Posts Tagged ‘pop music’

When I was a child, being raised as a boy, I was kind of an isolated one. Not so isolated before the age of nine, when I had my first clear sense of gender variance, but even before then I would tend to play by myself (I was quite asthmatic which was also limiting) and was obsessed in general with cultural artifacts rather than people. 

Music to begin with, played on our Deccalian record player and then ultimately our Dansette. But very quickly comics (I stole a comic from a cafe when I was about four!) and TV, particularly science fiction. And love of SF TV led at around 12 to love of written science fiction, firstly through Isaac Asimov‘s collection of stories I, Robot, as I was a robot nut. And then in the teen years my musical tastes widened tremendously, so you can find many different types of music and artists on our shelves at home. So I guess I was pretty geeky, and socially awkward in my teens for all the usual reasons plus the transgender reasons on top.

Great Science-Fiction

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Geek for some people is of course a negative term but I think it’s cool to be one (don’t like the term nerd however). And actually I’m an incredibly wide-ranging geek – I’m into all sorts of stuff. Which I think is one of the things that makes me good at my job – working with academic staff in all different disciplines across the University of East Anglia – because I am interested in what they’re up to and have enough geeky skills to talk a bit of their language and understand some of what they’re talking about, whether they’re a historian or teaching on a medical degree.

So I guess I know a lot about certain things (I can recognize whether a comic has been drawn by Steve Ditko, or Ron Embleton, or Barry Windsor-Smith, or Gene Colan, or Frank Bellamy, or Dave Gibbons … I’ll stop now), and a little about a lot. I ain’t no scientist, but I’ve heard of buckyballs.

But the reason I am writing about all this stuff is because a geek’s relationship to their geeky objects of interest is complicated. Initially it was just stuff I loved. And it was good stuff … it’s been kind of weird to treasure all this pop culture stuff as a child and then discover people teaching about it years later at universities. I didn’t see that coming based on the snobbery of some of the teachers when I was at university.

However as I became more troubled about my gender (and as an only child didn’t even have a sibling to consider daring to tell about my transness) some of these things became more a comfort blanket, a defence against the world, and an inert “friend” who would never contradict me.

So has that all changed since I’ve transitioned? Yes, but in slightly subtle ways. This is a kind of experimental bit of thinking here folks, but let me try and explain what I mean. My interest in music, for example, is kind of what I might define as “open-ended geekiness”, because the more you get interested in it the more possibilities open up.

I started as a child by liking Lonnie Donegan (you must hear his version of Frankie and Johnny) and Cliff Richard (well, I was a UK child of the sixties). But following my nose for interesting and different sounds has led me, to give a randomish selection, to Michael Nesmith’s post-Monkees career, Vaughan Williams, Little Feat, Maria Muldaur, the Thompson and Wainwright dynasties, Duke Ellington, David Lindley, Brian Wilson, Ian Dury, Bonnie Raitt, Aretha Franklin, Goldfrapp, Natalie Merchant, Mint Royale (check out their version of the Ask the Family theme tune, I’m not kidding!), Soft Cell, Stevie Wonder, Timbuk 3, June Tabor, Billie Holiday, fantastic film composers like Bernard Herrmann, and the genius of Delia Derbyshire (whose work is known by almost everyone in the UK but whose name is known by almost none). I’ve left you a lot of stuff to look up there but with no links – consider it homework!

So although you could be a jazz obsessive (and there’s nothing wrong with that anyway) in my case music keeps steering me through more and more interesting doors and is endlessly rewarding. Latest joyous discovery? The Decemberists a few days ago.

I could write a similar list about movies, particularly after Basil Edwards, my English teacher at secondary school, introduced us to foreign movies. I have a wide-ranging interest in movies and television. And in due course, when home video technology began to develop in interesting directions, my interest in movies and TV also developed into an interest in these technologies, and in collecting.

