Bitter sweet

Reflections on trans awareness month

Portrait of Dante Alighieri, attributed to the Florentine School (16th century): public domain

It’s that bitter, bitter sweet time of year again. Autumn. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. When the world puts its clocks back an hour; and I don’t. Because I am a contrary old biddy, and I like light evenings.

Also, when 364 days of safeguarding are upended, and young people are sent out into the streets to throw eggs at their elders. A sort of ageist version of The Purge. Aka Halloween.

Also, also, that time when folks are encouraged to “be aware of me.” Not bike awareness, which I would support. No. Transgender Awareness. This day, week, month, ordinary cis folks, who likely give no thought to my existence, one end of the year to the next, are exhorted to “be aware.” To notice me.

I am underwhelmed.

What is there to notice? A somewhat ratty, rundown old crone. Cat lover (of course). Recluse (increasingly). A not very passable trans woman who gets by with her neighbours, and wrestles with brambles that, every year, encroach that bit further into her garden.

Not passable?

Of course not. I transitioned late. Biology — and age — have not been kind. Health is not what it was. I can no longer wander at will. Hence the reclusiveness.