she gestured at the women walking around the station, look at them
Megan felt rattled at Bibi in effect mansplaining, she was a woman with male confidence, who went on to say that dressing like a woman means wearing every variety of clothing you can imagine, including baggies like these, she pulled at her blue jeans
you don’t have to tell me, Megan said when she could get a word in edgeways, pointing out her own baggy jeans and outsized red and white check shirt, sleeves rolled up (the tats cost enough), don’t forget I’m the expert here
of course you are, Bibi exclaimed, look at me telling you, you have to stop me from becoming one of those trans females who think they know more about being a woman than those who’ve lived their entire lives as one
trust me, Megan replied, I will, relieved that they weren’t going to fall out within ten minutes of meeting
as the conversation proceeded to race along with no pit stops
they talked until their nerves jangled with the caffeine they kept ordering and later in a wine bar when their emotions swelled with the lagers they were drinking
they held hands over the table, amused when others did a double take – was that a man and woman or two women?
Megan told Bibi that after considering the options in depth, what makes most sense to me is the concept of gender-free, being born female isn’t the problem, society’s expectations are, I get this now and I’m so glad I didn’t go down the sex change route
gender confirmation, love, Bibi snapped
all right, keep your hair on, I’m allowed to make mistakes so be patient with me, or I’ll think you’re totally up yourself
Bibi looked suitably chastised
the truth is, Bibi, I could never get my head around taking testosterone, and I really didn’t want to thicken my skin, deepen my voice, bulk up, get hairy and phalloplasty was never on the cards, not for me
I would like to get rid of these, though, Megan pointed to her flat chest, breasts bound underneath her shirt
that would improve the quality of my life no end, she said, opening up more as the conversation continued on the journey back to Bibi’s tiny rented cottage in Hebden Bridge later that evening
with its sagging seventeenth-century beams and subsided floors
where Bibi said Megan was welcome to stay
as they went in for their first kiss on the double bed
Hebden Bridge
was a small haven of organic-friendly and environmentalist residents and shops
of Tai Chi, Pilates, meditation, yoga and holistic healing classes
of writers, theatre-makers, filmmakers, visual artists, dancers and activists
of old-fashioned hippies and new-fashioned non-conformists
as well as people whose families had lived there for generations, and were used to the bohemians who’d begun arriving in the sixties
Megan loved its cobbled streets and short walks to the Calder Valley and Hardcastle Crags where they rambled for hours, physically and verbally, wearing bright rain macs and walking boots
Megan wondered aloud how she could put her gender-free identity into practice when they were living in a gender-binary world, and that with so many definitions (sane and insane, she refrained from saying), the very idea of gender might eventually lose any meaning, who can remember them all? maybe that was the point, a completely gender-free world, or was that a naïve utopian dream?
Bibi replied that dreaming wasn’t naïve but essential for survival, dreaming was the equivalent of hoping on a large scale, utopias were an unachievable ideal by definition, and yeh, she really couldn’t see billions of people accepting the abolition of the idea of gender completely in her lifetime
Megan said in which case demanding gender-neutral pronouns for herself from people who’d no idea what she was going on about also seemed utopian
Bibi said it was a first step towards changing people’s minds, although yes, like all radical movements, there’d be much resistance and Megan would have to be resilient
they pounded the muddy grass in rain, and after it, mist coming out of their mouths before words did
Bibi’s Labrador, Joy, raced ahead, so happy to be outside, as they were, country lovers, both of them
happy to be away from the human race
they started on an incline, navigated slippery rocks and moss, left the mist behind them, entered a cloudless part of the valley, the sun reappeared behind the grey sky, the land fell away behind them
they put their hoods down, surveyed the glossy green landscape
Megan said maybe she should become a missionary of the gender non-conforming crusade going forth to spread the gospel that gender is one of the biggest lies of our civilization
it’s to keep men and women in their place, she shouted out to the landscape, as if evangelizing from a pulpit
her voice echoed back from the valley walls
can you hear me can you hear me can you hear me?
they discussed the best gender-neutral alternatives such as ae, e, ey, per, they, and tested each word to see if the words tripped off the tongue or tripped over it, ditto with the alternatives to his and hers: hirs, aers, eirs, pers, theirs and xyrs
Megan decided to try out they and theirs, what matters most to me, is that I know how I feel, and the rest of the world might catch up one day, even if it’ll be a quiet revolution over longer than my lifetime, if it happens at all
you’re right, Megan, Bibi replied, in the meantime, don’t get antsy with people when they screw up your preferred pronouns, even when they want to remember, people will get it repeatedly wrong, they have to rewire their brains to adjust and that’s not easy, it takes time
Megan laughed, look who’s talking
they held hands
where they felt most safe doing it
in the middle of nowhere.
5
Morgan (no longer Megan)
has self-identified as gender-free for six years now, they’ve learnt to be cool with it when people don’t use or understand their preferred pronouns
initially they wanted to punch their lights out
they’re leaning on the wall overlooking the River Thames outside the crowded after-party of The Last Amazon of Dahomey at the National Theatre, written and directed by none other than Amma Bonsu
the legendary black dyke theatre director
their head is still shaven, once a week their bald pate is made smooth and shiny courtesy of a razor run once in one direction over shaving foam and once in the other
that’s it – ‘hair’ done
their white shirt sleeves are rolled up high to show off tattoos of red and yellow flames rising up their arms, black jeans are slung low, fold up at the end to show off white ankle socks, brogues
Morgan’s relieved to have escaped the schmoozing egotarians of London’s cliques
a couple of them had been forced to say hello when they stood in their flight path, but instead of stopping for a chat had quickly moved on, Morgan wanted to have at least a couple of meaningful convos with the natives before they left, how ridiculous to come all the way down to London and spend it alone
yet this is exactly what’s happened because unlike their social media persona which is confident and witty when there’s time to redraft posts at leisure and Google long words before using them, it’s another matter in the flesh
so far they’ve not said a complete single sentence to anyone
Morgan had escaped outside, lit a roll-up, a glass of pretentious fake champagne in hand (no down-to-earth beers or lagers)