School – Page 2 – Skirtingroundmylife

Dogs Of War

To some people this poem may be controversial because there are facts that some people may not want to admit. One such fact is that despite what the mainstream press and media might claim the vast majority of women broadly support trans rights and with a few exceptions the most hostile voices against it are actually men. This poem explains how I deal with those who are stupid enough to attempt to give me transphobic abuse and it isn’t in a way that they like. Trust me when I’ve dealt with them they don’t come back for second helpings. I’ve titled it Dogs Of War, I hope you enjoy it

Dogs Of War

The peace of a quiet afternoon
lies shattered as words take aim
verbal bullets pierce the heart
I wrap with invisible bandages
to tend the wounds
a dog never got the chance to inflict
despite the owner barking commands
to serve me up as the meal
I stand strong knowing it isn’t the fault of the animal
that the owner needs put down
and yes I do mean that exactly the way it sounds
I show no mercy to dogs of war
who can’t afford to go fox hunting
and instead use trans women as bait
for hounds of hate to whom whistles
are calls to the pack
to attack on command
my scars will eventually heal
by the time I reach the town
at least they will till next time
there will be a next time I will these hear roars
there is always a next time
for cowards to pretend they matter
spouting crap patter
from the other side of the street
though sometimes it’s passers by who think they’re smarter than they are
who will pass their comments as banter
believing there the stars of their instant dollywood movies
till I send their ego’s crashing
with few selected words about their manhood
and their lack of aesthetic appeal
trust me they will know how it feels
when I dig my heels in and crush their self importance

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

The Art Of Wearing Make Up

In my latest lockdown poem I explain why I may be coping with the situation better than many others. It all goes back to the council transport strike of 1975 when I got an enforced holiday from school I didn’t really want. I’ve titled it The Art Of Wearing Make Up at the suggestion of my friend Stacey McFarlane. I hope you enjoy the read.

The Art Of Wearing Make Up

February 1975
and the council transport strike
means I’ve been given
an extended holiday from school
though it didn’t apply to big brother
or anyone else in the street
you see I was one of those denied mainstream education
my active imagination meant
I was bored in the house
and this was in the days
when there wasn’t even daytime television to keep me entertained
no perks for those of us the government labelled vulnerable
to protect us from peers
though some of us like me
achieved superior grades
without breaking sweat
yet we were denied opportunities
due to others insecurities
and physical strength
was placed before intellect
as a valuable commodity in this UK
which even in the first year of my teens
I could see was being run in a way
that didn’t suit the needs of the people who lived in it
maybe this is why I’ve survived
lockdown better than others
I discovered early what stay at home
really meant
and contented myself by learning
the art of wearing make up
and how to do the catwalk
in a lilac knee length dress

Frozen Pitches

In my latest poem which was to a certain extent inspired by Stewart Robbie’s excellent song at the Bohga Frois I travel back in time to my high school days of the mid to late 1970’s. As I do so, I reflect on the challenges society faced at a time when being LGBT was much harder than it is now. This was due to that being LGBT was illegal in Scotland until November 1980 and I left school in the June of that year. One of my toughest challenges was trying to fit in as one of lads during the lunchtime breaks when all the boys who were boys and those of us who knew we could never be made our way down to what was at this time of year a frozen gravel pitch for the traditional lunchtime kickabouts. Having no discernable football skills in any position, it’s safe to say I was always last pick for whatever side was short of a player or in most cases a substitute and to be fair I who would much sooner have spent my time dreaming of the Bay City Rollers can completely understand this. I have given it the title Frozen Pitches I hope you enjoy the read.

Frozen Pitches

In freezing cold weather
a gravel pitch
was not the place
to hone football skills
you never possessed
you dreamed of Woody and Les
of wearing party dresses
to the high school dance
though when the lunchtime bell rang
you tried your best to fit in
as one of the lads
you gave it all you had
though god knows
what you had
wasn’t a lot
the Scotland of the seventies
was an unforgiving place
to those who didn’t have the pace
to be a winger
or the height to play in goal
it wasn’t my fault
I lacked the ball control to be a midfielder
or the strengh for the heart of defence
I wasn’t even good enough
for the substitutes bench
and was always last pick
for the lunchtime kickabouts
to be fair I wouldn’t have picked myself
If I wanted to win the game
it would be have easy for the boys
to blame me if the team I was on
lost that day
I think some of them thought I was gay
it’s understandable when you think of it
no-one had heard the term trans
it wasn’t in the language back then
in the days when frozen pitches
were the accepted winter norm
for those of us forced to conform
and wearing shorts was the nearest I came
to showing a leg in public

A Letter To My Younger Self On Arriving Over The Rainbow

In recent years I have seen many people writing letters to their younger selves. This is usually in connection with issues around either LGBT or Mental Health. As a transwoman of what some folk would call a mature vintage this got me thinking what advice would I have given to my younger trans self, and would the girl at 11 who had Donny Osmond posters on her bedroom wall and throughout her teens kept secret stashes of Jackie magazines under her bed have listened or would she have been too busy dreaming to pay attention to my words of so-called wisdom. In truth this is a question I can’t answer but I thought I would try to undertake the task by writing a poem on the issue I’ve given it the title A Letter To My Younger Self On Arriving Over The Rainbow. I hope you enjoy the read.

