Welcome to Transtopia

 

Hi. You’ve reached the blog of Lily Maynard. Welcome.

In late 2015, my teenage daughter Jessie declared she was transgender and the experience tugged us into a rabbit hole of Orwellian double-speak and general insanity. I read so much during that time and it was such a vast learning curve that I felt compelled to bring all the threads together in an article.  I was especially struck by the exponential surge in the number of teenage girls who were ‘identifying’ as boys, usually young lesbians and usually after lengthy sessions on social media. After Jessie desisted, I wanted to share what I’d read as well as what I’d learned and eventually I finished writing an article which contained over 100 links. Jessie added a short postscript of her own and I was delighted when 4thwavenow published it in December 2016 under the title ‘A Mum’s Voyage Through Transtopia – a tale of love and desistance’.

I’ve since re-published the article here on my own blog.

Before you ask me any questions; before you critcise or praise my stance on transitioning kids, or the appropriation of womanhood by men, please read that. It’s where it all began.

After Jessie re-realised she was a girl and things settled down at home,  I expected to put my time in Transtopia behind me and move on. Instead I became more fascinated- and angry- with the culture of misogyny and homophobia which underlies transgender theory.  For without stereotypes there can be no ‘brave transgender children’. Without the dolls and the pink tutus, a love of glitter, a gentle nature and a will to dance, what could possibly make girls of the little boys of ‘My Transgender Summer Camp’? What other than her love of Batman, karate and jumping around could make that short-haired, fierce little girl into a boy trapped in a female body? A feeling?  How does a boy feel? How does a girl feel? Without sexism, there can be no transgenderism. Without the idea that there is a ‘right’ or a ‘wrong’ way to be a boy or a girl there would be no need to beguile and medicate these kids in an attempt to make them ‘fit in’. Our current culture of blind affirmation is not doing anyone any favours.  It is nothing short of abusive to tell a child that they are ‘wrong’, that they have been ‘born in the wrong body’ or that medication and surgery can make them into the opposite sex.

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There but for Grace go we- queer theory and the snowflake generation

“One reason I’m so anti-zoom,” Grace Lavery, Associate Professor of English at the University of California, Berkeley, confided to 21.8k followers on Twitter a few days ago,is that I teach classes in queer and trans studies, where part of the point is to handle ideas that the family home renders unthinkable. My undergrad students say things that, were they to say them in their parents’ houses, might expose them to harm.”

Three ideas spring out from this tweet.  Firstly that classes in queer theory teach ideas that a family home would find “unthinkable”, secondly that “part of the point” of such classes is to create this situation, and thirdly that expressing these ideas within earshot of parents “might expose (students) to harm”.

It almost sounds as if the classes are intended to alienate young adult children from their parents. Most parents are not idiots and most parents are quite capable of thinking about and discussing complex ideas.

Firstly, let’s look at the ‘family home’ Grace is envisualising. Note, not ‘some family homes’ but the generic family home. It seems that on the one hand we are told to embrace diversity, while on the other we are offered ignorant stereotypes.

The family home Lavery envisages is a place with staid, conventional, bigoted parents. Parents, it seems, who aren’t even aware of the subjects their kid is studying at Uni. It’s unlikely that mum has ever smoked a joint or read a volume of philosophy, or that dad has ever even considered the idea of same-sex attraction or getting his ears pierced. This is clearly bonkers. Most parents of kids now at university came of age in the 80s and early 90s. We knew how to protest. We rocked against racism. We wore pink ‘Crazy Colour’ in our hair, pink triangle badges and safety pins on the lapels of our Sally Army Chelsea Girl jackets and painted CND signs on our home-bleached jeans. We wanted to Stop the City. We stood up for the acceptance of same-sex attraction at a time when the police were quite definitely not on our side. We listened to Boy George and swooned over Cyndi Lauper. My first 80s boyfriend wore more eyeliner than I did and wrote endless volumes of poetry (which reminds me, why oh why did I never make out with the beautiful, corkscrew-curled Simone who was so clearly out of my league but wanted me anyway?)

80s and 90s kids were anything but conventional. They were, among other things, the heroin generation, and those that weren’t gouged out on the sofa watching Neighbours re-runs were more often than not crawling around a field of cowpats looking for magic mushrooms or watching fractal videos and wondering if they should drop another Super Mario. We discussed Germaine Greer and Timothy Leary, listened to Chumbawamba and Consolidated and hitch-hiked up to Manchester to share bottles of water on sweaty dancefloors at the Hacienda.  When Leary was sampled into the iconic Tool track, ‘think for yourself and question authority’ became a mantra and oh, how we danced.

