Daughters – Skirtingroundmylife

Belle Of The Ball

There is no escaping the fact that I’ve been inspired by LGBTQ History Month, so inspired in fact that I’ve written this poem on topic of dancing especially to commerorate the event. I’ve deliberatly written it from the point of view of two mature women one of whom may be a transwoman, becoming romantically involved after meeting at a dancing class. I’ve given it the title Belle Of The Ball I hope you enjoy the read.

Belle Of The Ball

my partner birls me round the floor
I’m feeling apprehensive
she told me relax
as she takes me in hand
and whispers something io
says she knew that I was just the right type
she would teach the steps and the twirls
from that moment on
I gave her my trust
I knew she liked dancing with girls

Of course she’d been married
for most of her life
the respectable types
always are
she knew she liked women
she had since her teens
though she thought it a step too far
as she taught me to waltz
as a women should do
and to tango the
Argentine way
we kissed under stars
and got in to the grove
our desires had come to play

she told me her daughters encouraged her
to take up dancing lessons
the youngest one said she should talk to the priest
and maybe start going to confession
it’s just in case you meet a man
who gets you all excited
or maybe do what Katie did
like kiss a girl and like it.

my dancing partner smiled at the thought
as her youngest daughter blushed
I’ll just see how it goes she said
and enjoy some fun filled lust
her daughters thought that we were friends
until they saw us kiss
in ways that only women know
we shared some midnight bliss

She told them all it’s my time now
it’s time to take a chance
your dad would be so proud of the fact
I taught this girl to dance
he knew I had my tendencies
and the passions I kept at bay
he said that I should dance with girls
if that was nature’s way

As its if he was giving his blessing
she told me as we danced
she’d waited all her life for this
we had to take the chance
a woman knows what a woman knows
and she knew what to say
I felt like the belle of The ball that night
and we danced to the break of the day

Stirrings

In this poem which I’ve titled Stirrings I look at how the teenage trans girl of the mid to late 70’s learned from the music of the original disco queen Donna Summer that even trans girls can be bisexual and how I managed to embrace this side of myself without ever revealing it to anyone. I hope you enjoy the read.

Stirrings

It was Donna Summer who confirmed
my attraction to women
I knew had stirrings
Since the day I looked at Marie
as well as her brother
You know from America’s first musical family
I was at what my mother called a dangerous age
Questioning my sexuality was according to her logic
The kind of thing movie stars got paid to do
But it wasn’t real life Hollywood wives she said
Had far too much fun and got way too much sex
Without having to face the responsibility
Of the women and girls she knew
If she thought that society shared her view
On these topics boy was she in for a shock
The truth is I was ready to rock her world
To its very foundations
I experienced tingling sensations
Beyond both her imaginations and comprehension
I was open to suggestions and invitations from all
I would answer nature’s call
In whatever way it called me
I fancied Donny And Marie but it wasn’t till Donna came along
I knew I felt love for them both and realised
How unkind some choices can be.

Dirty Dancing

In this poem which is my first of an erotic nature I take a trip back in time to the mid to late 1980’s as a twenty something explored her sexuality and discovered more about herself with a bit of dirty dancing than her mother could possibly have dreamed of , and from that day on knew there were places known to her which had previously been beyond her imagination. I’ve given it the title Dirty Dancing I hope you enjoy the read.

Dirty Dancing

There was something about Swayze
Like there was something with Kylie or Madonna
The provocative allure was there in the magnetism
Just like when the Chippendales made me blush
In that forbidden way
That I never told my mother
Yet she still seemed to know
Some mother and daughter secrets Are best left unspoken
Especially when the daughter is trans
And would have liked to invite Swayze back to her place
For a night of dirty dancing
With a do not disturb sign on the door

Queen Of Scotland

I think I’m getting bolder in my writing these days. It was only back end of last year I wrote my first ever poem in Scots and I’ve now written a Burns styled poem Fae A Lassie in the mither tounge. Now I’ve attempted my first ever monologue and I’m ready to share it with you. It’s titled Queen Of Scotland a title suggested to me by my good friend Ailie Wallace after she along with my and Words And Music co-host Jen Hughes had given it a proof read and helped with the editing process . It is written on transgender issues from the point of view of a former neighbour who knew the woman concerned when the trans girl was growing up. It is a lot more autobiographical than some people may think and I hope you enjoy the read.

