Presbyterianism – Skirtingroundmylife

Thunder Clouds

In this poem for National Coming Out Day I relate the story of knowing I didn’t fit in to the gender box society had selected for me before my age even reached double digits and being smart enough to know what to say and what not to say in those socially conservative times. I also suggest the knowledge gained in my pre teen years may have made my teenage years a lot safer and easier to navigate than may otherwise have been the case. I’ve given it the title Thunder Clouds due to the nature of my Presbyterian upbringing in the Scotland of the 1970’s I hope you enjoy the read.

Thunder Clouds

Long before the Osmonds I knew
though there was a difference
between knowing and saying .
in those days you didn’t tell the world
you wanted to be a girl.
Imagine what the neighbours would say
let alone your friends in school
it wasn’t cool to come out
or be proud of who you were
at such a young age
god help you if you said it out loud
you would either be patronised
and told it was just a phase
or warned that thunder clouds would strike you down
for the shame you would bring on the family
sexuality was never discussed
except to mock those perceived as different
and anyway you were assumed to be innocent
till at least your high school years
the days when fears plagued your teens
concerned that you’d be found out
and somehow they would know
by the way you looked
or the jokes you never told
now older and wiser you realise
there was a difference between knowing and saying
and they were only acting the roles
for which they had been conditioned
the parts society had auditioned them to play
you forgave them their sins
on the night you came out as a woman
on behalf of the girl they had never met
or never thought they had
the girl you knew you were
long before the Osmonds
and every day there after.

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.

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

A Lassie In Training

This poem recalls a true story from my pre teen years about how the kindness of a woman who I think knew a lot more than she let on about what my mother called my secret life saved a potentially ackward and embarrasing situation for my mother and a telling off for me. I’ve given it the title A Lassie In Training I hope you enjoy the read.

A Lassie In Training

Knowing who I was from a very early age

I dressed in my mum’s clothes

at every availble chance

as I danced to the music of my childhood

in the privacy of my room

this transported me in to another world

where I could be the girl my mum knew

but could never admit to knowing

it was her way of showing respectabilty

to those she thought mattered

she worried neighbours would chatter

and the damage it would cause her reputation in the community

but I shattered this personal glass ceiling

by forgeting myself and answering the door while still dressed

in navy pinnifore and 30 denier tights

it was my mum’s best friend

I thought I’d be banged to rights

furious and red faced my mother thought

the disgrace would shame her

but her friend and neighbour was a good christian woman

who sympathised with my plight

and just as I was going to my room

to put my mother’s embarrassment right

she smiled and said to my mum

och she’s fine the way she is

she’s no a boy she’s a lassie in training

invited me in the living room to enjoy coffee and biscuits

and learn what it’s like to be a woman

on seeing that her neighbour was in no way ashamed

my mother breathed a sigh of relief

and I didn’t get the telling off

I thought I might

Instead on our next day out

my mum bought me tights and my first ever top

but Conservative to the last that was where it stopped

the skirts could wait till later

Sugar And Spice

In this poem I look at the stereotypes girls had to face growing up in the 1970’s and give thanks for the rise of feminism. I’ve given it the title Sugar And Spice I hope you enjoy the read.

Sugar And Spice

When I was young I was as wholesome

as my mum’s home baked apple pie

I was reserved rather than shy

I wouldn’t even try to step out of line

I was a good girl I didn’t get into fights

I was taught to respect rules

worked hard at school

never did anything scary

on telly I watched The Waltons and Little House on the Prairie

in reality I kept myself hidden

I had no other choice

my voice muted by Presbyterian conformity

and the desire for acceptance

remember this was at a time

girls were conditioned by the sobrity

of a society which said certain topics

were off limits and not to be discussed

and certainly not by the likes of us

we were told that we were sugar and spice and all things nice

and to be understanding of boys

and not get frustrated by their attitudes

but I had a strong granny

gratitude was not my style

I wouldn’t force a fake smile

just to please others

thank god I discovered feminism

and used the voice it gave me

I started campainging for equality

speaking my truth my way

when I had something to say

it would be said no matter what

If others didn’t like me why should I care what they thought

even at a time when I was conditioned to be nice

I had a rebellious nature

I combined ladylike behaviour

with flirting round the edges of respectability

you see good girl as I may be

I’ll save sugar for my coffee

when it comes to living my life

I like to spice it up

I’m sweet enough as I am.