The Homecoming – 3 – Mum, Dad, It’s Me!

I get the feeling that my parents would have liked a daughter.  They had hoped for more than one child but it was not to be and whilst they told me many times how happy they were to have a son, the way that my mother in particular enthusiastically fawned over my female cousin spoke volumes.  Whether that enthusiasm would have extended to me had I turned up at home in my finest and declared ‘guess what…’ is, to say the least, doubtful though.  And as both of them died over a decade ago, I’ll never know.

As far as all things trans are concerned, my mother was somewhat of an enigma.  On the one hand, she read Jan Morris’ ‘Conundrum’ and was fascinated by the whole idea that a man could become a woman even going so far as to tell myself and a visiting friend about the whole thing, much to our amazement.  On the other hand, she frequently declared that ‘there must be something wrong with a man who wants to dress in women’s clothing’ whenever the subject cropped up in conversation.  Whether she realised that her clothes were being ‘borrowed’ when she was out of the house is unknown; I’ve always felt that she didn’t but when I think about it nowadays, I’m not so sure.  Nothing was ever said but when we factor in feminine intuition, I’m starting to think that it’s almost inconceivable that she didn’t realise that something was going on.

So as I made preparations for my weekend away in the town I’d grown up in during the 1970s, I started to think about visiting their grave ‘en femme’.  I’m neither a spiritual person nor a particular believer in the afterlife (I’ll remain open minded on that one but don’t intend finding out either way any time soon)  but it struck me that graves are where we go to connect with our forebears and there would be a degree of symbolism in going there to connect my feminine side with them.  Of course, it’s just a memorial – names and dates on a headstone – beneath which their cremated remains are buried but it’s now my sole connection with them and the more I thought about it, the more the idea of revealing an important side of myself in that place just felt like the right thing to do.

I woke early and my mind was soon spinning reliving the wonderful experience I’d had at the restaurant the evening before and thinking about the day ahead.  Back in part 1, I mentioned that I had ended up with two new dresses for the weekend away; the first was worn for my outings the day before and the second – off white with dark horizontal stripes and a hemline around the lower calf – paired with a simple pair of black courts/pumps seemed perfect for the occasion, a feeling that was confirmed when I’d finished getting ready and walked to the mirror (see accompanying photo).

Outfit choices for women are very much a dark art!  Women have seemingly endless choices but with that comes diminished flexibility. The guy who walks into a room in a suit and tie only to discover that everyone else is dressed casually can remove his jacket and tie, undo his top button and immediately blend in.  What can a woman do when she turns up in an elegant dress and heels when everyone else is in jeans & sneakers or vice versa?  Women have to think ahead about the appropriateness of an outfit for its surroundings and that’s particularly important in our case if we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.

As I’ve ventured deeper into the CDing rabbit hole, I’ve come to love the idea of considering the appropriateness of an outfit for a particular setting, not least because when I get it right, my confidence goes through the roof.  It’s the difference between wearing women’s clothes and dressing as a woman – to do the latter, we have to consider society’s expectations and norms but the emotional rewards are high when we get it right.  And so, dressed as I was, whilst I would not have felt comfortable in the hustle and bustle of the town centre, for a few minutes of quiet contemplation at my parents’ graveside, I really felt that I could not have chosen better. 

It being early in the day, the cemetery was deserted and as I crouched down to place the flowers on the grave, I wondered what my parents would have said if they were there in person rather than just names on a headstone?

– you look beautiful?

– you look ridiculous?

– we always had our suspicions but wanted to leave it up to you to tell us in your own time?

– what are we supposed to say to the neighbours if they see you?

– we love you regardless?

– don’t ever come to see us like that again?

– Or any one of a thousand other positive or negative possibilities?

But I realised that however they would have reacted is hypothetical and therefore irrelevant as they are no longer around to pass judgement.   As I placed the flowers and stood up again, I was living that moment as I wanted, not to be judged by others even if I could only guess what that judgement would actually be.  Suppose they had known and had disapproved – it would have served only to drive a wedge between us.  And if they had approved?  It wouldn’t have made a shred of difference to my life and I would still have wanted things to pan out exactly as they did.

It was still early, far too early to start the drive home after all of the effort I’d put in to look my best, so decided to go for a walk by the river.  And luckily, realising that the outfit, whist perfect for the cemetery, was completely unsuitable for anything else, I’d had the foresight to bring my flat shoes and denim jacket to ‘dress down’ the outfit (and make walking more than a few yards far more comfortable).

