Growing Up Queer in Australia

by Benjamin Law

‘Phoebe’s got fakies!’ screeched the other girls, as I burned with shame.

  Cute as my struggles seem in retrospect, my overdue puberty eventually became beyond a joke.

  One by one, members of The Gang came to school with a certain look in their eyes – an unholy mixture of pride and horror – and announced they had got their ‘rags’. Each time I felt a choking jealousy that made my head fuzzy. It was like the sensation of sand being sucked out from under your feet as waves break on the beach. My ears blocked up. I barely heard my friends as they gushed through the gory details of the arrival of their monthlies.

  ‘It’s raining down south!’ one would say.

  ‘Nosebleed in Tasmania,’ another would reply.

  ‘Clean up in aisle one,’ piped in a third.

  Resounding giggles. I moved so I could sit on my hands.

  ‘How about that new Madonna video clip?’ I would offer weakly, desperate to appear somewhat mature and cool. ‘What do you think she’s on about when she says, “Papa don’t preach”?’

  The girls would stop to eye me before going back to listing their top ten euphemisms for menstruation. For my part, I would resist the urge to flick their trainer bra straps until their backs bled in tandem with their vaginas.

  But now was not the time for revenge. Rather, I was making a blue-chip investment in my popularity stock, which would soar to an all-time high when I held a rockin’ pre-teen sleepover. This would be our chance to gossip about hot boys and choreograph some new routines to the synth-styles of ’80s pop music like ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ by Cyndi Lauper or, if we were feeling a tad more artistic, something like ‘One Night in Bangkok’ by Murray Head. It was going to be a bonding time for us all, and I sure as heck didn’t want to be on the outer for that.

  I spent a lot of time making sure it would all go perfectly. My bedroom was looking just right: plastered with teen idol posters of the boys from Pseudo Echo and Wa Wa Nee and the permanent paint murals Mum had allowed us to splatter the walls with as she was ‘going to wallpaper over them as soon as we moved out when we turned seventeen’ anyway. The fridge was cram-packed with drinks and snacks – mini pizzas, party pies and fizzy drinks – and my little sister Bonnie had been banished to one of her own friends’ houses for the afternoon. Everything was set to go.

  Only Mum seemed out of sorts.

  I’m not sure of the precise moment when my mother’s attitude began to change. It might have been when I refused to wear white t-shirts out of the house unless I had a singlet on underneath. Or it might have been the hours I had begun to spend gazing at my own reflection at all angles in the full-length mirror. Maybe it was when I started bringing up awkward subjects such as pregnancy, abortion and birth control. Mum became a little jumpy around me. I couldn’t quite diagnose it, but I could sense her unsettled energy and decided the best course of action would be to steer clear.

  Finally, the first cars arrived to drop off my friends. Parents waved farewell to their youngsters behind a plume of Winfield Blue smoke and ash as they sped away down the street, leaving my friends to trudge up our steep driveway. Before long, my bedroom had reached a fever pitch of squeals, shrieking laughter and the other assorted sounds of pubescent lounging and lolligagging.

  When one gal pal chucked an unused tampon in another’s lap, resulting in an extra shrill scream, Mum poked her head in long enough for me to see her disapproving expression. I pretended not to notice, and she stalked off in a huff.

  ‘Oh my god, Phoebe, I think your mum doesn’t like us!’ one friend whispered theatrically.

  ‘Don’t worry about her,’ I said. ‘She’s probably about to get a visit from Aunty Flo.’

  Wild hilarity. Pitch and timing perfect. Put them off the hot topic of my own deficit with some on-topic humour. Excellent decoy.

  ‘So . . .’ ventured another friend, ‘has George come to visit you yet, Phoebe?’

  Damn!

  ‘Er, no, not yet.’

  Loaded pause. The girls looked at one another. One broke the silence.

  ‘You’re nearly twelve, Phoebe. Maybe something’s . . . wrong?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe you should ask your mother about it?’ someone added.

  A general mumble of agreement.

