind us when we play. Marla’s technically not in the band itself, but likes to do our posters and promotional stuff. She’d gone home with the girl in the painter’s cap from the show, and hadn’t had much sleep from the sound of it.
‘It was awesome,’ she said as soon as I arrived.
‘Uh huh. Did you get her name?’
‘Of course! Andrea,’ Marla said dreamily. ‘You should have hooked up with that guitarist.’
‘Marla!’
‘What? She’s cute and you know it.’
‘Yeah she was, it’s just ... I don’t know.’ I was beginning to know, but not enough to talk to Marla about it yet. I didn’t want to have sex until my body was right. Sorted. Male.
‘Makes sense, guitarists getting with each other,’ Marla went on.
I didn’t mind hearing the gory details of Marla’s sexual adventures. When my turn came at least I’d know a thing or two.
But I knew that the Chronic sign and hanging out with Marla yesterday was just a distraction for me, an excuse, so I wouldn’t have to change the rest of my life, and my body. I was putting it off. Making a decision seemed too hard.
My recent eighteenth birthday meant I was adult in all kinds of legal ways. Like getting a driver’s licence. Or being able to have surgery. Time to move on what I had been thinking about every day for years, but never known what it was, let alone what to do.
My eighteenth birthday was decision day for me. I had to transition before I could concentrate on getting a job, or a career or having a partner. Otherwise, I could waste years.
I felt stuck. Reading everything I could find online had almost made things worse. My head was full of options. I could take testosterone, or have surgery, or both. Which was more important? What should I do first? Then there was the question of who to tell about it. My family? Friends? When should I do that?Time to get help. Time to find an electronic person to help me.
I sat at my desk and tried to work out who to contact. But what sort of help did I need? Where to start? Who or what should I Google? What’s the keyword for my future? I didn’t just want other people’s stories. I needed to know what to do to change me.
Being anonymous electronically was okay. Online, I could even pretend to be someone else. But the next step was finding out for the real me. How did I research my inner self?
I typed ‘transitioning’ and found all kinds of stuff that wasn’t about gender. Sustainable agriculture didn’t sound like what I needed. Neither did military transitioning. Some pages were on topic, but vague. I couldn't work out my next move.
I knew that if I typed ‘sex’ I’d just get flooded with porn. I learned that last time I tried. So that wasn’t the way to go. ‘Gender’ wasn’t much help either; a lot of definitions and academic articles I didn’t understand.
I went back to some of the bookmarked sites where I’d read others’ stories in the past.
I wish I’d known about transitioning earlier, wrote Anon.
I agreed. That’s what I was trying to do, but finding even a starting point to this process was proving impossible. Everyone had a different story, and some were horror stories. I didn’t want to go to a doctor and have to explain face to face all about it. But then, if I made an appointment, there was a chance that the medico would know what to do. There was no way I could go to our family doctor. Even if doctors take some oath that stops them gossiping to your family, it could still happen. Too risky.
I clicked around the FTM forums. Everything relevant was for other cities, overseas or too old. I’d have to post my own question in the local forum.
Subject: Starting transition, need a local doctor.
Hey everyone, I’m new on here and really want to get things started soon. Does anyone know how to find a doctor who can help me? I’m not sure what happens next, but I think I need to get on hormones. Thanks, Finn
Mood: excited.
Never been excited about a visit to the doctor before.
Once I’d hit the ‘post’ button, impatience took hold. I needed action! So tired of waiting. I clicked through to some more blogs, waiting for a response. The guys were all so supportive of each other, it was a new world. They talked about things like binding their chests, coming out to family and friends, medical stuff, effects of hormones ... there were so many different options and paths.
I surfed the forums for a while. Then my email beeped – a new message from a guy called Jono.
Reply: Hey Finn, congratulations on starting out! Here’s my doctor’s details. She’s trans-friendly and should be able to refer you to a psychiatrist. You need a psych assessment before the endocrinologist can prescribe you testosterone.
A doctor’s appointment, then a psychiatrist, then an endocrinologist? It sounded so formal. How long would that take? I could still be stuck as Skye this time next year. And psychiatrists were for crazy people. I might be mixed-up about my gender right now, but I’m not crazy.