I was one of the relatively few people in the UK to buy a laserdisc player in the 1980s (for younger readers, these were early double-sided videodiscs the size of old vinyl Lps). LD became a relatively successful format in the USA when it was re-focused at movie buffs, but was pretty unsuccessful in the UK so you had to be obsessed to find players and discs. And over time, with the development of DVD and other home cinema technologies, I became even more obsessed with getting a really good home set-up, with surround sound and based around the first really decent plasma TV in the UK (which I did, around 2002).

And I’m not dissing it – it’s great to watch movies on. But a couple of years after I’d set up my nice plasma, surround amp and speakers, DVD player, personal video recorder, then along came High Definition and Blu-Ray. And I felt that pressure, to keep up at the leading edge of tech etc etc.

Only I know that this kind of obsessive geekism was, in part, one of the ways in which I was avoiding facing up to my transness – I had a comforting hobby which was a lot of fun, and didn’t involve people much, and kept changing/evolving etc. But it was secondary to the real interest, which was movies – it was about a better way of seeing them to be sure. But on the technology side, I guess I’m focussing on the fact that the technology was “obedient” and “loyal” and did what I wanted – and the outside world wasn’t like that and I always felt would bite me if I was honest about my gender identity.

That may sound a weird connection to make, but I think it’s about putting energy into something else because I was too scared to put in energy to dealing with my true self. And the reason I think there’s a connection is that although my love of music continues, and my love of movies continues, my obsession with keeping on the teetering edge of technology has gone.

Initially I thought it was just because transition keeps you very busy – at this stage it’s like having a second full-time job. But actually, I don’t need the comfort blanket anymore. Because the other thing that has changed is I am much less of a loner than I used to be, and much more of a social person. To put it like that is something of a caricature, ‘cos I did have a lot of fun with friends and family pre-transition, but it’s an interesting difference of emphasis. A lot of preoccupations from before I acknowledged I was a woman have changed, shifted, in some cases disappeared. And a lot of new interests have started to arise because, I think, I am free to be myself (my true self) for the first time in my life.

So the good geeky bits (which I use in life and work) are preserved, and the geeky bits about hiding from the world because I was scared of it have receded. I was much shyer trying to live as a man than I am now I’ve accepted I was always a woman and am able to live as one.

But there’s another, final dimension to this, which is that I wanted to try and be creative before I transitioned – to write, to perform, but I was generally too scared to have a proper go at it. So I went to work for a comics/SF distribution company, rather than try and write. And I acquired a huge music collection rather than play music. Everything always at one, or more, remove. I got dragged into doing a bit of writing in the end, but only ‘cos other people believed in me, not ‘cos I did.

I am not trying to generalize about trans people here. Many are very successful before they transition and I was not totally unsuccessful, but I made a lot of early career/life choices based on having a very low opinion of myself. But lot of trans people do feel very stuck, because they can’t see how to engage fully with life. And they find ways round it, but they are often ways which involving hiding and denying their truest self, and therefore not taking opportunities when they present themselves.

That’s changed for me now – I have a sense of life and creative opportunities opening up, just as I wished they would in my younger years because, finally, I believe in myself. And my geekiness has evolved – it no longer dominates me, it’s just part of my toolkit.


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S– is my rock ‘n’ roll lodger. He only stays with me for slightly over a month but that month is a lot of fun. He is a friend of a friend of a friend. I mention to Christine (my Kensington Drama Club chum) that I am between lodgers, and she tells me about this Austrian musician who is coming to London to seek fame and fortune, and needs a place to stay while doing so. I am intrigued by the possibility and it means I don’t immediately have to seek another long-term lodger (all of whom, in their own way, prove stressful) so Christine passes my details up the line of communication and in due course the deal is done.