“Breach the peace, break the barrier, make some fuckin’ noise!” belted out Spiral Tribe as we organised a network of self-supporting, spontaneous free festivals- without mobile phones! Don’t talk to us about not conforming. We’ve been there. We had the T-shirt to prove it once, but we discarded it somewhere in a back room at Megatripolis around 1993.

I’m not trying to idealise those times – not all 80s/90s kids were semi-enlightened, tripped-out, embryonic philosophers and for many of those that were the journey ended badly and often prematurely. Sections of mainstream society were rife with casual racism, homophobia and sexism: the NF graffitied the ‘n’ word on buildings; jokes about ‘shirt-lifters’ and ‘poofters’ were everywhere and if a guy grabbed your boobs as you were walking home late then you’d probably have been told you shouldn’t have had such a short skirt on. The AIDS epidemic unfolded. The 80s and 90s housed bigotry and bias, just as any generation does. I’m not suggesting that everyone who grew up in those times is compassionate and open minded, just making the point that not all parents are bigoted morons whose brains will explode if they’re exposed to a bit of queer theory. There will always be cruel, narcissistic people who enjoy crushing others, and I don’t doubt that some unfortunate kids starting out at uni have parents who fall into this category. However, to suggest that this is the norm is disingenuous.

Lavery’s idea that ‘the family home‘ would render the ideas of queer theory ‘unthinkable’ is both ageist and absurd. Lavery is fast approaching forty, so seems a pretty weird candidate to be waving the ‘don’t trust your parents’ banner. Blogging about Viagra and erections, telling girls – no, not even when you do it ironically- to ‘tuck a corner (of a shawl) into your pussy’ and calling pro-LGB organisations ‘transphobic’ does not make you edgy or revolutionary. Nor does dressing ‘like the mignonne bitch of my autogynephilic dreams’ exempt you from the trundle of time’s winged chariot hot on your kitten heels.

A parent might be forgiven for concern about Lavery’s desire for secret Zoom chats with their newly-flown-the-nest offspring. Indeed it’s not unreasonable to consider the idea of queer theory unhealthy or dangerous, advocating as it does for the normalisation of medication and modification of body parts to closer comply with conventional social stereotypes.  It’s more likely that your average parent would find it pretentious and downright bloody stupid to be honest, but ‘unthinkable’? I think not.

Which brings us to ‘might expose them to harm’.  Lavery teaches in the States, so things may be different there. In the UK students pay for their accommodation for a full year whether they’re living there or not.

(EDIT: College campuses have been closed in the USA due to the COVID19 outbreak, but  less than 16% of undergraduate students live on campus. Like students in the UK, the rest of them either continue to live at home while attending college or pay rent to live in housing close to where they study.)

Of course, the lockdown (yes, I know it’s not literally a lockdown) is a complete pain in the arse for young people who had moved out to go to Uni. Being stuck at home when they should be vomiting into a plant pot in the student union was never part of the plan.  However, most of them – please note I said most – have chosen to go home during this trying time.  Most universities in the UK have allowed students to live in halls if they really don’t feel they can go home or have no home to go to. UC Berkeley News claims that no students will be forced out of campus accommodation. Perhaps this is untrue and they really are evicting students and forcing them to return to abusive homes. Evidence of this being the case would be appreciated.

Most students have gone home – wait for it – because they want to be with their families right now.

Lockdown aside, it’s a pretty cushy deal for most students to return home. Chances are that- whatever social class they’re from- mum is cooking their meals and doing their laundry (plus ça change) and they’re spending large amounts of the day on the family Netflix account and the evenings drinking Dark Fruits and attending Zoom parties.

Yes, I’m exaggerating. I know they still have work to do- and the combination of ‘lockdown’ and strikes means my own uni-age-child, for example, has only had about a dozen weeks of actual teaching this year. It sucks.

So most of these kids have chosen to go home. Which makes me ask, very tentatively, if their homes are genuinely unsafe places and they had finally got away, why didn’t they remain in their digs in their uni towns? Or go to stay with friends? (We offered a space to a friend of Jessie’s whose parents were abroad, but he declined. We can’t have been alone in this.)  Of course some kids, as middle-child pointed out as we discussed this over breakfast, may feel they have a moral duty to return home. Just because parents are abusive doesn’t necessarily mean their kids won’t love them anyway.  Perhaps a parent or sibling desperately needs looking after in these dark times. So let’s be clear – I’m not discounting a situation where a child has felt they have no option than to return to an abusive household during this pseudo-lockdown. For a very few, this will indeed be the case. And if this is the case, taking part in a queer theory class via Zoom will probably be the least of their concerns.