Apart from my adventure in the restaurant, this was very much a weekend of quiet contemplation – first the cathedral, then the cemetery and now the river where it was still too early for the excited shrieks of children embarking on pleasure boats or any other activity save for a few other souls taking early morning walks.  But as I felt the warmth of the sun on my face and soaked up the tranquillity of the gently flowing river, I felt a deep contentment with how things had turned out.  It’s impossible to guess how many times I walked through the town centre or along the river bank as a child.  I don’t know whether, when I was walking though those places, I ever had thoughts of wanting to be female.  Maybe I did or maybe in those days I managed to think about more normal things that boys think about when I wasn’t close to the temptation of my mother’s wardrobe.  But even when I was succumbing to the overwhelming urges I was starting to feel, the idea of being the person I now am was just an impossible dream.

There was just time for another walk around the town centre, stopping to replenish my supply of makeup wipes en route (makeup wipes are like pairs of shoes – you can never have too many, particularly when you slap on as much makeup as I do) before it was time to drive back to the hotel and revert to my more normal persona for the return home.  But I had one more place to see on the way – the house we used to live in where my ‘journey’ started.  Little has changed about the house in the 50+ years since it was built, but, of course, you can’t say the same about me!

And that really was that.  Back to the hotel to get cleaned up and changed, on the one hand wishing that this was my normal life, not a couple of days capitalising on an unrelated pretext to spend the night away from home but on the other being thankful that I have the other life and all it has given (and continues to give) me.

-o-O-o-

As I drove home, many thoughts raced around my mind.  Even just walking through the town centre in my feminine guise would have seemed an impossible dream 50 years ago, had I even been able to contemplate the fact that one day that would be a possibility.  Granted, in those days I used to dream about having a ‘sex change’ because that was the only way I could imagine ever being able to be the woman I wished I was.  Would things have been different if I’d been able to travel half a century into the future and seen how things could pan out?  Maybe or maybe not but over the years, I have come to realise that there is a big difference between wishing I was a woman and wanting to take steps to become one and I have now reached a point of contentment with who I am in the knowledge that I can enjoy, and have the benefit of, both sides of who I am.

In many respects, spreading my feminine wings in my home town was no big deal.  Of course, I have deep seated familiarity with the place but my life has moved on since I last lived there full time in the late 1970s.  Equally, though, it was important to me that I did experience my old stamping ground through new eyes, seeing things – if only a cute dress or pair of shoes to die for in a shop – that male me would have either failed to notice or not given a second glance to.

But it could have been a big deal.  What would my classmates think if the one in a million shot had happened and I came face to face with one of them who recognised me – mild ridicule before dashing to spread the word to other former classmates, many of whom I’m still in regular contact with?  Or how would one of the girls I’d unsuccessfully chased after react – visible relief that she’d dodged the ‘trans widow’ bullet?  Or another family member visiting another family grave very close to my parents – disapproval at such a level that they felt compelled to get in touch with Mrs A and tell all?  Fortunately, none of these scenarios were put to the test but I like to think that there’d be understanding and perhaps even admiration that ‘Amanda’ scrubs up reasonably well, at least when compared to her male alter ego if nothing else!

In many respects, home town or not, this was just another outing when I could feel good about myself realising that practically everyone who passed me failed to notice me.  Indulging this side of life is not easy, and sometimes it’s downright impossible, but the rewards are there for the taking if we are prepared to grasp the opportunities presented to us.  There’s something quite empowering about acceptance, whether it’s service with a smile or just being able to blend unseen into a crowd.  But in the end, it was symbolic too, firstly as I was able to walk the streets of my home town finally having resolved most of the insecurities and uncertainties I felt all of those years ago, secondly as thanks to the wonderful Fin I was able to experience true acceptance and thirdly because of the visit to my parents’ grave.  I don’t doubt that my mother would have had something to say about ‘something being wrong’ and it would be a big ask of my father to accept that the son on whom he had lavished so much hope and love was not the person he thought he was but I also hope that once they had got over the shock, they would have felt that ‘Amanda’ was just as worthy of being a member of the family as the son they thought they had.

And that just leaves the question of ‘what now?’.  It blows my mind that I can step into the world as ‘her’ and it feels completely natural.  Things that once seemed an impossible dream are now well within reach – a night at the opera?  A day at the races? That would be a kind of magic made in Heaven (OK, enough Queen album puns!).  Joking apart, I have several ideas for inclusion on the next phase of my bucket list but I have to be realistic about the prospects – not about whether I have the confidence in my feminine skin to see them through because I definitely do – but, as I’ve said before, whether the changing circumstances in my normal life and consequential loss of freedom will allow me to see them through.  Deep down, something tells me that I’ll find a way and things will be OK but if the unthinkable happens, I can’t think of a better swansong than my weekend in my hometown.

Editorial comment: Amanda, you are a gem!