Trans by Juliet Jacques

Author:Juliet Jacques
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Verso Books

I moved the cursor over the button, shut my eyes, pressed Send and then closed my laptop.

Now, I had to go shopping. I needed lots of new clothes. What to wear?

This isn’t like dressing up for Miss Transgender or Transfabulous, I thought. Remembering all the abuse I’d taken walking around Brighton, I decided to try to ‘pass’. I straightened my hair, putting on foundation with a little mascara and lip gloss. My old friend Laura from Avatar Jewels had been thrilled when I’d told her I was transitioning, giving me skirts, tops, cardigans and necklaces that she didn’t want. I wore her old white T-shirt with a knee-length black skirt, tights and flat shoes, packed a handbag and left.

I walked towards Lacies. It was hot, and the shop was a long way from my house. I put on my headphones to stop myself worrying about people pointing me out. My trip was peaceful, but I was still nervous as I entered.

‘I’d … like to buy some breast forms,’ I said, faltering. ‘My old ones are falling apart.’

‘Do you want the same size as the ones you’ve got?’ asked the assistant.

‘Please.’

A friend had given me some bras that she thought might fit, and I didn’t want to spend more money replacing them. The assistant took me into a room full of wigs and boxes. I took off my top, removed the old inserts and threw them away. She handed me several silicone forms, all surprisingly heavy. I tried them on in front of the mirror, seeing how they looked under my T-shirt. I spent £110 on a pair and left. I worried that they were too big and altered my appearance too radically, but ‘authenticity’ wasn’t my main concern: all I could think was pass, or you’ll get beaten up.

The more banal my task, the more fraught it felt. What if I got hassle on the bus? Could I never use public transport again? What if transphobia stopped me buying groceries? After leaving Lacies, I rode into town, head down, trying to look confident yet inconspicuous. I went to the Co-op. A friendly woman who often served me put my bread and milk through the till, asking how I was. ‘Not bad, thanks,’ I said, bagging everything. Reassured, I got home and collapsed, relieved that I’d got through my afternoon. Then I remembered the email.

Just a handful of responses had come: all supportive. I stayed in that night, exhausted, telling myself not to force the issue any further.

I got up the next morning and went online, finding a few more replies. Several people were pleased that I’d thought they were worth telling. Some apologised in advance for getting my name or pronouns wrong, asking that I return their good faith with forgiveness. ‘I’m not able to understand this, but perhaps I don’t need to,’ one told me, saying that he hadn’t realised this was so important to me, appreciating my sincerity and trusting that I’d thought it through. A few guys

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