Let me see your war face

 In Milan I noticed (and it was hard not to) that the hosiery brand Golden Lady has hired the most prominent spots in the metro stations to advertise. Their poster catches your eye at the bottom or top of every escalator: a model in a very simple pair of black 15 denier tights - nothing special; in fact, they're just like my first pair I bought with my pocket money aged about 10 - but it is very, very effective. Presumably men will be thinking of buying something for the lady in their life, women will be thinking of looking good, and TGirls like me experience an explosion of dysphoria that is like a bomb going off every time I see the poster. I want to be like the model (and I don't mean young and attractive  - well, maybe I do). A voice in my head says, "Sue, you don't need more tights. You've already got hundreds of pairs. What are you? a centipede?" But the product is not the issue. Dysphoria gets you in ways like this.

Not to be outdone, another leading brand, Calzedonia, has got their campaign going too. It's war! And in war, it's the innocent who suffer. I'm taking cover!

 

Old

Today, I began the laborious business of claiming an occupational pension I am owed. I'm allowing 18 months to go through the process from start to finish, including avoiding double taxation and obtaining tax reliefs, reducing exchange rate complications and other issues. My accountant is on standby!

This means I am officially old.  

It's not the first time I've mentioned this but I have noticed a distinct change in my face in the last couple of years - more saggy, more jowly - and it's something only a Fairy Godmother can fix. I've been reluctant to post photos of myself. My makeup doesn't hide this and I'm starting to look for tips for makeup for older women which I hope to adapt because of the added complication that trans women have in their faces. As for hair, I've always worn a hair colour that's close to my own (I'll never manage the Marilyn Monroe look!) but I'm wondering if a new wig with a hint of grey is something to consider. 

Rats! 

They say age is a matter of attitude so now I need to find some attitude! 

Faking youth in 2008

 

 

Remembering the dead

By ancient tradition, November is the month when we especially remember the dead. Obviously for me, Transgender Day of Remembrance is the main event. But as part of my exploration of the lesser known areas of the riviera, I went to Bordighera British Cemetery. I've been aware of the existence of this place for a while but never found it before. That's because it's a cemetery within a cemetery, tucked away behind high walls within the main cemetery that is itself behind high walls. That said, it's a beautiful, quiet spot with a mountain torrent on one side and a forest of date palms climbing the hillside on the other. The lane to get there is hard to find, the one tiny sign pointing up a narrow alley to the only entrance is even more so.

Waving palms

Spot the tiny signpost to the tiny alley

 

Many people over the centuries, not unlike myself, have come to this area for the healthy climate, from wounded crusaders in the middle ages who had their hospital at Ospedaletti to consumptive Victorians who appreciated sanatoriums like the now derelict Villa Helios at Sanremo. In the First World War, when Bordighera was practically a British colony anyway, with about 2000 British residents to 1000 locals, the British Army set up a hospital for sick and wounded servicemen fighting on the Salonika Front in Greece and later on the Italian Front. The British Cemetery, then, is where those who died of wounds or from popular diseases of the era like pneumonia or Spanish flu, is managed by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

I wasn't looking for any grave in particular; I visited just out of curiosity. There is a cabinet at the entrance containing a visitors' book that I signed with my fem name and a list of the 72 British Commonwealth men and 12 "Austrian" men buried here. They call them Austrian but they came from all over the Habsburg lands. It also contained service sheets from the recent Remembrance Sunday service. It's one of those odd things that the service date was based on the armistice with Germany on November 11th 1918, which is irrelevant here: the Salonika Front armistice with Bulgaria was on September 30th and the Italian Front armistice with the Habsburg Empire was on November 4th. To further cloud the issue, the First World War is also known locally as the Fourth War of Independence, as Italy emerged piece by piece from Habsburg rule over the course of 70 years (or longer if you count Napoleon as part of the process). But I guess all these historical niceties made little difference to these poor guys who found peace sooner.

From the Commonwealth War Graves Commission list of graves

British Commonwealth graves, men from the all over the world

Some Habsburg Empire graves along the back wall. I like that they have carved the double-headed eagle on each. Presumably these men were prisoners-of-war being treated at the hospital. Some Polish and other Slavic names among the German ones

Why Indian driver Rup Lal has a grave all to himself is not made clear. A civilian, maybe? A Hindu or Muslim who couldn't or wouldn't be buried with the Christians? 