The doctor’s name and number were listed at the bottom. What did people do before the internet? You can’t find this stuff in the library. And Jono even spelled the medical words right. Did that mean he’d used those words a lot? Like every day? That there was a world where testosterone was an okay word? I even had to look up what an endocrinologist was.
Okay, next I had to ring to make an appointment.
Finally doing something real, like dialling the number, got me started. It was simple, just like when I had a sore throat or busted knee. Mum made us call in for our own appointments since I was about thirteen, to ‘prepare us for the real world’, although she did call the doctor for us when we were really ill.
***
‘The doctor’s number is on the phone pad,’
‘So?’
‘Thirteen is officially adult. You’re thirteen. Time to make your own appointments.’
‘I’ve just got spots.’
‘Could be chickenpox. Might be infectious.’
‘If I touch the phone, then I may infect it.’
‘You’ve got a point. I’ll call the doctor this time,’ Mum conceded and then she remembered. ‘But you’ve already had chickenpox when you were seven, and the rest of the family got it then, too.’
I later found out she was wrong, that adults can get shingles, which is the same thing. But after that I still had to ring for my own medical appointments and, in a way, it was better. I always made them during maths periods.
***
‘Hello, Doctor Snell’s clinic.’
‘Er ... I’d like to make an appointment.’
‘Have you been a patient here before?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll need some details then.’
The receptionist asked a few questions about my name and address and birthday, but not why I wanted the appointment. Why would she? They don’t usually ask that.
‘The earliest appointment will be on the thirteenth, at 1pm. Is that possible for you?’ the receptionist asked.
‘Sure.’ I wasn’t superstitious. Maybe other people were and that’s why there was a vacancy on that date. Dad said more vehicles had accidents on the thirteenth, but maybe the drivers just remembered the date, or he did when he was repairing them. Selective memories.
This appointment wasn’t enough though – the thirteenth was days ahead and everything was still so confusing. Was there a way to get someone to talk to? How about that Life Skills dude?
I thought back to a session we had at school a couple of years ago. The last week of every term was Life Skills where we found ourselves work experience, and had guest speakers teaching us various things that had nothing to do with school work. We called it ‘bludge week’. One session was a guy from Sexual Health. He talked about STDs and also about gender identity. So weird how I’d never remembered that until now; it was probably the only time anyone had ever talked to me about gender identity and I’d totally forgotten it. Maybe because I had no idea what he was on about at the time. ‘Sex’ and ‘gender identity’ were lumped together in his talk and only now was I learning the difference.
‘Sex is between your legs and gender between your ears,’ he had said, and shown a sort of cartoon.
I think he’d been trying to be witty and the group was just embarrassed. My own confusion and what he was talking about seemed so different.
Now I had a lead – if I could track him down maybe he could help me?
I found a freecall number online and dialled. A woman answered before it even rang.
‘Sexual Health.’
Eek. What do I say?
‘Um, oh, hi. Uh, this guy came to talk to us at school last year and he was talking about gender identity and stuff. Is there someone I can talk to about that?’
She paused. ‘You’re looking for counselling?’
‘Yes,’ my voice answered for me.
‘Which area are you in?’
I told her.
‘Okay.’ A pause. ‘I’ll give you a name and number. You want to call Greer Knight.’ She gave me the contact details.
‘Thanks.’ I put the phone down. That was easy. Two things done. Time for a third. Felt a bit worn out and wished it was all over already. Not good! This was just the start.
I dialled the counsellor’s number. It went straight to the message service.
‘Hi. You’ve called Greer Knight.’ Her voice sounded flat. There was a long pause. ‘If you’d like to leave a message or make an appointment, please speak after the tone.’ It took so long I thought I’d missed it. Finally it beeped.
‘Hi, Greer. Um.’ Now it was my turn to pause. Why was this so scary? ‘I got your number from Sexual Health. Can I – could I please make an appointment? To talk about my transition.’ It was the first time I’d said ‘transition’ out loud. I left my mobile number and hung up.
Then I realised I’d forgotten to leave my name.
Do we deliberately forget stuff we don’t want to do?
Maybe?
I do.
When I went into the kitchen for a drink, I noticed the invitation on the fridge door.
That was something else I’d kind of forgotten. Something so awful I’d blocked it out of my mind, but it was coming up again this week. A social event with appropriate clothes!