Of course, there are households where space is of such a premium that the young person returning home cannot find a quiet corner to do some work or take their queer studies Zoom chat in private. The parental home may be an overcrowded high-rise, with no garden or balcony. Parents may not be willing or able to clear a quiet place for a young person to study. In this situation there is more at stake than parental disapproval: a student’s entire degree may be at risk if they have no privacy to study. The Zoom chat will, again, be the least of their worries: after all you can wear headphones on Zoom, and there’s a chat bar for stuff you don’t want to say out loud. Not ideal, but needs must in a crisis.

So it seems we must have it both ways. On the one hand, students are responsible adults, mature, independent, pioneering free thinkers. On the other, they are vulnerable babies who absolutely have to move back home and need protecting from the idea that their dad might dismiss queer theory as a load of bloody bollocks. Which is it to be?

For what it’s worth, I’d suggest that Grace’s concern is most likely to be about parents realising what utter nonsense their kids are being fed for their thousands of dollars in tuition fees. After all, anyone with even a few brain cells left insitu can see ‘queer theory’ for what it is.

Nor does Lavery stop to consider that an interesting and educational dialogue might open up between a parent who overheard parts of such a Zoom chat and their offspring. After all, we learn a lot when we debate with those who disagree with our position. That’s how we challenge, strengthen and formulate our beliefs.

And finally, saying the unsayable- gender studies and queer theory are not generally modules taken by working class kids, who have a lot more than cash invested in getting a good degree with practical application. If the ‘queer activists’ I’ve come across are anything to go by, it’s very much the domain of the middle class. I’m left with an image of Tarquin up in his converted attic bedroom, sipping lager from his mini fridge, chatting to his friends on his MacBook about how his dad won’t call him Tarquina and doesn’t understand his gender-queer pansexuality. Meanwhile mum’s downstairs washing his socks and making dinner, wondering what the fuck happened to the sexual revolution.

 

 

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The Museum of Transology, Brighton

Museum of Transology, Brighton (2018)

Yes, Virginia, there really is a Museum of Transology. I started writing this piece back in October 2018, and it lurked, half-finished, in the ‘drafts’ section of my blog for eighteen months. Unable to roam, as are we all during the Great Lockdown of 2020, I rediscovered it in an idle moment. I have dusted it off and finished it off- which was going to take ten minutes but of course took half the night and part of the next day- and now I present to you, dear reader, the details of my 2018 visit to the Museum of Transology.

…………………………………

Down in the gardens of the glorious Brighton Pavillion lies the Brighton Museum. Free to residents of Brighton and Hove, the museum, part of the Pavillion Estate, charges out-of-towners a modest £5.20 for admission and houses ‘one of the most important and eclectic collections outside national instititutions’.

Brighton Museum

The building, completed in 1805, was originally built for George IV (then Prince of Wales).  In 1850, the town of Brighton purchased the museum from the government and hosted the first of a series of art exhibitions. In 2002 the building underwent a ten million pound facelift. It now sports a modern gift shop and until recently one of the most quirky exhibits was a pair of George’s green woolen breeches.

But no more. From 2017 (edit: the exhibition closed in January 2020) Brighton Museum has been home to an exhibition which refers to itself, in a somewhat grandiose manner, as ‘The Museum of Transology’.

 

 

“I don’t live here,” I told the man on the front desk, willing to pay my fiver, “but I’d like to visit the Museum of Transology please.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” he waved my proffered offering aside, “Up the stairs; on your left.”

“Can I take photos in there?”

“Take as many as you like!”

He smiled reassuringly and returned to arranging leaflets.

Up the stairs I went. Alice into the rabbit hole. The Museum of Transology is reached by passing through the Performance Gallery, which seemed entirely appropriate.

The Museum of Transology

The collection ‘began with donations from Brighton’s vibrant trans community’ to become ‘the largest collection representing trans people in the UK – if not the world.’

Content ‘may be graphic,’ the website had warned. ‘Please be aware that some objects are of a sensitive nature, including human tissue.’

The display claims to ‘challenge the idea that gender is fixed, binary and biologically determined by exploring how the objects reflect the participants’ self-determined gender journeys.’

Which is a weird sort of challenge TBH, because I’ve never heard anybody claim that gender is fixed, binary or biologically determined. Most feminists and free-thinkers would claim the opposite.

Sex is fixed and binary- and intersex people don’t disprove that anymore than someone being born blind disproves that we are a sighted species- but gender is vague and ethereal,  a web of stereotypes woven on a loom of social and cultural construct.