S– is tall and blond with the chiselled good looks and muscular build of an Austrian cross-country skier. I, at the time, am 5ft 3in tall and dumpy. We make an odd, but happy household. S– is determined to make it in pop music and is of the conviction, shared by many before and since, that London is the place to do it. He has made a demo tape and has come over for a month (in the end he stays for slightly longer) to hawk his tape round the capital’s record companies.

The eighties is known, among other things, for brittle electronic pop which trumpets its studio origins with high, but harsh production values. Many records of the time fit that description but they are mostly made by British, American or occasionally, thanks to Stock, Aitken and Waterman (if “thanks” is the word) Australian. The most notable European success in this arena is the Norwegian band a-ha. The immortal (in spirit but sadly not in fact) John Walters, then producer of John Peel’s radio programme, had a joke about how they got their name, to the effect that when they finished their first gig, a non-plussed and underwhelmed audience paused, and then said thoughtfully, “a-ha”. Anyway S– looks a bit like someone from a-ha, and his music is hi-energy pop, but with vocals delivered in a reasonably strong Austrian accent. Beth, on hearing a song of his which features the word “Hollywood” quite extensively opines that his vocal delivery makes this sound like “Holyrood”, which she finds consistenly amusing.

Anyway, it is a well-done demo – sounds professional and well-put together. The first thing S– does on arrival is to take his tape to a duplication house and get many copies made. In the ensuing weeks he delivers the tapes in person to pretty much every record company in London (in those days there are a lot of them) subsequently chasing them up by phone or in person.

We get on fine. He is a very nice chap, we have a shared interest in music, although possibly not the same music, but I play him the odd thing I like. After a few days we fall into a ritual of watching a movie each evening to keep him entertained. At the time I have one of the original laserdisc players, the height of  technological sophistication in the early eighties despite Philips designing it to resemb;e a top-loading washing machine. Laserdiscs, for our younger readers, were large videodiscs (the ancestor of DVD) which looked like 12-inch vinyl records with added silver bling. Vinyl records, for our younger readers … oh never mind.

Anyway, each evening we watch a movie – I choose them carefully and S– likes most of my choices. Initially this is just to keep him entertained, but as the month progresses, the record company rejections start to mount up, and the movies become increasingly a form of moral support – another crap day trying to break into the music biz, never mind, let’s watch Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Increasingly I find myself trying to bolster his flagging spirits.

It is during his stay that I have what will prove to be my last crossdressing adventure for many years. My colleague Elizabeth at QMW invites me to a fancy dress party. I ask if S– can come as well – a party to cheer him up. I have not crossdressed since entering my lodger era, but the prospect of this party makes me sorely tempted. In the end I shove some (rather glam) clothes and make-up in a bag, rather lamely suggesting to S– that they are some of  L–‘s which she has left behind. S– does not bother with a costume. When we get to the party I scurry off upstairs to get ready, leaving S–, I later discover, to fall heavily and hopelessly in love with Elizabeth (it is her boyfriend’s party apart from anything else). I then emerge dolled up and have a rather wonderful time – a lot of the girls at the party are cool about it and come and talk to me (although I still strenously deny any suggestion that I am a crossdresser). I generally have a wonderful time, apart from one drunken lout who keeps trying to grab my genitals.

As we return to Walthamstow, I talk with S– in the cab and it’s clear he knows I am trans and is cool about it – nonetheless I stil have to strenously deny it. Little do I suspect that, in any case, I am about to be forcefully shoved back into the closet by looming events.

S– gets glummer, and glummer. No record company shows any sign of biting. Rejection letters arrive regularly in the post. I show him movies and play him music. Unexpectedly, he really warms to Fairport Convention’s Heyday. This is a collection of Radio 1 sessions from the late sixties, many for John Peel. I first obtained it as a bootleg tape, but it subsequently gets a legitimate release. The songs dates mostly from Fairport’s early, pre folk-rock, West Coast-influenced days – there are covers of songs by Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Richard and Mimi Farina. Which is ironic, because …

Most of the rejection letters are form letters, but then one arrives that isn’t. It’s from Joe Boyd, sometime Floyd/Fairport/Thompson/McGarrigle producer, who at the time has his own independent record company called Hannibal Records on which many early, key world music releases appear. Boyd’s tone in the letter is both amused, and incredulous. He wonders whether S– has ever listened to any of the records he has produced. It’s an amusing,  slightly acid letter which concludes with the assertion that S–‘s tape is the single least appropriate demo (in terms of Boyd’s career and musical interests) that he has ever received. Given the tone of the letter, S– is reasonably philosophical.