Queen Of Scotland. (A Monologue)

You know what she’s like
she’s always been the same
played with dolls whenever she got the chance
so her mammy got an action man
like that was ever going to work
she was born a boy
and her mammy and daddy tried
to encourage her to do boy things and she did like football and rugby and other sports
but only ones where the men wore shorts
I think she had a thing about that
especially in her teens
told me she fancied both Donny And Marie
you know from the Osmonds
her being from the schemes
yet she fancied herself as Queen of Scotland
she had some imagination
her mammy was awful frustrated
that she couldn’t be content as a boy
her dad got it though and anyway
he always wanted a daughter
and she was always a daddy’s girl
though it was a secret best kept from her mammy
as was her bisexuality
well she knew that her mother was very conservative that way.
not that she was ever a Tory
I’m just saying she was socially
traditional
don’t get me wrong her love was unconditional
I think she was just scared
and who could blame her
it was just her way
It wasn’t just the gossip from the neighbours
though that was a part of it
but it was more a fear of her daughter being attacked
and she couldn’t see her any other way
than the son she brought in to the world
yet I knew she was lying to herself
that poor girl couldn’t be a boy if she tried
and trust me she tried
cried more tears than any lassie should
right through her teens and her twenties
she was well in to her thirties
before she even tried to take the first steps to acceptance
and now she’s more confident than she’s ever been
the girl from the scheme or who dreamed of being Queen of Scotland
is content at last just to be herself

A Life Without Edits.

On the anniversary of the day my maternal grandmother went to her final rest I’ve written this poem in her memory and hope I have done justice to the life of Jessie MacDonald Robertson Russell. I’ve tried to stay true to the stories she told me that all too often families edit out. These are the bits of the dead person’s life that they don’t agree with her and I believe my gran deserves a better fate than that. It’s for that reason I’ve given it the title A Life Without Edits . I hope you enjoy the read.

A Life Without Edits

The service was held at home
at 9 15 prompt.
three days after she died
almost to the minute
a minister she had never met in her life
tried to tell relatives and friends
about Jess the granny , the mother, the wife
based only on polite conversations
with the family by which
I mean
my mother, aunts , and selected friends

keeping up Presbyterian pretence
was deemed far more important
than less well known stories
about how she hated both the crown and the Tories
and called Churchill a Nazi
who took the right side in war only by accident
or what he probably called a mistake

there was no mention of Jess the Red Clydesider
who believed in the socialist republicanism of McLean
or the woman who hated giving to charity
on the principal that if the rich paid their taxes
there would be no need
who called it the child of greed
but donated more than her share
because others wouldn’t
or the student of Scotland who educated herself
and the youngest of her grandchildren
in everything from geography to Gaelic
politics to cultural traditions
and why the United Kingdom was never for her or me

this was the Jess my mother didn’t want others to see
in truth she didn’t know
too much about it
the campaining years
halted by the depression and war
at the time of her youngest’s arrival
when survival was the name of the game
though in the winter of her years
she made sure I knew the history
so the truth of her story could be told
not edited by ministers or daughters
who didn’t share her views

she always watched the STV news
not the tartan window dressing
on BBC shortbread as she called it
there only good on hogmanay
she once claimed
one day a year and even then we have to pay for the boats
we’re not allowed to rock

such information would have shocked the ladies of the mission
who and fair play to them
turned up to pay their respects
to Jess the woman who taught me to listen to lyrics and melodies
and read between the lines of every poem
even, no especially my own
to make sure it was the best it could be
and left no room for ambiguity.

In Case Your Aunties Blushed

As yesterday was national coming out day I wrote this poem to commemorate it. It’s written in conversational style as I relate my story as to why I came out much later than I’d have liked. I’ve titled it In Case Your Aunties Blushed I hope you enjoy the read

In Case Your Aunties Blushed

How did you say it ?
I couldn’t find the words to explain
I wasn’t playing a game of dress up
that the women they saw before them
is who I have always been
and will always be
and when teenage boys looked
at scanty clad models on page three
of certain tabloid papers
I never indulged on those kind of capers
and was more interested in the lingerie
than leering at their bust