I hated my grandmother’s birthday party more every year, and felt guilty about hating it. I loved Grandma, but she always flogged the girlie thing so hard. She still made me dresses on her old treadle Singer sewing machine, the kind with no electricity. The dresses had frills and lace. Usually they were pinks, mauves and even spots and flowered patterns. No one I knew ever wore anything like that any more, let alone butch girls and punks.
We had shared special times though. Grandma’s real name was Beverley, or Bev to her friends. She had taught me sewing, which I still enjoy. I made my own shorts last summer with zip-up pockets and everything. I learned cross stitch from her as well. The finished result looked like pixellated pictures, kind of like old video games.
‘It’s still craft,’ said Gran. ‘Takes time.’
I’ve done a few native birds: eastern rosellas, cockatoos, cockatiels. Mum framed them and hung them up around the house. It was fun to learn things from Grandma. She joked about most things and there was never any pressure to get it right first time. We’d even tiled half the patio in a kind of crazy mosaic.
Now I had to prepare an outfit or I’d go crazy stressing about it. Shuffled through my wardrobe, whipping through awful blouses. I even hated the word ‘blouse’; it was only ever used by Mum when she was nagging me to wear one, and it filled me with dread. Hardly any shirts. When does a blouse become a shirt? Or vice versa? Or does it depend upon who is labelling it? Or wearing it?
That skirt Grandma made me was actually quite a cool colour. It was olive green in a similar style to my old school uniform. And no frills. Next to my patches, which I add to most clothes, in a pile of ‘stuff to work on’, was an army shirt I’d bought and never got around to sewing anything on. It was the same olive colour and had epaulets on the shoulders. This could work. What would be even cooler was wearing a tie with it. I wore a tie in my last two years of high school and loved it, though most kids hated it because it choked them. Why didn’t they buy shirts with a bigger collar? Duh.
This was a snag – I only had one tie, and I wasn’t wearing my old school tie to a family do. This outfit was pushing it as it was. I went up the hallway into my parents’ room; glad to be getting organised on a weekday while no one was home. Pushed open the big heavy built-in wardrobe doors and got a whiff of Dad’s old leather jacket that he didn’t wear any more. Everything in there smelled like it. Flicked through the ties and found a dark red, tartan one – this would do. Dad wouldn’t mind.
Back in my room I put everything on. It didn’t look remotely like any grandmother’s version of dressed up, but that’s all they were getting. Gran wouldn’t mind, as long as I’d made an effort. Soon enough I’d be in dress trousers at things like this and they’d have to deal with it. Not yet though. It would cause too many questions, and I wasn’t ready for that. I wouldn’t know what to say.
***
‘That’s what you’re wearing?’ Mum sat at the kitchen table, coffee raised halfway to her lips when I walked in and presented myself. I’d waited until the morning of Grandma’s party to get into my chosen outfit so it would be too late to change it. ‘It looks like a boy scout’s uniform. Can’t you at least wear a blouse? The one with the red flowers, or even the blue one?’
She sounded a little exasperated. We’d had this same conversation so many times I knew she didn’t really care. Mum just liked flowers and my dad and brother wouldn’t be wearing them anytime soon, or ever. Her own clothes were mostly floral print dresses and skirts, and with her long blonde hair she spreads a feminine aura in all directions. Even down to the ever-pink high heels. Mum’s shoe rack was huge, mostly filled with high heels. We didn’t have the same size feet so thankfully she never offered to loan them to me. Not the only reason, I guess.
‘Mum, boy scouts are just scouts now, and they’re not all boys.’
Helped myself to porridge cooling on the stove, spooning a big dollop of honey onto it. Sitting down at the table across from her, I ate as she looked forlornly at me and sipped her coffee, her newly pastel pink nails so well painted they looked fake. They were perfectly matched with her pastel pink lips, which she pursed at me now.
‘I don’t mind, but your grandma will. You know what she’s like. She made it for you.’ She sighed. ‘You know I don’t mind if you dress like a boy, but the family do. It’s such a little thing.’