Shortly afterwards, he returns to Austria, without a pop career, his romantic ambitions for Elizabeth sadly unfulfilled. Amidst all the other lodgers, his stay with me has been unadulterated good fun, and a brief respite from the very tough times which are starting to loom.

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… is the title of an “official bootleg” released on cassette many years ago, featuring the work of Richard Thompson, both with and without his former wife Linda and other collaborators. The choice is an ironic collusion between RT and the compilers, given that a lot of non-fans describe his music as depressing. And it’s true his lyrical content includes war, death, failing relationships, jealousy, bleak encounters below the Calvary Cross etc. But it’s also true that it’s informed by traditional music, whose lyrical content often includes war, death, failing relationships, jealousy, witchcraft and magical transformation, encounters with the Devil etc. On a personal level, his is the body of musical work which means the most to me. But I am not here to convert you. That either will or will not happen. 90% of those who sample his catalogue either hate what they hear or become complete converts … there seem to be very few non-committal responses. This post is not quite as much of a digression as some, as it’s about how, by the time all my chums were heading off to university and I wasn’t, music was becoming incredibly important to me.  Although I will drone on a bit about RT as well …

Earlier in my childhood it had always been important to me, but not in any thought out way … I just liked what I liked! I obsessively played records on our Decca Deccalian gramophone, with a red pickup for 33/45RPM records and a green one for 78. It looked a bit like this, only off-white. My grandmother also gave me a defunct wind-up gramophone, which I still have (keep meaning to get the spring replaced). Later, like many in the UK, we graduated to the fabulous Dansette, our model quite like this but pink with long, spindly detachable legs.

You may recall my dad scared me off pop music for a while around the age of nine. If you sampled my list of top tunes around that time it would have include a whole bumch of different stuff, including:

  • early Beatles;
  • the Monkees;
  • Sandy Nelson’s single Let There Be Drums (still fab);
  • a bit of Cliff Richard and the Shadows;
  • Beethoven’s Für Elise (heard a fellow pupil play it at school and was thrilled when I could play it myself);
  • Barry Gray’s stirring music for Gerry Anderson‘s TV puppet adventure shows;
  • Delia Derbyshire of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop‘s electronic realisation of the Doctor Who theme, a legitimate work of genius hidden in plain sight on mainstream television. Strike that – actually a work of genius embedded in another work of genius (the programme itself);
  • and pretty much the full contents of Lonnie Donegan‘s A Golden Age of Donegan Volumes One and Two on Pye Golden Guinea.

A fairly mixed bunch of stuff – I just followed my ears. So there had always been stuff I liked, and I have described how I became a bit more interested in pop and rock in my early teens and had, by the fifth form one genuine musical obsession (The Beach Boys). At around that time I started to buy the music press – NME (New Musical Express) always and Melody Maker quite often – and was informing myself by listening around more widely and reading the NME, in particular writers such as Nick Kent, Charles Shaar Murray (CSM) and Mick Farren. If you weren’t reading it at the time, read Nick Kent’s book Apathy for the Devil to get a flavour. Punk was also just on the horizon – I’ll say more about that another time.