A Letter To My Younger Self On Arriving Over The Rainbow

Dear Younger Gayle
I remember the first time you got your hair curled
how happy you were to be treated like a girl
I recall the first boy who made you blush
You had a massive crush on him
and never really got over him
moving to London
at least not for a while
till Donny made you smile
and desperate to be his girl
you raided your mother’s wardrobe
seeking something you could find to wear
which would make you feel
like a fairytale princess
though you never found anything that exciting
navy pinafores and tan tights
were never that inviting
though they did make you feel ladylike
and that was all you wanted at the time
If I could have given you advice
It would be that being trans is not a crime
In fact it was you being true to yourself
it was good for your mental health
It saved your life
though I think you should have been bolder
more daring
taken those risks
see that guy you wanted to kiss
you should have grabbed the chance
when he asked you dance
he would have been a good boyfriend
at least at the start
yes eventually he would have broken your heart
but you would have recovered in time
though a month would have seemed like an eternity
I think you would have gone to university sooner than you did
got a better degree
your graduation dress
would have sat on the knee
well you always were a bit too puritan
culturally conservative with a small c
cautious yet you will become politically radical
you will be told you are being selfish
when the opposite is true
your teenage years are claustrophobic
the 1970’s had such a narrow view of rights and wrongs
girls were told a woman’s place is in the home
you will realise this is unfair
you will care about what others think and say
In the Scotland of your teens
you will learn it isn’t even acceptable to be gay
let alone want to change gender
you will be called inappropriate names like queer and bender
by those who refuse to understand
talking of names one of the benefits of being trans
is you get to choose your own
and the choice you made was not based on a character in a TV show
but on the fact you know and cherish your Celtic culture
and identity
you will be the type of woman
who wants to blend in
rather than stand out
you will never shout look at me
it is not who you were, are or will ever be
only those who really matter
will see your adventurous side
this is not because you want to hide it
rather it is due to your belief
that some things are best kept private
between those who share those moments of tenderness
you will be hurt by those who label you a disgrace
but by being yourself
you will be making the world a better place
so girls and trans girls of tomorrow’s generation
will be able to hold their heads high
reach the stars and touch the sky
as for me the middle aged mother hen I’ve become
is all due to the social conservatism of Scotland and mum
that’s why you didn’t come out till your late forties
a time when you were
less concerned about what was on trend
than supporting friends
you will be ruled by your emotions
you always talked of butterflies and oceans
a nurturing nature your strongest skirt suit
If I could I would have
advised you to stay true to your roots
and ground them in sisterhood
but you did it anyway
mothering the daughters you couldn’t have
I am glad I made the visit
though my time has limits
I must return to your future
but I travelled to your time
to tell you all will be fine
and a family of friends
will love you more than you know
be happy with the woman you will be
I am happy to be me
and proud that despite
not having sisters
you dressed me in tan tights and pinafores
as you started my journey
to glory

Lots Of Love Your Future Self

Just To Be A Girl

In this poem on transgender issues and mental health I look at how I probably saved myself from having a pretty serious episode by managing my gender identity in a more pragmatic style than I would have liked during the period up to and including my teenage years. Realistically I knew I had no choice as 1970’s Glasgow was not a safe place to be a trans girl especially a trans teen whose hormones were all over place. I’ve given it the title Just To Be A Girl. I hope you enjoy the read.

Just To Be A Girl

I knew from my earliest memory
this wasn’t how it should be
trapped in a cave built by others
to hold me
I wanted to break free
be who I was
but Santa never brought me
the presents on my list
at sweet sixteen I had never been kissed
and blushed so easily when I thought
of the crushes I could never name
to family or friends at school
I knew the rules and played by them
whilst secretly lusting after boys I met at parties
I was never cut out to be a boy
my body was not my choice
it was just a place to live in
the Britain of my youth
was not comfortable for girls like me
secret calls to LGBT switchboard
were made in the darkness of night
in days I was frightened to be honest
I wasn’t all Doris Day I was more like Laura
from little house on the prairie
a daddy’s girl who was scared to tell her dad
because my mum said he’d be mad
at me bringing shame on the family
she got gender identity confused with sexuality
as she later discovered the two are not remotely related
talk about frustrated
I felt like banging my head
against a thousand brick walls
but knew that in her world
she wanted to keep me safe
she also told me I would be giving up
what she believed was my place in the world
just to be a girl
and she couldn’t understand why
I needed to do it more anything else
If hadn’t my mental health would have suffered
some sort of meltdown
in the end we reached
a compromise born from stubborn wills
when we agreed that girls will be girls
but not in front of the family neighbours and friends
this allowed her to keep up her pretence
whilst I got free make up lessons
tutorials in coordinating outfits
and organising drawers where a woman keeps her secrets

Other Girls

When I was a teenager my mum said I couldn’t be a girl because I’d never be like other girls no matter how hard I tried and often when telling me my trans issues were just a phase she would ask why I couldn’t be more like other boys. No matter how many times I told I felt like a girl and wanted to be one she kept on repeating the question in the hope she’d get a different answer which was never going to happen. Luckily other girls saw the real me I was trying hard to hide and took me under their wing. This poem is dedicated to them and has been given the title Other Girls I hope you enjoy the read.