I kept eating and stared at the table. We’re not just talking clothes here. Or fashion. Or flowers. Choice isn’t a little thing. It’s a big thing, the biggest thing. ‘I’m part of this family. What about what I think? Gran won’t mind,’ I added under my breath. I was sure she wouldn’t, no matter what Mum said.
Mum sighed again. A car with a noisy engine pulled into the driveway and honked. Dad came striding out of the garage, wiping his hands on a greasy rag and smiling. I watched him through the kitchen window. I thought Dad was getting ready, but here he was already in his best clothes working on someone’s car. He knew better than to get so much as a spot on his good shirt though. Mum was ruthless about very few things but engine marks on Dad’s expensive pale blue shirts was one of them. Especially as she always chose them, and paid for them out of her budget.
From the sound of the engine, my brother Victor had arrived. Then I saw his old Charger through the window. Usually he was Vic; today he’d be Victor. We all sacrificed some of our identities on days like this, for the family. Followed by Dad, Vic strode into the kitchen, tucking his white shirt into neat slacks and patting his crew cut, as if it needed smoothing down.
‘Okay, Mum, Victor, the chauffeur is here. Sorry I forgot the peaked cap.’
Mum just smiled as she collected her pink bag, and the foil-covered plates of food she’d cooked for Grandma’s party. Victor was allowed to joke.
***
I love riding around in Vic’s old Charger. It’s his pride and joy. He’s done it up himself, with Dad’s help, of course. They totally bonded over it in a feel-good movie sort of way. It has a wide solid body sprayed a custom shade of deep red, all the original chrome trim, black leather seats, and a pumping stereo. He started on it when he was thirteen and ten years later it was immaculate. It was so ultimately cooler than any of the old bombs Dad had done up that even he had to admit it. Sometimes, grudgingly. It’s their ritual.
‘Given the Charger a bit of a clean, Vic?’ Dad said, running his hand over the bonnet. ‘That engine’s making a bit of noise.’
Vic nodded.
We all piled in and were on our way. It’s usually only twenty minutes’ drive, but Vic is meticulous with his driving and stays below the speed limit, always on the lookout for potential threats to his car. Exactly the opposite of me. It’s cool how he let me sit in the front seat.
‘So I hear you got your licence,’ he said to me after Mum had finished fussing over whether we were presentable enough to leave, even though we were already out of the driveway and down the street. Vic spoke without turning his head, eyes always on the road. I noticed he never turned his head to look in the rearview mirror. Did anyone?
‘Yep, near perfect score. Drove the van to a gig last week.’
‘Cool. Are you going to do it up, or leave it like it is?’ he asked, trying to make it sound like a joke. I know it drives him crazy to even be related to someone who drives a heap like that. ‘I’ll help you with the spray job if you like,’ he said loudly enough for Dad to hear in the back seat. Here we go.
‘Ah, a spray job, is it?’ Dad said. ‘I’ve got some pastel blue you could use, leftover from ...’
‘EWWW!’ Vic and I groaned in unison before he finished. ‘Are you serious? It’s a Hiace, not a Vee-dub,’ Vic said, meaning the old Volkswagen vans from the sixties, not the slick new ones.
‘Nah, go metallic blue, navy blue. I can get you some cool decals for the sides.’
‘We’ll see.’ Funny how letting Vic spray my car would almost be a favour to him, even though he’d be doing all the work.
‘Yeesh, you try and lend a hand to your kids, then they just turn ’round and say “ewww”,’ Dad said to no one in particular.
‘Oh, shoosh. You could always spray my car with your pastel blue,’ Mum said teasingly. Dad had resprayed her car pastel pink just last year. Mum does love her pastels. Vic shot me a pained expression that mirrored my own, before his eyes returned quickly to the road.
‘Maybe we could spray some flowers on the door! Just for you, Mum.’
It was a relief to get to Bev’s house in Bona Vista Boulevard, and not have to do family talk in the car any more. Twenty minutes was about my limit, and I couldn’t escape. I always felt trapped, so I had the door open as soon as Vic stopped.
The family was going through its rituals; we all had to greet Grandma in turn. I wondered how far back in the family history this went. Knowing Gran, she probably invented it. There was actually a queue leading up to the sunroom at the front of the house, most of them elderly. There was her sewing group, spinners and weavers, then a bunch of women she’d known since school. Some old blokes came too, but mostly women. Probably out-lived them.