I had myself sussed from a very young age
wrote secrets in the pages of notebooks
using coded language in diaries
panicking when weight gain
meant going up a size in clothes
remembering the time nobody noticed
when I walked past my mum
and her friends in the city centre
counting it as the first real success
cherishing favourite dresses and accessories like prized jewels
and mourning the day they no longer zipped
or sat with comfort on hips
which had now expanded as I began to take my shape

how anyone could call this a phase or mistake
only showed how little they knew
of the real me rather than the image
of what they thought I should be
so how did you find words to tell them this is me
I can never be a son
when I was meant be a daughter
and can no longer lie to myself

did you explain your mental health
would improve beyond recognition
I tried but it was harder to be out in the 70’s
and conversations like this didn’t take place
closets were safe till attitudes changed
and this happened gradually
sex and sexuality were seldom discussed
in polite conversations with family
in case your auntie blushed

society didn’t know my aunties
but some of them knew me
better than I thought and had the kind of talk
my mother tried to avoid
opening doors she’d prefer had stayed locked
as they showed me a glimpse
of my future reality
when they saw me browsing
the women’s fashion in the catalogue

My Friend The Future Taoiseach (For Jennifer Carroll MacNeill)

In this poem I illustrate that as befits a joint honours graduate in Geography And Politics my interest in these issues goes beyond just Scotland or even the UK and this is particularly true of women’s and trans related issues and in the newly elected Fine Gael TD Jennifer Carroll MacNeill (TD is Irish for MP for those who may not know) the causes of equality and the environment have gained a powerful voice. I first got to know Jennifer on the social media in the run up to her country’s General Election and have been very impressed with what I’ve seen of her so far. In fact I’ve been so impressed I’ve written this poem and titled it My Friend The Future Taoiseach I hope you enjoy the read

My Friend The Future Taoiseach (For Jennifer Carroll MacNeill )

My friend the future Taoiseach
is intelligent dignified and has lots of creative skills .
she will be a role model
for a generation of girls.
who will inspire others
including fathers and brothers
to discover their better selves.
she will not be afraid to talk about mental health.
and its hidden impact on the economy.
she will look at how she can tackle discrimination
the causes of poverty
and further advance equality for all her country’s people.
she will find ways of fighting the evils of extremism and exclusion
seeing them in whatever guise they use
to spread their message of hate.
my friend the future Taoiseach
will never say progress can wait.
a modern woman she will not be chained to a past
of myths and legends.
Preferring to build on successes achieved
and create the climate
for an even greater Ireland.
in which the culture of silence around toxic masculinity
will be challenged and defeated .
changed forever by the first woman to rule in Leinster house.
this feisty female fighter will create a country fit for the future.
where sensible sustainability
takes over from macho virility
as the dominant narrative of the nation.
she will inspire generations to aim higher
in every possible way.
when the day finally dawns
to asses the impact of her tenure
history will remember her with kindness
she will be judged not by her gender
but by the content of her character
and by the way she changed
the nation for the better
when Ireland voted for a daughter to govern with humanity
to show her sons a different way of doing things.

Accidental Girl

You may not believe it but I have always known that I was socialised trans. I believe this was initially at least accidental but I think it eventually part of my closet reality. It was if you like a secret shared between mother and trans daughter. It may not have been full entry in to a girl’s world biology made that impossible but my upbringing was never what you would call that of a traditional West of Scotland boy. I think it may have been due to my disabilities and particularly my epilepsy that my mother was reluctant to let me do the great outdoors and the rough and tumble what she called their world. She did this as if to illustrate its otherness to the way I was to be part of. From my earliest memories my world was one of women and girls and not men and boys, this really worked well for me and I soon got to know the chat and in jokes no boy ever will ever be told. I was if you like semi socialised as a girl though ever the conservative I mean that in the social sense not the political one, she never extended this to gender appropriate Christmas or birthday presents. On those occasions it was always the latest table football games that were placed under the tree though eventually tights and make up would make their way in secret to my Christmas stocking once I reached 12 in my last year of primary school. In her own way I think my mother knew she had a daughter, but could never admit this to family, friends , and neighbours and least of all to herself. It was with this in mind I have written this poem which I have titled Accidental Girl I hope you enjoy the read.