OK, this could become link city so I’ll try and calm things down. But it’s hard to understate how, feeling detached from my parents and confused about my identity, music became so important to me (an experience a lot of non-trans kids also have around that age of course). But also this “meta-discussion” about music from people who seemed to have informed opinions – the NME writers, John Peel on the radio, Bob Harris on the Old Grey Whistle Test – I devoured it all. From a fan perspective at the time both performers, writers and DJs seemed to reek of certainty and confidence. I think that’s one of the reasons I idolised them, because I felt so powerless and they seemed to be having enjoyable, mould-breaking lives. From an adult perspective I now know it wasn’t as simple as that, but then … also the notion that this music, or at least some of it, was important, that it meant something and stood for something. Equally though, Nick Kent and CSM were something like rock stars themselves, and a lot of what they liked I didn’t like at the time. I was looking for something to call my own …

Then two things happened very close together. Peel was a bit eclectic, but there were often even more aural surprises on BBC Radio London’s almost forgotten show Breakthrough, presented by a chap called Mike Sparrow. I had always been vaguely interested in good guitar players – as opposed to the ones who are either all technique or all sentiment. My school chum P– played guitar and was always trying to get me into Led Zeppelin, which was OK but, you know … Then while idly listening to Breakthrough one evening the most arresting guitar instrumental track I had ever heard wafted across the ether. I’d never heard playing like it, and my ears pricked up immediately. Afterwards Mike Sparrow said this was by somebody called Richard Thompson. I missed the title of the track but it was almost certainly The Pitfall/The Excursion, which is only to be found on a now long-unavailable compilation.

I had just also become a fan of the music magazine Zigzag, which hovered between fanzine and prozine (a place where I would find myself hovering, some years later!). A bit of a bad time to become a fan actually as its distinctive approach to seventies rock was about to be swept away when it was relaunched as a punk rock zine. And yes, I will still have something to say about punk later. Not today, reader …

The very last pre-punk issue of ZigZag cover-featured Richard Thompson. Inside was not an interview, but an article about the records he had made to this point, solo and with Linda, since leaving the band Fairport Convention. The description of them, and particularly their lyrical content and themes(I had only heard his guitar playing at this point) sounded so intriguing that I fairly rapidly acquired the five albums in question. After devouring Brian Wilson’s back catalogue in the mid-seventies, these records (all of which I found stunning in different ways) were another huge musical education. But obviously just saying that I cannot make them so for you – it was a particular time, place and experience.

Thompson has Scottish roots, but he grew up in North London, not far from where I lived as a child, and became a teenage musical prodigy in the sixties. I know a lot of obsessive fans from all over the world, but I wonder in some ways whether that slightly shared background gives my appreciation of his stuff a particular perspective. He grew up in same kind of suburbs I did, and in interviews has often talked about the importance of escaping them. So maybe that idea is a big part of it for me, because in the summer of 1977 I could see no way out of the ‘burbs for me, but his adventurous music perhaps represented that possibility of escape to me most of all.

Besotted with the Thompsons, I then worked backwards to Fairport. I noticed that the key Fairport albums were produced by a chap called Joe Boyd, and followed his name to albums by other (sometimes connected) artists … The Albion Band, John Martyn, Nick Drake (who I stumbled across in 1979, you latecomers). Boyd, an American, returned to the US in the mid-seventies to work for Warner Brothers and the end of the seventies found me following that further aural trail. That led me to Kate and Anna McGarrigle and Maria Muldaur. Great songs and great musicianship were the mark of a Joe Boyd record – I think he used to say his role as a producer was to get out of the way of the performance, so as much of it could make it onto vinyl as possible. And Warners had lots of other interesting artists not produced by Boyd – Ry Cooder, Van Dyke Parks, Little Feat, Loudon Wainwright (actually Loudon was on virtually every other label under the sun but I have to mention him) … and I just kept on exploring.

Many of those artists, as well as writing their own songs, were closely connected to the various strands of Anglo-Saxon (and sometimes Celtic) traditional music, an amazingly rich seam which English people in particular know very little about. But these are amazing songs, you should know about them. History is written by the victors they say, but folk songs are written by the rest of us. So from Fairport and the Albions off I went to those who mined the English tradition even more deeply … Martin Carthy, Nic Jones, John Kirkpatrick and Sue Harris.