The line slowly moved forward, until Grandma was finally greeting the old couple in front of us. ‘Bev! You look younger every year,’ the man said. His wife whopped him on the arm and he held it with mock pain. Grandma kissed them both on the cheeks. They shuffled off into the lounge, which was stuffed with chairs. Gran was a serious collector of stuff, in multiples.
‘Just a few things for you, Mum,’ said my mum.
‘So Vic drove well?’
‘My son, your grandson, is an excellent driver.’
Vic and I were next. I stepped up through the glass doorway.
‘Hullo, Skye,’ she said. ‘So good to see you.’ Gran hugged me then stepped back for a better look. Why do old people do that? Was she critiquing my outfit? It seemed so – her eyes went instantly to the olive skirt she had made.
‘Oh, you’re wearing the skirt! It fits so well.’ She smiled, looking a little confused at my choice of shirt. ‘And what’s this? Oh my lord, I made that tie for your father. I wove the cloth myself, you know. It’s over thirty years old. What a nice surprise.’
My gut feeling that Grandma wouldn’t mind about my outfit turned out right, of course. Why did Mum have to make such a fuss?
Vic’s turn. ‘Hi, Gran,’ he bent down to receive his hug and kiss.
‘Victor. So good of you to come.’
Why was it optional for Vic to attend these things? Like he’s the only one who might be off somewhere doing very important stuff and couldn’t possibly fit it into his schedule. That would never apply to me – as female and younger, I would never have anything more important in my life than family functions.
To be polite, I waited until Vic was done with his greeting and moved on into the lounge. It was lined with oldies chatting and laughing with each other. Desserts and savouries were laid out on a card table covered with a tablecloth embroidered with little human figures around the edge. Looked like they were running away. Had just helped myself to a bowl of trifle and was spooning it into my mouth when one of the oldies came up. Stooped over, she had a glass of sherry in one hand.
‘Skye, haven’t seen you for years! I remember when you were a pretty little baby, in the velvet and lace dresses Bev made.’
I’ve learnt how to drop my voice into a mutter at the end of a greeting, when I can’t remember the oldie’s name. It’s better than mixing them up in public when they all seem to have the same chins, and ‘dressed up’ jewellery. I was over this already and just wanted to eat my trifle, then preferably disappear.
She grabbed my arm and looked me up and down. ‘That’s an interesting outfit you have on there?’ Her raised inflection sounded like a sort of question.
‘Er, thanks,’ I mumbled. ‘Bev made this too, and the tie.’
‘Yes. The tie.’ Was she disapproving? Hard to tell.
She patted my arm then went back to sit with the others on the wicker chairs. They leaned in towards each other and gossiped, all looking at me. Could they be more obvious? I rolled my eyes and turned to go out to the half-finished mosaic patio to eat there in peace.
‘She’s just like old Al, that one,’ one of them said.
This caught my attention. Who was old Al? They were saying I was like a man. I felt like I’d been sprung. I didn’t want this kind of attention. They should know better, at their age. I went out into the garden crammed with Gran’s potted plants along the winding path and wondered how the flowers felt about their relatives and friends. Or maybe they didn’t have those hassles. They just inherited stuff from previous seeds. Or were blown by the wind into another place, with no choice. Or were nicked as cuttings from neighbours’ gardens.
Grandma’s was a BIG garden, with lawn rolling down to a vegetable patch, and paths landscaped by a drunken designer. Rhododendrons grouped at the back fence, near a compost heap where my little second cousins played hide-and-seek. They were all younger than me and ran around chasing each other and squealing. Their parents, Mum’s younger cousins and their partners, stood around the gravel paths sipping wine and beer. The girls always hid down the end of the yard under the big rhododendron bush, our secret hideout at these family gatherings. I walked down there.
‘Hi plant. What’s the dress code for rhododendrons?’ I muttered.
A deep voice from behind the rhododendron bush said, ‘With a tie.’
I jumped, and Vic’s head appeared.
‘Got you!’ He smiled so widely his chipped tooth showed.
Excited screams floated down from the little kids further up the garden.
‘Talking to plants is supposed to make them grow, but I think it’s the first sign of madness,’ Victor said. ‘The little cousins want you to say “hey” to them and play hide-and-seek. That’s what I was doing.’
