She dances in the dark,
Internalizes pain. She constructs the parts And brushes her mane. She pretends it’s fine. She can be the man. She knows every line. Yes, she understands. The parts already hers. She can walk, talk and grunt. Her butch cars, they purr. She can learn to hunt. But it’s so unnatural. The performance false. And what is factual? Her female heart’s pulse. She must be honest. Recall who she was Before she was lost In the land of Oz. She will now grow her hair, Learn the art of make up, Will care what to wear, And, daily, play dress up. And people may stare, Say odd things out loud. But she will not care. Instead, she’ll stand proud. And state with conviction With a voice that is clear, And without contradiction, Absolutely no fear…. “I am made with perfection. I am ‘she’, that’s inside. I don’t need your reflection. I hold my own sense of pride.” |
He plays with the fire,
Internalizes pain. He hides the desire. Hurts when moons wane. He performs a role, Decided when born. Attempts to control. Too long, has felt torn. He plays the part well. He walks talks and smiles. He must be a girl And learn how to shop miles. It’s a complete lie, Opposite is his truth. Transition or die And this is his proof. He must be honest. Recall who he was, Before he was lost In the land of Oz. He’ll stand tall, be brave, And know what is fair. He’ll learn how to shave, And cut off his hair. Some people may laugh, Or say that it’s weird, And that it’s a farce, When he grows a beard. Though people aghast, It can’t go awry. He knows complete trust, Now this is his cry…. “I am made with perfection. I am me, no one else. I don’t need Psych attention. This is me in good health.” |
Gender dysphoria Same sex marriage |
Alternatives to ‘him’ and ‘her’
Who am I? Put there by others I live in a box Not all girl, nor am I boy They call it genderfluid Genderqueer, transgressive I am my ancestors, a universe. I am me. |
Suicide 1
Overwhelming unbearable The feelings that assail us As we face stigma stigmata Of gender fluid incongruence We seek in closet reflections Mirrors of our soul’s dimensions But we find the same old prisons Imposed by preconceptions There’s one permanent escape To helpless, hopeless, aloneness Born from victimisation Discrimination and fear Take a razor to the image Hold it close and sharp and still Slash through the preconceptions Find the sunshine land beyond. It’ll do you the best of good No more deep depression No more powerless, no more lost Just the calming end of all- things But suicide’s contagious Others watch in awe. Ponder their darkest daemons And raise their razors too. Suicide 3 Take the knife from the sheath And slice my soul in two Take the ice from my heart Excise the part that’s you For now I realise That the me I used to be Is something more than fiction But something less than me Let the world see who I am It isn’t much to see What you see is what you get And what you see is me. |
Don’t laugh
Don’t laugh when you see me Because I don’t fit your idea of girl Don’t laugh when I speak because I don’t sound the way I should Don’t laugh when I cry because I hurt in a way you can’t imagine Listen to my eyes the way they plead For acceptance when there is none Listen to the message from my body Trying to be something it isn’t Listen to the way I can’t say The way I feel each moment of the day. Don’t laugh at what I am not But listen to what I don’t say I’m with you here today Sharing the magic we call life It’s not what I’m not that matters It is the I who hides beneath. Don't call me mate Cycling uphill today, A guy passes – hi mate Nice of him, it’s what you do… To be nice…but I’m not his mate Never was a mate Even to mates, so Don’t call me mate. It wrenches my inside All it assumes Wrapped in a happy hi Guys greet guys with it It’s safe, close as they get… To be being nice, but Don’t call me mate. In Lycra I look guy My whole body is guy The way I hold myself, Square jaw, thick calves Hunched, so un-girl But I am girl, so Don’t call me mate. |
The First Time - Part Two
Geena greeted me when I arrived at the Carrousel Club and introduced me to those who were already there. Standing around the kitchen were people just like me – dressed to kill in women’s clothing and immaculate makeup. Kelly cheats I have to say on account of her born-like-that gender, but she made me feel very welcome nevertheless. Most welcoming of all, however, was Kelly’s gem of a daughter. The others had varying degrees of look-like-a-woman-ness. But it struck me that they were all comfortable with that, whatever ‘that’ happened to be. It reflected well on the Carrousel Club that people could hang out in the way they wanted to look, have fun together, with no fear of someone looking down their long nose at them. I introduced myself with my newly minted name, Stephanie. I found it a little awkward trying to remember that I, as a girl, was no longer Stephen. More importantly I realised that I would get used to seeing them cross-dressed until I saw them simply as friends. They would no longer be cross-dressers or trans-this or that to me. They would become just Geena, Jess, or Betty. I also realised that these people were my lifeline. If they were not there for me then I would have no get-out-of-gaol-free card. They darn well better become my friends or… I will be sad. The consequence of this is that I will need to be there for them. From not daring to go outside my own home, I could see that I would need to prepare myself to go out into the wider world as a trans-woman. I would need to brace myself to suffer the consequences of such openness, but I also knew that I would enjoy the liberation from bondage that it would give me. All this flew through my mind while I absorbed the social chatter and banter that enveloped me, as I clutched my newly acquired handbag, puffed hair out of my eyes, and acted the frightened little damsel that I felt. I think I smiled a lot, and why shouldn’t I? Here I was for the first time in fifty years enjoying being a woman in the company of others. I recognised that my voice needed a lot of work, and my wig slipped a few times so my grey hair showed. Nobody minded, and I was sure that they would help me with all the issues I had…and there were many: where is it best to shop for clothes and shoes, how do I try them on, how do I remove unwanted hair, who can teach me to apply makeup, how do I learn to change my voice, what looks good on me, how do I pass as a woman? After a good dose of idle chat we were called into the meeting room. Kelly, the Chairperson, welcomed us and went through the general business, before introducing a guy from Bfriend. This organisation provides an interface between people in need of help concerning their gender or sexual identity, and people who could provide that help. The talk suggested to me that there is much more help out there in the community for people experiencing sexual orientation issues (such as whether they might be gay or lesbian), compared with those experiencing cross-gender issues. This highlighted the value of the Carrousel Club. If, for example, it meant that we could save just one potential suicide, then any amount of support is surely worth the effort. After the formal talks were over we were allowed to partake of the delectable comestibles. In true party fashion there were hot sausage rolls, and a smorgasbord of other Aussie favourites. It reminded me of when I was little and no party was complete without sausage rolls. While munching on several of these, pastry crumbs adhering to my lipstick, I reflected on the events that the club organised and how imaginative and varied they were. There were tennis, bowls and picnic events. The latter sounded very English, so I thought that we should definitely invite the Queen to the next one. Dancing sounded interesting, but wouldn’t we step on each other’s feet while we worked out who was supposed to lead? However, any suggestion that we should dress up to the nines, with a prize for the most gorgeous gal, then yeehaaa…it sounded good to me. |