by Paris Lees
I’m gonna find ma place in the sun. They said that on Rugrats once. I din’t know worrit meant. It must be nice feelin’ like ya belong. We went to pick up Mammar Rita from the airport once an’ when we saw the sign for ’ucknall on the way back she were like, “I love goin’ away, but it’s always nice to get ’ome again.” An’ I din’t know what she were on about at first, coz we were still five minutes away from ’er house. But then I realized, she actually feels like ’ucknall is ’er home. An’ I’m pleased she feels that way, coz I bet it’s lovely to feel like that, but it’s never bin ma home an’ it never will be.
You Got the Love
Thanks for listenin’, by the way. I guess I never really asked if ya wanted to ’ear all this. I just started rabbitin’ on, eh? Mammar Joe used to say I could talk for England, me, an’ I do waffle on, I know I do. It’s like Smanfa always sez, a problem shared is a problem halved. She’s a good egg, Smanfa. I’m lucky to have a mate like ’er. It does help, ya know, feelin’ like there’s someone listenin’. Coz it’s bin lonely sometimes. But I can’t be the only one who feels like this, canna? There must be people all over the country like me – all over the world! But ya just don’t hear from us. I reckon we should talk about things more though, coz otherwise nothin’ll change, an’ it’ll be like this for ever. An’ I think there’s summat better out there.
It’s a pity I can’t show Mammar Joe the railin’s. Most o’ the houses near the seafront have a floor at basement level, so there’s fences to stop people fallin’ down. I’ve gorra a basement flat. It’s on a square. There’s a park in the middle of it, like EastEnders. Ya can see the sea from the porch. There’s railin’s all over Brighton, actually. I saw ’em as we drove through, all old an’ ornate, like the gates at Buckingham Palace. I bet no one down here is gonna appreciate ’em as much as me, coz I’m silly like that, aren’t I? I love owt like that. I’ve always thought they should replace the railin’s in ’ucknall, coz they could make it look dead good again, if they wanted to. Although I bet they weren’t anywhere near as fancy as the ones down here.
The buildin’s have got big, high windows too. Janet sez there’s a lotta Regency architecture in Brighton an’ that I should read up on the Prince Regent coz he’s ma sorta person. It’s gonna be amazin’, I can just feel it – proper Sex an’ the Seaside! Although I’ve bin thinkin’ an’ I’ve gorra stop speakin’ like that, coz I reckon they’ll all be dead posh at uni an’ talk like Peter. I’ve bin practisin’ the voice I’m gonna use if I wanna put ma hand up an’ ask a question in lectures. I don’t want ’em thinkin’ I’m common. Or thick. I’m gonna reinvent mysen – I mean, myself. Like Madonna.
Michelle drove me down. Ma brother’s mam. I’m quite touched, truth told. Sez it all though, don’t it? First person in ma family to go to university an’ someone else’s mam’s droppin’ me off. Ma cousin’s a heroin addict, for fuck’s sake, but I’m the black sheep coz I like wearin’ lipstick! Maybe I’d have gorra free pass if I sniffed glue an’ fingered girls down Titchfield Park, but it’s not ma style, is it? Honestly, they don’t deserve me. I mean, I know I robbed someone an’ that, but I’ve not done too bad to get mysen down here, have I?
Uncle John an’ Aunty Louise are bringin’ ma stuff tomorrow. I love Uncle John an’ Aunty Louise. They’re the only ones I really like from ma dad’s side. He’s got everythin’ packed up in ’is van, but he’s workin’ late tonight, so they’re comin’ down in the afternoon. He works on the railways. I coulda just come wi’ them, but I’ve gorra be at registration dead early tomorrow. I’m gonna gerra taxi coz I can’t be arsed workin’ out public transport at that time o’ the day. I’m quite far from campus, but I’m glad I’ve got ma own place. There’s no way I can share wi’ other people. I can’t let anyone see me without makeup. An’ I’m gonna have to make money. It’s gonna be weird, innit, bein’ in that induction tomorrow, lookin’ round an’ not knowin’ who any of ’em are. Coz just think, in three years, everyone’ll have an opinion on everyone else. People ya end up hatin’. People ya end up shaggin’. People ya end up bein’ best mates with. Wonder what they’ll make of me.