‘Well you found me. Or I found you. I’ll play with them in a sec. D’you know about someone called Al?’
‘Why?’
‘Grandma’s mates say I remind them of him.’
‘Which bit of you? Your fashion sense? Or talking to plants?’
‘Seriously.’
Victor frowned. ‘I think I remember meeting him once, when I was a little kid, younger than these guys. I wasn’t sure who he was. I wasn’t even sure ...’ Victor paused and then said in a rush. ‘I didn’t know whether he was an old man or an old woman. Like whether he was a man auntie. You know how little kids get mixed up. Everybody is older than you even if they are only a year older. But I think I remember they took a family photo of all of us, so that’s probably around somewhere.’
‘Had the camera been invented then? Did they have photos in those olden days?’ I tried to lighten up.
‘Cameras with film. Not digital. No webcams.’
‘Was he an uncle?’
Victor shrugged. ‘That’s what they said.’
‘Who said?’
‘I think it was Gran. Al was a great-uncle to us.’
‘So was Al, Bev’s brother? Sibling? That covers brothers or sisters. Easier ...’
‘Why don’t you ask Bev, like you did for that school history assignment. But get her when she’s on her own, not like today. The Afternoon Tea Mafia get in the way. They sure don’t like Gran’s patio pattern. Half of them tripped on the jutting out bricks.’ Victor turned. ‘I remember, Al wasn’t wearing trousers.’
‘He was naked?’
‘No, he had a sort of skirt.’
‘A kilt? Grandma did like tartan ties.’
Victor grinned. ‘Like you? No, one of those islander skirts men wear ... a sarong. I think he’d been working overseas in the Pacific islands or India or somewhere. Sort of an adventurer.’
***
Back in the house Grandma was surrounded by the Afternoon Tea Mafia, oldies sipping more gin than tea. They leaned back on the cushions, telling embarrassing stories where the teller laughs before the end and you never hear the punchline.
I waited for a break.
‘Can I look at your old photo albums, Grandma?’
‘Help yourself, Skye. They’re in the dining room cupboard. Some are in the sideboard drawers.’
Grandma turned to her friends. ‘Skye did a wonderful assignment for school last year. On family history. She interviewed me. About life in the “olden days”.’
But you didn’t mention Al then!
I jerked open the stuck drawer so quickly, the ornaments on the shelf above wobbled. Luckily I caught the ugly blue vase before it crashed. Why do oldies keep dust-catcher stuff like that! Paper weights that aren’t used on paper. Vintage op shop. My mum longed to clear it all out and donate it to charity. She called the clutter Charity Chic, unless it was her favourite pink.
I shuffled through curled photos that slipped out of the black corners of albums, so old the sticky stuff didn’t work. Even a family bible with rice-paper thin pages. Bev must have known really bad photographers, cos it was hard to work out who was who, especially in group shots with all the weird hats, and no names on the back.
A roar of group laughter. I looked across. Now was definitely not the time to ask important historic questions of my gran, who was spluttering so much in between giggles, her front teeth were slipping, giving her lips a weird line.
Old photos creeped me out, the way dead people’s eyes stared out at you. Men in dark suits and women in big frilly hats wearing such solemn expressions, you’d think they’d never smiled in their lives. Babies all in white smocks, boys with short hair, girls with long. Two ‘old fashioned’ girls who looked like sisters from the look-alike hair.
Sepia turned into black-and-white, then red-tinted colour in the sixties. Still the same sorts of shots though, people in front of buildings. Finally I found something: Grandma and a man in a suit, standing in front of some knee-high rhododendrons. They stood arm-in-arm, both smiling broadly. There was an unmistakable family resemblance. But no name captions.
Why hadn’t I ever noticed this one? I realised I’d never looked through these photos myself before – Grandma had always got the albums out and flipped the pages herself, pointing out various dead relatives and houses the family didn’t own any more, and telling her stories. I never dreamed she might have skipped some pages on purpose.
Why would she hide a great-uncle? Did this mean I would be hidden, too? Or was I imagining a secret where there wasn’t one? Most teenagers don’t know all their ancestors, even if they do get an A in a school Family History assignment. And I only got a B plus. Must have had a few things wrong.