A poppy is the UK's war memorial flower and one on a cross has been left beside each grave after the recent memorial service. Blasius Klensbigl, what a marvellous name! 

 

This cemetery is always open unlike the surrounding civil one which closes at night. Presumably that's why there's a separate alley to get to it. 

A curiosity, therefore. The older I get and the more feminine I get, the more war disgusts me. I've never been called to fight, unlike my grandfathers and great-grandfathers who all survived but did not much enjoy the experience. Those who are currently trying to wreck the eighty plus years of peace in Europe are pure evil. 

Let's go to the main cemetery. Some cultural points as many of my readers come from the British Isles where cemeteries are usually the same as churchyards, so every church is surrounded by graves, people are buried there in perpetuity, and the traditional tree is the yew. In Italy, by contrast, the local cemetery is almost always a necropolis, a "city of the dead" on the edge of town, a very ancient idea (there are necropolises three thousand and more years old here). You usually hire a plot for a number of decades and then, if deemed reduced to just bones, your loved ones are then disinterred and put in a pigeonhole in the columbarium (the "dovecote") ... those who like creepy tales can read below about a deceased distant relative of mine (and this all ties in with the tights that started this post, if you can believe that - oh yes, everything on Sue's News and Views connects!) The preferred cemetery tree here, as has again been the case for thousands of years, is the cypress, because many species drip sap as though crying tears, and the preferred flower for graves is the chrysanthemum. A warning to men: never, ever give your Italian girlfriend chrysanthemums as a gift. Oh, and wear bug spray as cypresses attract mosquitoes like nothing else!

As is usual, the locals, who are all Catholic, are kept separate from foreigners who have all sorts of religions: Russian and Greek Orthodox are here, Jewish, Anglican, Lutheran ... Celtic crosses and Stars of David abound. Even in death people have to be separated, it seems. But, near the tombs of the Russian Princes Galitsine, is a large cypress embracing a smaller cypress. This may be an accident, or trained this way by the gardeners. I think it is sweet, and makes me happier to see than all those dead soldiers.

Rest in peace. I'll try not to dwell on how I'm getting old. Oops, I just did! 

 

My creepy family stories for your winter fireside entertainment

Skip this bit if you don't like yucky things.

In Italy, you rarely buy a burial plot in perpetuity but hire one for a number of decades. After the rental period, your loved one is exhumed and you are invited to agree whether or not they are sufficiently decomposed to be moved. If no, you rent out for another decade; if yes, the plot is then returned to the council for hiring out to the next unfortunate. Pity about that lovely marble tomb you spent lots of money on in your grief; that just gets chucked away. You can move the bones of your loved one to another cemetery, or to the columbarium where the costs are a lot less. 

Some distant relatives of mine were invited to the exhumation of their mother. Whilst her top half was decomposed, her lower half was not. This is because she had been buried in the Sixties in a lovely outfit but when nylon tights were really tough and they preserved her legs. Needless to say, she went back underground for another decade or two!

Perhaps better than friends whose grandma was deemed ready to be moved. They decided to take her elsewhere, packed her in a choice receptacle - a cardboard box - and drove her to her new resting place with the box of bones rattling along merrily in the back of the car. 

People are a bit too matter-of-fact about dead people round here! Where's the sentimentality?

 

That's a long enough post for now. I'll save yesterday's fata morgana at sunset for another time. 

My title comes, of course, from a line in Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket. It seemed adaptable to the themes here. 

Sue x 

Pampering and replenishing

 I'm back home after a few weeks away. I decided that what I could really do with now is a good pamper: epilation and, above all, painting my nails. 

My fingernails that I complained had broken a while back were almost back to their ideal length... and then this morning another broke. Aargh! It's the middle finger that's usually the failure point on either hand, maybe because it sticks out further than the others and catches on things more. Or maybe it's just weaker. Nails are a good indicator of dietary health, weaknesses often indicating a lack of minerals or vitamins, but I have a good diet so I doubt it's that.   