  ‘You think?’ I said, looking up from my lap at all six faces through my fringe. I’d been avoiding the subject with my mother.

  ‘Sure. That’s what we’d do.’

  All nodded earnestly, wide doe-eyes. I straightened my back and injected some bravado into my voice.

  ‘Alright then, I’ll ask her right now.’

  A sudden burst of energy and everyone got up as a chattering whole to leave the room together.

  ‘Maybe you guys should stay here.’

  My suggestion was met with poutiness and smirks. I turned away from the tittering tits and went searching for Mum. I discovered her in the backyard, watering the plants.

  She saw me sidling towards her and angled slightly away, aiming her nozzle at a despondent soursop sapling.

  ‘Um, Mum,’ I said sheepishly. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  Mum flicked her eyes at me. Muffled laughter came from the back window and I turned to see The Gang all peering through to eavesdrop on the exchange. Mum looked up and saw them too. She rolled her eyes and pivoted, yanking the hose towards a remote corner of the yard.

  I shooed the girls and waited until they’d reluctantly moved away. Hearing them retreat back to the bedroom, I approached Mum again with trepidation. A few metres from where she was standing, facing the garden, I stopped and waited for her to acknowledge me.

  ‘What is it, Phoebe?’ she said exasperatedly. I swallowed and went for it.

  ‘Umm. Everyone’s been asking me, and I was wondering . . . when will I get my periods?’

  Mum stiffened and half-turned towards me.

  I’m not sure why I phrased my question in this particular way. I expected her perhaps to simply say ‘Soon’ or ‘Be patient, it will happen in time’, and that would be the end of the conversation. Funny things, expectations.

  Mum sighed. ‘Phoebe, you’ll never get your periods.’

  I stood blinking in the afternoon light, stunned. My lips formed a basic monosyllabic response.

  ‘Why?’

  Mum’s mouth tightened. ‘Because . . . you don’t have a uterus. So you can’t have periods, and you can’t have a baby.’

  My head began eddying with thick, dark thoughts. The inner part of me was screaming Whaaaaatt!?! but the outer part was completely blank, speechless.

  ‘You can adopt, though, if you like,’ Mum added.

  A beat.

  ‘Really? Are you . . . sure?’ I said eventually. ‘No periods?’

  Mum nodded.

  ‘Okay then . . . at least I’ve got something I can tell the others. They’ve all been asking why I haven’t got my period yet—’

  For the first time, Mum whipped around and faced me, eye to eye.

  ‘Don’t you tell them anything!’

  My eyes must have popped out of my head. Mum calmed herself a little before proceeding.

  ‘It’s not a good idea to tell anyone about this. Your father and I haven’t told anyone else, not even Grandma and Granddad. So let’s keep this a secret. Our secret. Okay?’

  Her words snapped me out of fogginess into a clear, tangible focus and I sensed blood pounding in my temples. I had a secret. A really, REALLY big secret. I couldn’t believe even my beloved grandma wasn’t allowed to know.

  ‘Is that everything?’ Mum was looking at me. I got the feeling she didn’t want me to ask another question.

  I stood there for a moment longer, before turning around quietly and re-entering the house. My memory of what happened next or what I said is murky. I suspect that, in a trance-like state, I nodded, left Mum to her garden and stumbled back to the bedroom with its air of breathless anticipation. I imagine that The Gang was dying to know what had happened – something, anything! – but I can�
�t remember what I told them. Most likely, ‘It’s nothing.’ But it was something.

  In the end, my breasts did start to emerge, little by little. But by then I had assigned myself apart from the girls and their feminine ways. There was nothing in any Judy Blume book that could explain this to me, and no one to ask ‘why’? It would be ages before I understood the reason – many years before I learnt that I am intersex and that my sex chromosomes and organs are male. All I knew was I was different. Very, very different. It was a profound feeling that shaped my adolescence and my life for a long time to come.