Of course there are hormonal differences between men and women: testosterone makes boys generally more rowdy than girls, girls are generally more emotionally finely tuned than boys, but it’s the word ‘generally’ that’s vitally important here and until recently, it seemed as if we were finally getting to grips with that.

Society seemed to be moving away from the idea that there was a right or wrong way to be a boy or a girl and accepting that not all boys are strong and sporty, not all girls are delicate and nurturing. Not all of us are born in bodies that suit the cultural stereotypes pushed on us, and that was starting to be seen as perfectly acceptable.  The path we seemed to be moving down was telling kids that was just fine. Just be yourself.

This T-shirt was part of the exhibition, seemingly without irony.

Try for one moment to reflect objectively on the absurd superficiality of a culture where ‘being yourself’ involves pretending you’re something you’re not; even using medications and surgeries to turn the physical you into something you weren’t in the first place and can never be, and then demanding that those around you call it authentic.

Imagine that this culture told you that it was ‘celebrating diversity’ to conform in this way. Imagine if you lived in a culture where many people, especially the young, were starting to accept that this was what was meant by the concept of ‘being yourself’.

That’s where we are now, as head up the wooden staircases and we pass through the Performance Gallery and into the Museum of Transology, to be greeted by ceiling to floor glass cases, and a wall bearing the legend:

Just be you.

“From crinolines to corsets,” the visitor is informed, “throughout dress history people of all genders have gone to great lengths to shape their bodies to create a fashionable silhouette.”

This strange talk of ‘people of all genders’. What do they mean?

I think they have to mean personality.

After all, we all have a personality and it’s what defines and develops our likes and dislikes, our dreams and desires. But gender?

Do we really all have a gender identity?

I don’t think so. I know I don’t.

Further down the piece we are told hormones and surgical procedures are critical to the well being of some trans-identified people and that that the NHS is ‘letting down trans people and failing its legal duty under the Equality Act.’

Should trans-identified people get public funded surgery on demand?  I’m baffled: there’s certainly nothing that says so in the Equality Act. However, the piece blithely rolls on to reassure the reader that other trans people choose not to have any intervention at all, and still others choose to ‘create bodies that stretch beyond the binary divide between female and male.’

Bodies that stretch beyond the binary divide between female and male.

What does this even mean?

In February 2014, Facebook rolled out 51 gender choices for users. A few months later this had become 71.  Fuck only knows how many there are now. Who’s counting? The latest cry at protests is, I kid you not, ‘non-binary is valid’. Is that’s what’s meant by stretching ‘beyond the binary divide between female and male’?

Who is making this meaningless shit up and how did we ever get to the point where disagreeing with it is seen as an act of hatred?

I find it a little unlikely that the NHS is under a legal obligation to provide such bodies on demand, but suspending my disbelief I venture beyond  ‘just be you’ and into the exhibition.

“This selection of objects represents milestones of their owner’s gender journeys.”

My head spinning, I look at the exhibits on my left.

Body tape. lipstick.

Lacy underwear.

I don’t read the label – I just know the word ‘panties’ will be written somewhere on it. Panties! The symbol of the pornified, infantilised and objectified female.

A long wig.

Some Victoria’s Secret ‘shaping inserts’.

A somewhat disconcertingly large plastic penis.

What is this all supposed to mean? “This was the first ‘boy’ product I bought” says one label. What the heck is a ‘boy product’? Products don’t have a sex.

 

A couple wander through the gallery with their Boden-clad daughter.

“Dear me, this really isn’t very appropriate for Melissa,” the man whispers to his wife, who absentmindedly steers Melissa, who is about eleven, away from the intimidating plastic penis.

“Crikey daddy, look at this!” calls Melissa a few moments later.

I suspect she has stumbled upon ‘soft packer with she-wee’, an exhibit bearing the explanation, “Great idea in theory but impractical due to hard plastic.”

Indeed. A little foresight would have suggested as much.

 

A medical gown, and a jacket fashioned from hormone prescription packets.

“Suited” is a life-size suit jacket made out of black card, collaged all over with the opened-out cartons from “Sustanon 250” (testosterone) injections, representing my personal usage for about 4 years.”

On the far right are hospital garments: juxtaposed with the fake breasts, the outsized penis and the silky underwear, the display overall has the vibe of some kind of creepy medicalised S&M kink show.

I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, it’s just what I felt. It’s feelings that are important, right?

It’s a sunny afternoon and there are probably half a dozen people in the gallery apart from us.