I prefer to grow my own nails rather than use stick-on nails. But I have only ever worn nail varnish in pinks and reds and maybe it's time to be more varied and increase my dwindling stock, so I'm looking for a set of varnishes in different colours just for a change. Purple and black, definitely. Maybe blue. A Christmas gift to myself, perhaps?

 

Nice but too little variety ... and too few pots. You can't have too many varnishes!

Looking at my now nearly zero stock of lipstick, I think the same rule applies.

I keep being screamed at from every angle about how Black Friday is coming and how I must grab those bargains, but invariably the stuff on sale is usually rubbish that retailers have found hard to shift. Don't be fooled by the propaganda - in the last 30 years, the shop sales have largely been a junkyard sale. However, I'll doubtless do my usual trip out to see what's available, especially in perfumes, another favourite self-gift. 

It's also time for warmer clothes. Last week when I was away there was a hailstorm - a rare event here - that punched holes in my cactuses! And on Thursday the daytime temperature here dropped to below 10C (50F), there was a waterspout offshore and snow dusted the high ground. On the riviera this is taken as a clear sign of the impending apocalypse and everyone who went out and braved the wrath of the gods was wrapped in their skiwear. Fortunately, things have gone back to a healthier 16C and I have been able to eat outdoors in the sun again. Many thanks to that dear trans friend who sent me a picture of her sitting on an iceberg in Greenland during a recent cruise, plus details of how she's planned a trip to Norway in January, but I'll stick to warmer climes for my holidays, thanks! That said, the cardigans are out, and the thicker tights and the boots. Summer frocks are lovely but there's something to be said for winter elegance. 

I haven't succumbed to putting the central heating on yet this year but that may be just a matter of days. Still, it's a contrast with my life in Britain where I always had the heating prepared for switch-on any time in September. I don't do cold! 

So thinking towards Christmas ... since I've never had family or partners buy me any girl gifts, although occasionally female or trans friends have done (thank you!), I've usually given myself a little something. In the early days it was lingerie, then hosiery and after that perfume. It looks like it'll be colourful new lips and nails this year.

Sue x 

What if everyone is transgender?

 Ten years ago I posted a question as to how many transgender people there are. The answer is unknown and unknowable, for various reasons but mainly because no-one agrees on what constitutes transgender or even male and female; because the overwhelming majority of gender variant people are in the closet, totally unknown even to the internet, only to themselves; and because often gender variance occurs for a while in someone's life rather than throughout it. 

Suppose we stop assuming, because of lack of evidence or through prejudice, that trans is or is not X number of people and take the opposite standpoint: what if everyone is actually trans? Perhaps the gender binary is an illusion caused by social and reproductive expectations for many people, especially those promoted by the aggressive people who usually dominate societies, and most of the remaining population simply fall into line for simplicity's sake. If left to their inherent sense of self, would people actually feel totally masculine or feminine as is claimed? We don't know, any more then we can claim that there are clear male and female forms. I've made more than enough references in my blog over the years to trans people going back to ancient times and arising in all cultures and locations. Transgender is very much a thing.

Supposing you took a significant random sample of people - I'm talking tens (ideally hundreds) of thousands, not the usual trans studies that involve a few dozen or maybe a few hundred out-and-proud trans people - and actually asked them honestly, privately, anonymously, without fear or favour or ability to be traced, how they felt about their own masculinity or femininity, what the answers might be. We have very little information on this and all discussion of trans people is either from haters or from the tiny number of trans people who are out and those who study that tiny minority.

I hear it said that sex is all about reproductive organs or gametes, completely ignoring intersex conditions. I hear it said that genes don't lie: it's XX for girls and XY for boys, completely ignoring the mixup of conditions like Turner's Syndrome (X) or Klinefelter's syndrome (XXY). Stangely, no-one seem to point out that, on that basis, all boys have one girl chromosome, which should surely give us the two sexes of female and transgender? I hear it said that trans people are simply mentally ill; apparently, threats and abuse seem to be the proposed cure. I hear it said that transgender ideological terrorism is converting people to believe that they are something they are not. And so on and so forth, anything to try to pretend that trans people don't actually exist or shouldn't. I said I would not transition and the reason is that I don't trust states not to turn against beneficiaries of previous government policies. Having said that, I thought it unlikely that trans policies would be reversed in my lifetime and yet, when you look at Russia, the USA, Britain, Hungary and other places, maybe my caution was well founded. 