  Looking back, I have mixed emotions about this time. It was the start of my journey towards understanding my body and myself more, although it was rough and things didn’t get much better any time soon. I still struggle sometimes to accept I’ll never be normal, whatever the hell ‘normal’ means. In these times, I feel confused and lonely, much like the eleven-year-old me. But as my knowledge of human experience has expanded, I’ve come to realise I’m not alone in feeling this complicated mélange of shame, loss, discovery and, finally, pride. And now I know I am accepted for exactly who I am.

  From Dreams to Living

  Nadine Smit

  I have a great life. I love my work as a nurse. I have wonderful family and friends. I am addicted to shopping (I guess that could be a problem). I get so much pleasure trying on, purchasing and wearing pretty dresses, skirts and blouses. I think I have good taste when it comes to styles that suit me. I’ve never had a dazzling white wedding dress, but, hey, there’s still time to meet the man of my dreams. I’m fit and healthy. I enjoy the outdoors. I often go to dance classes; I walk, run and cycle most days. And when I look in the mirror, it gives me great satisfaction to see a reflection of the person I truly am. The outside matches how I feel on the inside.

  But it hasn’t always been that way.

  In 1959, when I was born, a doctor proclaimed, ‘It’s a boy!’ All he knew was that I had a penis. No one knew my brain thought I was a girl.

  In my pre-teens I had regular dreams about being a girl. I wished a fairy godmother would wave her magic wand and when I woke up I would no longer be a boy. During the day when no one was around, I would go into my parents’ room and put on Mum’s lingerie. Of course it was too big and I looked ridiculous, but I did this at every opportunity. I even pretended to be sick so I could stay home and play dress-ups. I was unable to stop thinking about being a girl. By my late teens it became more difficult to dress up, and I was certain I had been found out, although my mother later insisted she had no knowledge of what I’d been doing.

  These thoughts and desires became a source of torment. I could not understand what was wrong with me. I believed I had to compensate by taking on masculine roles. Maybe they would stop the feelings? I finished high school and went into the banking industry. I met my first wife. Of course I was obliged to get married – that’s what was expected of me as a man. Neither of us were truly in love, but my wife had her own reasons for marrying. We had three children, some fairly happy years as a family, and divorced after thirteen years as we simply grew further apart.

  During this marriage I began to get a grasp of my feelings. I saw an article about Carlotta, a Les Girls performer who was born in a man’s body and was now living as a woman. I was intrigued by what she had achieved. After stumbling on her story, I tried to learn as much as I could about others who had transitioned from male to female. I wasn’t yet familiar with the word ‘transgender’, but I had come a long way towards understanding who I was.

  I did have some suicidal thoughts growing up. I felt trapped and confused. It would have been quite easy to end the agony, but I cared so much for my loved ones. I continued to bring up my youngest child, my son, who lived with me after his mother and I separated. He was in his mid-teens when I met my second wife. We were introduced by a mutual friend, got on, and though it was apparent to both of us that we were not in love, it was mutually beneficial at the time. Our communication gradually broke down after a few years, by which time I was deeply engulfed in thoughts of transitioning.

  In 2009 I started a nursing degree. It is obvious to me now that this was what I was meant to do in life, and I had never been happier than in my role. The first years were still difficult, though; I had panic attacks from the strain of not yet being able to express the person trapped within. Late in 2013, when my marriage deteriorated beyond reconciliation, I saw that it was time for me to be myself, to begin my new life as a woman. What a huge task lay ahead for me.

  I purchased premarin, a feminising hormone, from an overseas website that did not demand a prescription. Pretty dumb, especially for a nurse, but I was desperate to make a start on my transition. I soon realised the risks, made an appointment with my GP, and for the first time I said the words ‘I’m transgender’ out loud. What a sense of relief. She was supportive but admitted she was inexperienced with transgender patients. I’d done some more research and knew I needed to take oestrogen and a testosterone blocker. My GP rang a colleague who was well known to the transgender community and we adjusted the hormones accordingly. I was now properly on the way to feminising my body. Just the act of taking those hormones had an immediate effect: I felt so much happier and surprisingly calm; I became less anxious, better equipped for the task ahead. Within weeks I noticed an increase in breast tissue. After a few months my breasts were big enough that I thought people might start to notice. I couldn’t stop smiling.