I’ve never bin this far south before. It feels dead far. Ya can’t really get any further south. Michelle’s gorra meetin’ in London in the mornin’, so she din’t hang around to see ma apartment. I told ’er to get off coz it were dark by the time we got here, an’ I’d already made us late settin’ off, ya know worram like. She said the square looked nice an’ to call ’er if there’s any problems. I’ll have to think of a way to thank ’er. I mainly talked about Mammar Joe on the way. I were makin’ ’er laugh coz I told ’er I want it all – everythin’ life has to offer – an’ I’m gonna gerrit. But I do! An’ I will. She reckons I’m crackers.
We had to collect the key when we arrived. The landlord seems a bit camp. There’s gonna be a lot of ’em down here though, eh? I’ve read that people shout homophobic stuff at Brighton football matches, although I bet none o’ the players are even gay coz there aren’t any gay footballers, at least none that have come out. He din’t say much, I reckon he just wanted to go to bed. Sez he’s got some forms for me to fill in tomorrow. They sound dead posh down here.
The flat’s dead bare. It sounds stupid, but the most excitin’ part was openin’ the fridge an’ thinkin’, This is ma fridge – this little fridge, here, in Brighton. An’ I’ll put ma milk in it to make ma cups of tea. I din’t wanna put the big light on for some reason, so I just sat there wi’ the fridge door open, an’ thought about all the things I’m gonna do. It feels strange bein’ in a completely different city. An’ thinkin’, This is ma home now. I hope I like it here, coz I’m not goin’ back. I’ve slept with every man under thirty with an NG1 postcode. If I go back now, it’s either celibacy or ma own sloppy seconds.
I’ve come out to sit by the sea now. It’s a lot quieter than I thought it’d be, but it is Sunday. Well, Monday technically coz it’s gone midnight. The nights are gerrin colder. I’m only a five-minute walk from the pier, the one that got burnt down, so I walk up. It’s dead eerie. I’m not very good wi’ distances, but I’d say it’s about a hundred feet from the shore. I remember seein’ it on Blue Peter. It’s just sat there, rottin’ away. Kinda reminds me of Byron in ’is crypt, all cold an’ damp. It had a big ballroom at one point. They ought to rebuild it really, but I like how it’s so dark, an’ desolate. There’s birds all over it. I wish I could fly up an’ perch next to ’em. Imagine bein’ there in the middle of a storm when one o’ them beams falls down. I like the idea of summat so dramatic happenin’ when no one’s there to see it. There’s so much we don’t see.
Maybe I’ll swim out there one day an’ find a way up.
There’s summat about the sea. Coz even if you’ve never seen it before – even if you’ve never heard of it – I feel like the sound o’ the waves would still make sense, if ya know worra mean? Like it’s waitin’ for ya. An’ as I’m sat here, listenin’ to the waves crashin’ in, I suddenly get this powerful sense that she’s watchin’ me. I feel a bit stupid at first, so I say it quietly.
Is that you, Old Mother ’ubbard?
I sez, I did it, Mammar. I made it out of ’ucknall.
I wish ya were here. I wish ya could see it.
It won’t be the same without you, ya know.
I’m sorry I din’t come an’ see ya more. I hope ya know how much I love ya.
I’m gonna work hard, an’ live ma life to the full. I’m gonna make ya proud.
I wish she could see how well I’m doin’. It’s weird thinkin’ about how much she’s done for me, an’ that she’ll never see how well I’ve done gerrin all the way down here. I want ’er to know I’m a nice person, deep down, under this thick layer of bitch. I always thought I’d be able to repay ’er one day. She din’t even know if I’d got ma A-levels. That’s why I have to believe she’s watchin’ me. That she can see me bein’ good.
I’d better get goin’ back though, eh? I just wanna wake up
an’ feel good in the mornin’.