So as my short contribution to Transgender Awareness Week, leading up to Transgender Day of Remembrance on November 20th, I'd just like to ask the haters what on earth they're talking about as the evidence for there being a gender binary is laughable. How about if everyone is trans apart from the outliers, those naturally very masculine or feminine people? Could it be that you haters are simply too scared to admit or embrace who you perhaps really are, that is someone not at the extremes of a gender spectrum? 

So as many rich and powerful people in the public eye focus on trans bashing to draw attention away from their own corruption and incompetence, banning a handful of trans sportspeople from participating here, encouraging conversion therapy there or turning a blind eye to transphobic violence, I rest assured that this current game of trans Whack-a-Mole can never work in the long term because nature just keeps creating trans people and most of them are invisible and out of reach. 

Tomorrow we remember those who tried to live authentically but died for it. 

 

Sue x 

Window shopping in Milan

 I know it's transgender awareness week so I should write something on that subject (which I will) but I am in Milan, I promised some fashion pics and, after my last post on my favourite frock, my mind (as is that of just about every TGirl) is focused on fabulousness. So as most of us drown in what seem to be worldwide rains and bad news, I think it's time for some sparkle.

Now, darlings, I am looking for a sparkly, shimmery frock, some twinkling jewellery to stave off the winter gloom, maybe even a little leather something in the bag or shoe department. As it happens, my girl birthday comes up this week, and we're heading into party season, and Christmas is coming as well, and as gift giving is very much the thing at birthdays and Christmas, well, I'll just drop that little hint ...

Now Luigi my chauffeur has just parked up the Ferrari in the Quadrilateral, Milan's fashion district, and I am wandering about the outlets with my camera for a bit of inspiration. What do you think of these for sparkly frocks? I've done the hard work, you only need to pick one.

Chanel, ever classic:

Now, Emé has some interesting items...

 

Long burgundy leather dress maybe, but not with that tie! (ugh! ties are for boys and they're made of slugs and snails and puppy dogs tails, as we know.) The burgundy leather shorts with pop sox? No way! 

But then we spot this:

Perhaps that's more what we're looking for this season. Emé is a bridalwear shop most of the year. *Sigh!*

 

These items from Pronovias, also bridal much of the time. How about the blue ones?

 

Silver and shiny here at Collini:

 Oh, my!

I like the black with gold sparkles or brocade a lot, but trousers are not my thing for a party. Best go with the LBD and sparkly bolero on the right.

 

What has Valentino to offer this year? The window displays are a bit incoherent ...

 

But this is what seem to be in mind:

 

Elisabetta Franchi always gets top marks for her business attire (noted for another time) ...

 

But then there's this very Roaring Twenties style here. I'd have to lose a lot of weight to look good in these:

There's this sparkly silver and fluffy black item. I don't think I'll ever be daring enough to go around dressed like the model in the poster behind, though!

What for me is a No is something like this where every item - leather jacket, tulle skirt, leather trousers - might work separately but they don't go together so well:

 

Some interesting bags:

 

  

Not sure I like the bags in Louboutin's. Quite like the boots, though.

Milan is probably the most LGBT friendly city in Italy so I imagine that Jim and Jack are delighted with their bags from Zadig & Voltaire!

And now for jewellery ... This lady's covered in it, with sparkly creatures on her skirt:

And this guy kept staring at me ... which doesn't encourage me to enter.

 

Well, those are some of the things that caught my eye when I was looking for classy sparkle. I didn't buy anything - the fashion shops are for people with money to burn. 

It was a typical November day here, slightly foggy and damp, but the bustle of people and the warm glow of shops made it lively and welcoming, as this picture of Milan's fabulous nineteenth-century shopping arcade shows.

 

Sue x 

Sometimes you just need to get your favourite frock on

I'm home for a couple of days. Because I really needed to wind down with my favourite dress on. 