This rich tapestry of inter-related artists and music means more to me than I can say. At my most isolated emotional time their stuff was all I had to hang on to. The Thompsons, Wainwright/McGarrigles and Waterson/Carthy are musical family dynasties within this wider group of musicians. Their own family lives have been rocky from time to time but another haunting element for me was the sense nonetheless from them of supportive family bonds, and what I felt as the absence of such bonds for me. As it happens Linda Thompson was the first professional musician I chatted to, in 1978. Tale for another time, but a lovely woman.

Full circle … a few weeks ago, as part of the fantastic Meltdown music festival in London which RT curated, I attended the concert staged in memory of Kate McGarrigle, who died last January. Many McGarrigles and Thompsons performed in all sorts of (sometimes very unexpected) combinations, as did Jenni Muldaur (Geoff and Maria’s daughter), and Emmylou Harris, and Nick Cave, and Neil Tennant, Lisa Hannigan and Krystle Warren … It was brilliantly performed but incredibly emotional for both artists and audience. You can sample a slight taste of the night thanks to fan videos here.

When I spoke to Linda in 1978, she was warm, and lovely and funny, and I was shy and starstruck, and little suspected how yet more difficult my life was to become. Since then I have seen Richard play many, many times. The two of them split up around 1982 but I have also been to some of her (relatively rare) solo concerts. But when I saw all those amazing performers at Meltdown in June, I was sitting in the Royal Festival Hall, proudly myself at last, blessed with a loving family and friends and the most at ease I have ever been, after all these intervening years. So that night held special resonance for me and I’m sure for lots in the audience in many different ways. Rarely can there have been such a direct emotional connection between those on stage and off. Tears were shed by almost all – you should have been there.

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Bear with me through a brief musical detour, leading ultimately to my first cry for help …

During 1973-74 (I am afraid because of the nature of my work I mainly deal in academic years – past, present and future) pop and rock music become more important. In the early seventies there are various musical niches a teenager might settle on. Many girls choose the bubblegum/pop end of the spectrum and then declare their true love for Donny Osmond, Michael Jackson, one of the improbably tartan Bay City Rollers or the even more improbable David Essex. Boys generally dismiss such performers as ephemaral fluff and have a tendency to align themselves with a movement – heavy metal (Black Sabbath and all that lot), the credible end of glam (Bolan/Bowie) rather than the pantomime end (Glitter/Stardust/Mud), singer-songwriter (Paul Simon, Cat Stevens) or for the would-be intellectual progressive rock (a multitude of perpetrators who will have time collectively served on them by the dawn of punk rock). Two records around that time effectively transcend prog so we must allow them as glorious exceptions – Pink Floyd‘s Dark Side of the Moon and Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells.

I am just about over my Dad’s pathological hatred of pop which was triggered by the Beatles’ hippy shenanigans (see earlier post) and start casting around for music I can call mine. Everybody likes Dark Side and TB so I persuade myself I love the former, having bought it from a friend for a quid (eventually I do love it, in fact) and fall heavily for the latter, which I still find mesmerising.

Beyond that my tastes are idiosyncratic and driven by endless curiosity into all kinds of musical directions. In due course this leads to the impeccable musical tastes I am now justly known for. Just ask me to program your iPod for a party – you won’t regret it! Meanwhile back in the seventies the band I am really captivated by are rather low on the British public’s radar. Around that time Radio 1 does a six-part history of The Beach Boys that offers a full introduction to the God-like genius of Brian Wilson on whom, friends will tell you, I can bore for England. Wilson’s musical journey in the sixties was easily as sophisticated as the Beatles before circumstances derailed it, and being introduced to that entire catalogue in six weeks is nothing less than a masterclass in pop. I am hooked, start buying up the back catalogue, see the Boys live in ’74 and never look back. My friend Michael is nearly as obsessed, while my friend Nigel goes on to become the premiere Mike Oldfield expert south (and now north) of the Wash.