I’m gonna get some supplies tomorrow. Ma place is like Old bloody Mother ’ubbard’s! Maybe I can borrow a cup o’ sugar from ma neighbour. I saw ’im lookin’ at me from the top flat when we pulled up. Talk about quick work, eh? He looked away when I caught ’im, but he were definitely checkin’ me out. An’ who can blame ’im? He’s got eyes! Wonder if he knows ma little secret. Michelle sez I’m gonna end up causin’ a commotion down here if I carry on the way I did in Notts, an’ I daresay I could if I put ma mind to it. Mammar Joe used to say I could gerrin to trouble locked in a padded cell by mysen for five minutes, but she also used to say I’m not as green as I’m cabbage-lookin’, so it’s swings an’ roundabouts, really. I hope she’s not watchin’ me all the time …
Acknowledgements
I’m afraid this is going to read a bit like an Oscar’s acceptance speech. But writing a book is kind of a big deal for me and I simply couldn’t have done it without the following people, in no particular order. I first went to Penguin with the idea for What It Feels Like for a Girl in 2013 (Olden Times) and I’m so grateful to Helen Conford for taking a chance on me. I was incredibly sad when she left Penguin. Thankfully Maria Bedford was there to pick up the reins so I’ve been blessed with not one wonderfully fantastic editor whom I’m proud to call a friend, but two. I’d also like to thank my long-suffering and lovely agent Rosemary Scoular, who frankly deserves an award for not throttling me by now, and dear David Dimbleby for introducing us. And indeed, to the whole gang at United Agents: especially Aoife Rice who never fails to provide a ray of light. Lockdown would have been unbearable without Natalia Lucas making time for my neurotic ramblings (and daily enquiries about invoices).
Special thanks to my publicist at Penguin, Isabel Blake, who has the patience of saint, Liz Parsons, who’s bursting with ideas and kindness. I can’t thank Caroline Dollimore and Sophie Brocklehurst at Cherry Create enough, thank you for helping me give birth to this. It’s always so curious to me, when I log online, to read about the great ‘conflict between trans women and REAL women’ – when I’ve spent every day for the past decade supported by so many fantastic women.
There have been some men, too – Paul Flynn is of the male variety and also one of those people you’re always enriched for having spoken with. Designer Tom Etherington is a Midlands lad who took on board my many ideas of what the cover should be: bold, gobby, unapologetic. Byron, in a word. We spent months obsessively creating just the right colour, something between a highlighter pen and an acid smiley, illuminated by public toilet fluorescent lighting. He’s fantastic – give us an award.
I wasn’t born into privilege and I only have a career thanks to people like Jane Czyzselska, certified good egg and the first person to pay me for my writing. Tim Lusher was the first person to put me in a newspaper, the Guardian’s G2 magazine. Thanks for letting me do work experience at Gay Times, Tris Reid Smith. And Darren Scott for making me laugh. Thank you, Matthew Todd for pinching me for Attitude. It was a bit naughty – but so are you. Your book Straight Jacket had an enormous impact on me and many others. You don’t come from privilege either and should feel really proud of everything you’ve achieved. I admire you.
Reni Eddo Lodge inspires me with the way she makes her voice heard, not only what she says but how she says it and the deep thought behind it. I’ve followed her career closely and learned so much from her – I’m also proud to call her a friend. Witty, kind-hearted Katherine O’Donnell was an early supporter of my work and is now a friend for life, whether she likes it or not. I’m also rather fond of her mother Joan.
Thank you, Alex Miller for offering me a column at VICE back when no one else thought trans people had anything interesting to say. I’m not sure my columns have all aged well, but we have. Cheers to everyone at VICE, actually: Amelia Abraham, Oz Katerj, Elektra Kotsoni, Eleanor Morgan, Sophie Heawood – I feel like I’m doing you all a disservice by listing you like this but I’m not sure what to say other than thank you for the warm welcome. Kev Kharas is a fantastic editor and would send copy back 20 per cent shorter and 50 per cent funnier without me being able to tell what he’d cut. Sam Taylor Smith’s art sealed the deal. Another Midlands lad.
I really didn’t want this to be one of those super long acknowledgements because honestly how tedious and self-absorbed, but I simply have to thank Edward Enninful, Giles Hattersley and Olivia Marks who literally changed my life when they opened the door at British Vogue. I’m so proud to write for such an exciting brand at such an exciting time under Edward’s editorship. I’ve made many wonderful friends there, notably fellow Northerner and total gentleman Alec Maxwell and super talented MUA Niki M’nray. Then we have brave, bold Pippa Vosper (who has been so supportive of this book), fabulous, funny Susan Bender, thoughtful, fiercely intelligent Patricia Kingori and the impressive, flawless Vanessa Kingori – four absolute woman-crushes who I could talk to on the phone for hours, and often do.