I see a teenage girl grab her friend’s arm and say, “I actually feel sick. I feel sick. I feel so sick…  She really looks like a man now, but…”

On the other side of the ‘Just Be You’ wall I see the exhibit she is looking at.

E J Scott, a self-described collector, underwent a double mastectomy and has saved various  items to help  “detraumatise part of the daily physical oppression that is my experience of being trans”.  Scott is founder and curator of the Museum of Transology, and hosted the Alex Bertie book signing here which my daughter attended ‘undercover’ last year (2017) in the company of  a score of unaccompanied teenage girls considering transition.

Scott’s severed breasts

 

At the bottom of the glass case, housed in pickle jars, are Scott’s severed breasts, and it is this which has caused the teenager to exclaim that she felt sick, and to indulge in her innocent ‘misgendering’ of Scott.

 

 

I’m drawn to a stuffed toy Rainbow Bright. Smallest has exactly the same soft, plushie pony at the bottom of her bed. This one is accompanied by a tag reading, ‘Immersing myself in ‘My Little Pony’ is how I manage dysphoria”.

A pencil sharpener with a missing blade is accompanied by a tag reading “I take them out because of my gender and the thoughts people have about me.”

A carefully embroidered scrap of material reads “my gender and transness cannot be defined in a single image”. 

Exhibits from the Museum of Transology

The exhibition is intriguing, baffling and deeply disturbing because the overall message is one of confusion and desperation. The battle can never be won. It is not possible to change sex, only engage yourself in an endless masquerade which is almost entirely dependent on the complicity of others, and it seems obvious that those supplying the exhibits are painfully aware of this.

“Nice gender- did your mum pick it out for you?” sneers a T shirt hanging overhead.

“The Museum of Transology is dedicated to giving a voice to the reality of trans lives and halting the erasure of trancestry.”

Trans guys are ‘hot, hot, hot, hot, hot’ imparts a collage, but all I can think is that line from Hamlet: ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

I pick up a book and open it on a page that contains a glossary of made-up- sorry, recently coined- terms.

Cisgendered: non trans people whose gender identity happens to align with their biological sex.

Non-binary: to be on the gender spectrum and not bound by the constructs of male or female.

Theirstory: The study of past events beyond the cisgender binary.

Trancestory: Evidence of trans lives lived before us.

The phrase that really rattles my cage is ‘cis-gaze’ , with its blatant appropriation of the phrase ‘male gaze’. Emma writes an excellent article about the male gaze here, apart from her unfortunate use of the word ‘gender’ instead of sex. The conflation of the two is becoming more and more common. Middle-child’s Sociology and Psychology GCSE books all use the word gender instead of sex.

 

“I’m just going to use ‘gender’ in the exams,” she told me with a sigh. “I know it’s wrong but I’m worried they’ll penalise me if I use ‘sex’ instead.”

Back to the museum. Flipping through the catalogue I see pages and pages about binders. White binders, black binders, grey binders, underworks binders, long binders, short binders, first binders, worn binders, modified binders…

“It makes it more difficult for me to breathe and there’s times when it does nothing to silence my dysphoria but I’ve never loved an article of clothing more.”

“This binder hurt so much but I wore it all day every day… it didn’t just crush me, it crushed my soul.”

If you want to read about just a fraction of the health damage done by wearing a binder you could do worse than read my article ‘Bind Me‘.

“I started using duct tape to flatten out my breasts… eventually one time when I took my tape off I also took off a layer of skin.”

There will always be women who feel the need to bind or crush their breasts in some manner but in the current political climate trying to help them find other ways to deal with their dysphoria is not just discouraged, it’s classed as conversion therapy- even abuse.

I thought again of the teenage girls who attended the ‘Youth Day’ at the museum in 2017, hosted by Scott. If binding doesn’t work for them, those girls so desperate to be like Alex Bertie, what then?  The pickle jar?

And for smaller visitors to the museum? Or those who wish to educate their little ones outside of the binary?

If you can hurry your sproglets past the nightmare vision of the severed breasts, there is a copy of the children’s book “Are you a boy or are you a girl?” which tells the tale of Tiny, a child who likes to dress up, loves animals and pretends to be a fearless rescuer. This lack of conformity to the stereotypes of either sex makes it clear, of course, that Tiny is neither a boy, nor a girl, but non-binary. Of course! It all makes sense now.

Finally, as you leave the museum, there is a ‘gender tree’ and a pile of brown ‘leaves’. Visitors are encouraged to write their feelings about gender on a ‘leaf’ and hang it on the tree before leaving.

So I did.

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