  It was time to come out to my family and friends. This was the scariest moment of my life. How should I go about this? Would they still love me? I was closest to my eldest daughter, so she was the first person I told, over lunch in the city where she worked. Before we ate, I sat her down and said I had something to tell her. I had felt she would be genuinely happy for me, and she was. We shed tears and had a wonderful lunch together.

  It was time to tell my best mate. This was going to be hard. We had known each other for seven years and enjoyed common interests. Though he was accepting, it was more difficult for him to digest my news and he said he would need time to process it. His reaction made me more aware of how my revelation would affect the people I told. He later said it was like his friend had died and he had to pass through a mourning process. I understood, even though I felt I would remain the same person and it was just the outside that would change.

  Telling my parents was especially challenging. Coincidently, and fortunately, they had seen a program on the ABC on the lives of transfolk in transition. This meant they knew what I was talking about, at least. But they did wonder how this could be happening to them. As Mum said, she had given birth to a boy, raised a boy and now I was telling her I always felt like a girl. Despite their disorientation, they both pledged to love me as they always had, which made me so happy. Dad has been unable to call me Nadine, but after struggling for the first year or so Mum has made a real effort. She nearly always uses my correct name these days.

  I have not spoken to my brother since I told him. But my sister has been a strong supporter.

  I was getting ready to begin living as a woman.

  A psychologist told me I had ‘gender dysphoria’, which I knew. I like to think that, rather than having an illness, my brain has always been female but I developed male genitalia. It was good to talk about my transition and hear about some of the ups and downs I may experience. At the end of one visit, the psychologist asked me what my name was going to be. I had given it some thought but had been uncertain. She considered me and said simply, ‘You look like Nadine to me.’ She was right and now I can’t imagine being anyone else.

  In preparation for the day I would start living as a woman, I assembled a new wardrobe. Buying my first dress was an exciting yet daunting experience, in a shop that sold larger sizes and vintage styles. I found some dresses that seemed to suit me as well as a pair of black high-heals that I was able to take a few steps in; however, they soon found a home at the back of my wardrobe. I realised I was fortunate to have r
elatively small feet. I also discovered I have small hands and a non-prominent Adam’s apple. It all helps.

  The first time I left the house in a dress was quite exhilarating. I waited till it was dark, put on one of my recent purchases and drove to my daughter’s house. Would anyone see me? Would I need to get out of the car before I got to the end of my journey? Would I be stopped for an RBT? All these things went through my mind, but of course the drive was entirely uneventful and my daughter was happy to see me. I became more adventurous going out in daylight. It was not long until I was living full-time as Nadine.

  Not every transgender person has surgery. Some don’t want or need it, and some can’t afford it. Having surgery to change my genitalia was always something I believed would have to happen for my transition to feel complete, and I was in the fortunate position of having the required funds.

  Years of research had brought me to a leading surgeon in this field in Phuket, Thailand. I arranged a holiday for my sister and me, and booked a consultation with the man who would perform my life-changing (life-saving) surgery. I felt immediately comfortable with him, and then came the real shock: I was a good candidate, so he could do the operation in less than three weeks’ time.

  I arrived back at Phuket International Hospital late in the evening of 8 December 2014, completed my admission and was shown to my room. My surgery was scheduled for the morning of the 10th. The day prior to my surgery went very quickly with visits from my surgeon and the hospital psychiatrist, and performing various tests. It was surreal; I felt completely at ease.

  The surgery took place without a hitch. When my new genitalia was revealed a few days later, I was speechless. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this day. There was swelling and some pain, but it was truly amazing.

  I was nervous about my first day of work as Nadine, but I didn’t need to be. I was returning to a ward where some former colleagues, including my manager, had been transferred to. The support I received was wonderful and I rapidly settled back in. In fact, work seemed easier now that I had less distraction in my life.