Other Girls

Other girls were not like me

other girls wore pink

and could wear make up

providing their mum’s approved

in our teens other girls could wear mini skirts

and practice posing in high healed shoes

till they perfected the art of walking in them

other girls had boyfriends

other girls shared secrets and plans

other girls were proper girls

in ways that I couldn’t be

and in ways I wasn’t allowed to be

but other girls knew my story

other girls knew my fear of being labelled queer

at a time when it had a different meaning

to the one it currently enjoys

some people said it wasn’t normal

a boy wanting to be a girl

and those to quick to judge

called me names which hurt

not that I cared too much

for the opinions of dinosaurs

but other girls were nice

treated me with respect

talked about crushes and sex

without mentioning the word

knew I was no good at football

and got embarrassed in changing rooms

when I saw boys I liked in shorts

Secret Valentine

As it’s Valentine’s Day and it’s also LGBT history month I decided to write this poem which describes what Valentine’s Day was really like for a very closetted trans girl in my high school years of the mid to late 1970 ‘s. I’ve given it the title Secret Valentine at suggestion of two friends who are both very well respected fellow poets Angie Strachan And David Lee Morgan as when two great but very different minds come up with the same idea you know it must be a good one. I hope you enjoy the read.

Secret Valentine

I always hated Valentine’s day
the questions from classmates
neighbours and family
uneasy with both my gender identity
and sexuality
I never did answer
when they asked who my princess would be
not wanting to say I preferred a prince
or tell them why I was relieved
I never received any cards
or sent any to boys I fancied
as a trans teen in the 70’s
I took no chances
in case it all went wrong
and I got a split lip for my sins
or what some would call a queer bashing
taunts and tongue lashings
from pupils and PE teachers
meant playing safe and taking no risks
I knew the boys I wanted to kiss
but kept my lips sealed
though some girls knew my secrets
and even approved of my would be beaus
saying I had good taste
whilst warning me sex would be sore
because of my biology
I liked that they were honest with me
in ways I could never be with peers or family members
whose agendas with shaped
by parents and the press
heaven knows I would have loved
to wear a dress to the Valentine’s dance
but that chance would never arrive
leaving me looking awkward in suits
too big for my petite frame
to avoid the shame of being labelled
one of them
that was Glasgow speak for LGBT back in the day
when some of us were scared to say
the name of our secret valentine

Dancing To Different Songs

In this poem I look at that summer when I started both my teenage years and moved up to from the safety of primary school to the adventures and turbulence of what would become my high school years. This was the time when my crushes on my would be celebrity boyfriends became slightly less pure and a lot more lustful and my taste in boys changed from blushing at the cute boy next door to wanting the bad lad down the street. To mark that change I’ve given the title Dancing To Different Songs I hope you enjoy the read.

Dancing To Different Songs

As I started the big school
The Bay City Rollers were replacing the Osmonds
in many teenage hearts including mine
I was beginning to watch the Waltons
I was 13 a trans teen
in a Glasgow housing scheme
dreaming of boys
I wished I could get the part of John Boy’s Girlfriend
have our hearts entwined forever
until the twelfth of never
In that mythical land
where family values and apple pie meant love and safety
from the big bad world outside
It was a place I could hide
for 50 minutes each Monday
though for the rest of the week
I wanted a bad boy to show me
he had the moves I needed to learn
to keep on dancing
I yearned for him
his name was Les
the poster boy for nice girls
who wanted to be naughty sometimes
It was time to say goodnight John Boy
as I longed to get the gladrags on
for my summer love sensation
I was the good girl
who dreamed of being bad
but was too prim and proper
to do anything about it
except replace the posters in my scrapbooks
as I began dancing to different songs
knowing I had outgrown my puppy love

Whatever

This poem written in 2012 is dedicated to every teenager whose ever had to deal with a parent who refuses to listen to what they consider to be perfectly reasonable denands. You will not probably not be surprised to know I gave it the title Whatever. I hope you enjoy the read.

Whatever

Is that right?

you know your trouble is

the lights are on

but nobody’s home

you don’t listen to anything I say

I don’t always want everything my own way

but you do and dont deny it

listening is good you should try it

don’t give me grief

I deserve much more

please stop moaning

your making my head sore

what’s that ?

is that a fact ?

the trouble with you

is you don’t think back

to when you were younger

what are you saying

smart answers don’t make you clever

aye ok

whatever