Thank you so much to my family for supporting me to tell my story, in particular my mum and dad for giving me their blessing to speak my truth. It’s not been easy for them to hear some of the things in this book, which is written from my perspective at a particular moment in my life. I’m pleased to say I have a great relationship with them in 2021. They want me to be happy and use my voice so children today like me don’t go through what I went through – and parents like them might have more information on how to support us. I love you.
I’m forever grateful to my lovely Aunty, who is quite possibly the kindest and most principled person I have ever met. I love her to bits. Sarah Lennox has taught me so much about the world and is really a very sophisticated modern kind of gal. My Eminence Blonde. My Other Aunty is hilarious and has been a huge support to me along with my lovely uncle and cousin P. My beautiful sister isn’t mentioned much in this book as we didn’t grow up in the same house, but you have have always been there for me and I love you girl. I don’t deserve you!
My brother-from-another-mother, I just couldn’t be more proud of you and you’ve always embraced me for who I am. I know I must be missing off all sorts of people and will no doubt feel very stupid at some point. I have to thank pioneering trans women who inspired me early in my transition like Nadia Almada, Calpernia Addams, Christine Burns, and countless YouTubers who deepened my understanding of what I like to call our predicament. It’s not easy being out there and I salute you and all the many others who have since come forward.
Thank you also to everyone who’s spoken up for working people and for people like me (when they don’t have to), too many friends to name here but Olly Alexander, Owen Jones and Ellie Mae O’Hagan spring to mind. Edouard Louis’ writing has reignited my passion for reading and helped me to learn French over the past few years: he’s so impressive. Merci beaucoup! Thank you also to Pandora Sykes for being so sisterly and one of the first people to shout about my book – it meant the world to me! May I say you have very good taste.
I’m not sure if it’s appropriate to thank my grandmother as she’s no longer here. Her words appear in this book as she wrote them. I never got to thank her properly but I think about her every day and the billions of women throughout history who’ve pushed their own needs aside while bending over backwards to care for others. The whole book is an acknowledgement to the power of that love and how it can transform a person. There are millions of Mammar Joe’s out there who aren’t valued as they should be for the important work they do in our society.
Thank you to Janet and Louai for all your love, talks and support over the years, lucky me to have met you. Thank you Alison at the Youth Offending Team and various social workers whose names I’m ashamed to have forgotten. Thank you to my English teacher with the furry coat, Justine Berry, the perfectly named Miss Kinder and Joanna Baker, my college tutor who fought hard for me to finish my A-levels. Mister Gallagher, I can’t forget your jokes, nor can I repeat them. Thank you to everyone who works with young people and goes that ex
tra mile for the Byrons of the world.
I can’t go without thanking my best friend and ultimate bad influence, Steffi Moore, also known as ‘Lady Die’. No one has ever had as much fun as we had in the early 2000s. Ever. They just haven’t. I was absolutely terrified of making her the trope of the ‘magical black person’ – the mysterious Other who helps the white protagonist discover themselves. The truth is we discovered ourselves together, and I will forever be grateful for her brilliant mind, outrageous humour and heart of gold during a very difficult time in our lives. She is a trans woman of colour and deserves to have her voice heard on her own terms: the dialogue in this book is printed with her blessing and I hope she will join me on the publicity tour to speak in person too. I will be amazed if she can resist the attention. I can’t wait for you all to meet her.
Finally, thank you to my fans, my followers, my friends from afar, some of whom have been following and supporting me for many years. I am touched and grateful for all the many messages I’ve received since Olden Times and am sorry to anyone I have not been able to respond to. I have one fan in particular, though, who believed me in me before anyone else, and he’s been with me every step of the way. It’s not a romance. It’s more profound than that. This book wouldn’t exist without him, and I might not either. If I live to be a hundred and the richest woman on earth, as I intend, I would never be able to repay him for what he’s done for me. He’s shy, so I won’t name him here. Let’s call him the mysterious Mister Duck. He knows who he is.