Accidental Girl

I don’t think she would ever admit it
not even to her closest friends
but to me my mother feminised me
and whether she knew it or not
raised an accidental daughter
and moulded her in Presbyterian guilt

of course in my childhood years
such a notion would have been dismissed
I was eight in 69
that magical time of Woodstock , men on the moon and the stonewall riots
sailed past a quiet child

I had health concerns
my future labelled by experts
who as it turns out didn’t know
quite as much as they’d like to think
I tended towards pink rather than blue
and loved the shade she painted my nails
on the day Ann Jones won the Wimbledon ladies final

I wasn’t an only child
an older brother was allowed discover
the great outdoors
climbing trees and playing football
while I went to the shops
listened to small talk
and knew the difference
between every cut of meat in the butchers
before all the other kids
in the scheme

whether she knew it or not
my mother was shaping my future
in ways she could never have foreseen
when I was 12 or 13 I was allowed to buy Jackie
but woman’s own was to be my compulsory weekly reading

this she said was to remind me
of the drudgery of her daily existence
I was permitted to dress in private
and fitted in panty girdles
to give me a female shape
when pancakes as she called them
didn’t have the filling for a bra

she tried to convince herself
it would go away
my escape from the male gender cage just happened because I was bored
it annoyed her when she realised
that my female desires and dreams could no longer be ignored
she couldn’t content herself and say
it was just a rebellious phase
even though she was terrified of
the social plague
or as I called it neighbourhood gossip

she knew the truth of my real identity though sexuality was never discussed
she realised I had longings and lusts like a daughter not a son
though god knows she blushed at the thought of them
not that I would say too much to her. after all she raised me to be ladylike. and in that at least, her lassie
played by her rules

fast forward to the present day
you can see it was no phase or seven day wonder
thunder didn’t strike me down
nor did the sky fall in
on the accidental girl
who became more like her mother than she’d ever like to admit

Real Women

This poem was inspired by my friend Katie Walker when she commented on an image I had shared on my Facebook where I said how daft I thought the image really was. The fact that the image may very well have been photoshopped matters not one jot, it was content on it that got me mad angry enough to write this poetic rant as it dared to suggest that real women should be subordinate to our men. Now uncomfortable as it is to say this I have actually met some women who do think like this and this was especially true during the Independence and Brexit referendums. Granted the numbers concerned were extremely small but to say that nobody thinks like that is a fantasy especially if they’ve been brought up in strict religious conservative homes where certain parts of the bible are given primacy over other what could be seen as more contentious books or verses. It was with this in mind I decided to go on a kinda rant as to what I think real women are prepared to accept. You may not be surprised to know I’ve given it the title Real Women I hope you enjoy the read.

Real Women

Real women will give the world
comfort and passion
fashion advice to each other
and occasionally men
send sexist attitudes
homeward to think again
campaign for equality
stand up to end poverty
take no lip from politicians of any hue
real women are not afraid to share our views
will not do as we are told
by the mainstream media
or advertising executives
will never be what you expect of us
because nobody has the right
to say what our expectations should be
will call out injustices whenever we see them
we will never be beaten by slogans or statistics
we will be altruistic if that’s in our nature
refuse to be lectured on our best behaviour
or do as you command
real women will not hand our paycheck to a man
for only a pittance in return
so if anyone believes we should
then I suggest they are up to no good
and should leave the comedy
to those who can actually deliver
the laughter
and boldly go
back to the 18th century
while the rest of us
get on with our lives
you see that is what real women do
we are sisters, daughters, friends, partners, wives
and all of us have many parts to play
in the ever changing drama
we call our everyday reality
so believe us when we say
that we will be nobody’s sideshow
a real women knows
her place
and that place will be
wherever she wants it to be
to those who call us birds I say this
most of them fly free
and those who are trapped in cages
long to escape
that’s it that’s my rant over
now where did I put my wonder women cape?
I have much work still to do.

No Flowers

In this poem I share my thoughts on why my mother had difficulty with my gender identity and eventual transition. To be fair to her I think it may to some extent at least have a generational thing and a significant part of it may have to due to the social and cultural conditioning which was part and parcel of being a presbyterian growing up in post war climate of Scotland and the UK. I’ve given it the title No Flowers I hope you enjoy the read

No Flowers

She mourned at the loss of her boy
the son she thought she had
there were no flowers at the graveside
to her grief was private
she needed time to cry
tears of sorrow and confusion
she didn’t understand how it could happen
after all the God she believed in
though not enough to go to church
had told her in the bible
he created them man and women
there was no in between
soon she was sure
she would waken up from this dream
with her son returning to be
the boy she had raised and the man she still loved
the truth is that he found closets
far too limiting
restricting her from coming to terms
with what she had always known
but had been too afraid to show
friends protected her from
occasional storms of hate
there were no flowers at the graveside
no funeral for the son who never died
nor celebrations for the daughter
who had no choice but to take the step
and finally be herself