Long Road to Ruin

First encounters.

It is Monday afternoon, day one. I am sat on the front desk of the library I work in. There is a calm waiting to be pierced by a child’s wail or a comically unexpected ringtone. But today is different, for the peace is rocked by the cackle of a customer slowly veering towards the desk. She is 60-ish, savvy enough on a computer to be left to her own devices but not quite enough to refrain from asking for my help - which I naively assume she is coming to ask for. She stops at the desk and waits to catch my gaze. Her look is one of bewilderment, bemusement. “What’s this in aid of then?” she sputters out between laughs. “What do you mean?” I respond, wanting her to say the quiet part aloud. “All this,” she gestures her hand over me, “Is it some sort of joke?” Funny, I thought my clown costume was at the dry-cleaners. “I’m transgender,” I say through my wavering customer service smile, “and this is who I am now.” The cackling is faster now, as she eyes my colleague to provoke a mutual disdain (it is not reciprocated). “Oh, I need to go and lie down.” She giggles back to her computer. Ten minutes later, she needs my help printing a document, as if the interaction never occurred. The servant mustn’t have any feelings.

Another one; Tuesday afternoon, day twelve. A regular walks in, saunters over to the public computers. I had been dreading this first encounter for a while, but nevertheless I keep typing away. After a while, she reaches the printer and I am summoned (I promise there’s more to my job than this). Until I speak, she doesn’t clock who I am, but I can tell the penny’s dropping by the slowing of her speech and the twinge of curiosity. “There’s something wrong here,” she starts, gesticulating at me. “With what?" Here we go. “With you,” Nice. “What are you?” I shouldn’t even humour them at this stage, but alas. She walks away. Starts gossiping with another customer about my appearance. Leers at me as she walks out the building. Textbook.

Lo and behold, these were the only objectively bad encounters I’ve had in my now two-weeks on the job as my most authentic self. Many who know me in the realms online might be surprised that it’s only been two weeks. “But you’ve been Abby for years!” True, in my personal and private life. Where work’s concerned, it’s been an arduous double-life. One foot out the door and another stuck inside. My ingenious plan was to get my diagnosis, start HRT and *then* come out at work. I was advised unifying my social and medical transition was for the best. So I waited. Eight months for a private appointment. Four months for another. Six months for the GP to ultimately decide they didn’t want to be involved. On the eve of two years since I first came out, I realised that I needed to take the reins again. I had become beholden to the will of (or rather lack of) so-called professionals who had scant regard for my wellbeing. Dealing with a trans patient? What a hassle. There’s too much controversy. It’s politically complicated. Just wait six years for an appointment at the overloaded gender identity clinic. You’re on antidepressants, right? Here, have a crisis hotline.

So here we are. The bubble has burst, the band-aid ripped clean off. The spectrum of response to my transition has been enlightening, and the most positive responses have come from the most unlikely individuals. I have been complimented on my variety of outfits (I have a penchant for needlessly overdressing for my largely ordinary job); the big blouse collar was a crowd-pleaser, as were my knee high stompers. One customer complimented my hair (wig) as Britney Spears esque, and I had to fight the urge in the moment to rip it off and reveal another one of Britney’s noteworthy haircuts (HR would’ve had a field day). I’ve had someone shake my hand, I’ve had another give me a card. For every senseless response, there’s another ten rooted in kindness. Best of all, it’s started to feel all so normal. People have their initial moment; good, bad, indifferent, otherwise, and move on. For ultimately, it’s not that deep. Certain circles online try and instil the fear in you that every other person bears a personal grudge against you for the crime of being trans. In reality, people have better things to worry about than a stranger going about their life in their own way.

People screw up the name, the pronouns, or just little innocent remarks from time to time and you know what? That’s fine. It’ll happen less. People will do better. Far from “snowflakes”, trans folk are resilient and swell with empathy. Munroe Bergdorf wrote about how someone’s transition is, in a sense, communal. It takes time for everyone to adjust. Ultimately, it’s all about the intent. Is it coming from a place of learning or malice? That’s what matters. I don’t have to entertain those who can’t extend me a basic dignity. Thankfully, they are exceedingly few. These recent weeks have vindicated my decision to prioritise my happiness, and I am proud of myself for pushing through the fear and doubt. I first came out two years ago, yet it’s these two weeks that have felt like the very first of the rest of my life. On the brink of my thirties, I have a renewed optimism. While it’s not all sunshine and rainbows, the outlook is a little less bleak - and I’ll take the small victories as they come. Maybe this newsletter will live up to its name after all.