It's been a difficult year because of a relative of mine was in hospital for six months after disastrous surgery. He's been back home for a couple of weeks now. I did his tax return for him in September, which was very stressful, so dealing with his domestic arrangements and residual administrative stuff this month has been OK, if dull. But I've gone home for these two days as, frankly, he's able to cope now and I really need a break. More than that, I really need my favourite dress. It's all very well wearing women's trousers and shirts away from home so as to be mistaken for masculine and thereby avoiding awkward questions, but it's another to feel properly feminine, and for that a dress is the best option.

My favourite dress is nothing to excite interest. It's not glamorous, it's not fancy, it's not daring, it's not pretty, it's not eye-catching. Quite the opposite: it's just a plain, charcoal-grey, three-quarter length, soft jersey dress that I have had for nearly 30 years! Yes, I bought it in the January sales in London's Oxford Street in 1997 for just £11.50 and I have worn it and worn it and worn it. It's apparently indestructible! And it flows with me. So it's my favourite, the one I always pick when I really just need to be me. 

Phew! I needed my dress. Feeling better now.

Sue x 

Nursie bites nails

 I've spent the last ten days looking after this relative of mine who spent six months in hospital and who is now home. That's mainly involved my going shopping and doing a bit of light housework for him. His nurse has visited daily to deal with his dressings and check on his health, which is just as well as the only things I know about nursing come from watching too many Carry-On films and that's probably unsuitable training for real life.  

 

Ooh, you've got a big growth there, Mr Boggis. Don't worry, we'll have it off right away.

Given that this morning he walked to the chemist, the newsagent and the bakery himself, I'm thinking that my presence here is now more for the sake of company than anything useful. I expected to be here much of November but I'll be going home for a bit next week. 

I am not obviously dressed as a woman, although I always am. I have to be discreet about washing and drying my underwear here, though, as it's clearly feminine. I got a compliment from him on my shoes, despite their being women's shoes, which made me chuckle inside. 

Last night we watched an old episode of Commissario Montalbano, the well-known Sicilian police drama, in which one character was having an affair with a trans woman. My relative turned to me and informed me, as he does every time any trans woman, drag queen, crossdresser or feminine queer person ever appears on TV, that "that's a man, you know." Apart from the condescension of assuming I need such information, and that the actress playing the trans character (Morgana Gargiulo) is actually trans herself, the transophobia is brazen. I guess it wasn't so bad this time; usually he comes out with things like, "That's not a woman, he's got a penis, you know". The fact that this blunt, bigoted commentary from him seems compulsory every time a trans face appears on TV or in the press suggests the phobia runs very deep indeed, like my father's frothing abuse each and every time a black person is on TV. But all my family are like this, and not just about trans or race matters. To them anyone who is not precisely like themselves in sexuality, culture, skin tone, beliefs, preferences or whatever is a deranged pervert. I assume there is a bigotry gene since cultural and generational trauma doesn't seem to me to be enough to explain all this. 

Trying to discuss or reason with bigots is something I no longer engage in as it tends just to make such people more stubborn in their views rather than admit they've been ignorant or abusive.

By the way, you've no idea how difficult it is to visit trans sites and blogs and write this one whilst I'm in the home of someone who is always curious as to what I'm doing or about to do. Why are families so nosey?

As I said before, I am doing this stint at my relative's home as I owe him a big favour but after this I'll be reducing contact with family even further, and it's not close even now. They're bad people and it's taken me decades to come to terms with that sad reality. I just wish life had been different. Trans people who have supportive relatives and loving households should count their blessings.

I'd bite my nails with frustration but, being a trans woman, having them nice, neat and long overrides that urge. 

 

Fashion capital

I'm in the fashion capital, Milan, and I've been looking in the windows of the Quadrilateral, the main fashion district, for any weird and wonderful outfits or accessories but I'm sorry to say that they're all now already outfitted for Christmas. I do a Milan Christmas fashion post virtually every year so photos will have to wait till I declare that it's Christmas! My blog, my rules!

 

Replies 

Thanks for your comments, which have been very encouraging and kind. We seem to be in a period when I can reply so do keep them coming. 

Sue x