Radio 1 at the time is, however, mostly dire, and pirate radio mostly extinct. Luckily for those with varied musical tastes in the London area, 1973 sees the launch of Capital Radio. For anyone listening to Capital today, it may be hard to imagine that in its heyday, it was rather adventurous both musically and in terms of its presenters (Kenny Everett, Roger Scott et al).

The launch of Capital coincides with the introduction by the Conservative Government of the Three Day Week. Shortages of coal (the result of a miners’ strike) combined with the 1973 Oil Crisis, collectively lead to television shutting down early, plus intermittent power cuts and other emergency measures. Petrol ration books are printed, but in the end never used. See, you get all this social history for no extra charge! This leads to much late-night listening to Capital, in particular Sarah, Marsh and Friends with Marsha Hunt and the rather dippy Sarah Ward, and the corny, sub-Man in Black Moment of Terror.

As Capital does a reasonable job in broadening my musical tastes (in due course assisted by John Peel, NME in its heyday and Zigzag magazine) I am pretty hooked on the station by the time that Anna and the Doc begins on, I think, Wednesday nights. Introduced by Adrian Love (who was the son of the bandleader Geoff Love AKA “Manuel and the Music of the Mountains” – OK, the trivia stops here!) and featuring Anna Raeburn who at the time was writing for the UK edition of Cosmopolitan, this is, I think, the UK’s first phone-in show focussing on “personal, emotional and sexual problems”, as they said each week. Anna, Love and their medical co-presenter fielded a succession of questions on all sorts of topic on what became one of Capital’s most popular shows.

Each week I listen, not just for the range of (often interesting) subjects which get covered, but also in the hope of someone trans phoning in and maybe adding to my self-understanding. By this time I know there are others, but I have only seen the two most famous UK women on television, April Ashley and Jan Morris. Unsurprisingly, trans people rarely phone in, because most of them are just as scared of sharing their secret as I am.

Of course, I never dare phone, and Anna makes a point of saying that she will not respond to written requests. But as my teens progress I get more and more desperate. I think about my problems of physical development, and although at the time I cannot connect them properly with my transness, I start to wish that someone will say to my parents, “he’s not developing properly as a boy, he’d be better off as a girl”. In fact, after my hospital disaster no-one checks up on my development anyway – neither my parents nor any doctors.

Desperate, I finally hit upon the idea of writing to Anna at Capital Radio. On my second-hand manual typewriter I type a letter, explaining some of my feelings and also the fact that I don’t really understand them. I end the letter with a female pseudonym (typed, not signed so I cannot be identified by my handwriting!) and send it off in hope.

A few weeks go by, and then at the start of the programme one week, Anna begins by saying “As you know, I don’t normally respond on air to letters, but I have received a letter from a teenage boy” … She goes on to give enough detail for me to be clear it is my letter, while not revealing what the subject matter is. She tells me to telephone her office at Cosmo, and if I give enough information to identify myself as the author of the letter, she’ll be happy to talk to me.

I am paralyzed by indecision. Anna Raeburn is offering to help me. She will know about this stuff, won’t she? She will be able to put me in touch with medical experts, won’t she? She will respect my anonymity, won’t she? And then the final, awful thought … the medical experts will want to talk to my parents, won’t they? In the end, the fear of the information getting back to my parents is too much. Anna’s offer of help floats within reach. All I need to do is phone Directory Enquiries and get the Cosmo number, and phone her. In the end, I am just too scared, but the pain of not taking up that offer of help is hard to bear for a while – I feel more and more lost. I thank her for trying … I ‘m just not ready. And I can’t imagine at that time how many years will need to pass before I am, finally, ready.

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