The usual suspects … Jan Morris

Something we hear quite often about civilians in the Great Gender War Of 2018 is that they think all TIMs (trans identified males) are like Hayley from Coronation Street. Hayley Cropper, who started life as Harold, was a sweet, nurturing character who saw the best in everybody and would not have hurt the proverbial fly. However, the Hayley analogy is not very enlightening for those who don’t watch Coronation Street. Because every right-thinking media outlet’s remit now includes convincing everybody that TIMs are all harmless souls who just happen to have been “born in the wrong body”, the BBC have wheeled out dear old James “Jan” Morris, who is an official National Treasure and absolute Number One Transsexual for the more mature members of the chattering classes. Speaking as an MMM of the CC, I can attest that we all read Morris’s 1974 travel book Venice; we all read his memoir Conundrum, also published in 1974, about his transsexuality; some of us even ploughed through his much less digestible Pax Britannica trilogy, published in 1968, 1973 and 1978.

I’d been thinking about Morris not only because of his Queen Motherish position as The Nation’s Favourite Old Transsexual but also because of the extraordinary number of times he’s been heard on the BBC in 2018. Is it cynical of me to think this can be explained by the BBC’s desire to appear “woke” by exploiting every possibly opportunity to portray TIMs in a positive light? It’s not a Morris Anniversary; his 90th birthday was two years ago and was marked with an interview with Fellow National Treasure and All-Round Jolly Good Egg Michael Palin, broadcast on the BBC in October 2016.

In May 2018, The Verb with Ian MacMillan gave us “a special extended interview with the travel writer Jan Morris”. In June 2018, we were regaled with “A treat from the Bookclub archive celebrating our 20th anniversary, Jan Morris discusses her travel book Venice, first broadcast June 2008″; in the same month, Morris told us that the British Empire wasn’t all bad in Empire; an Equivocation. And in September 2018, In My Mind’s Eye was Book of the Week, so we’ve had five doses of Morris’s “thought diary”, read by Janet Suzman.

A couple of months ago, I found a copy of the 1986 reprint of Conundrum in my local Oxfam bookshop, shelved rather archly not with biography or memoir but with feminism. When I first read it in my impressionable late adolescence, I was full of a desire to be kind and tolerant to all rare flowers, and I enjoyed the wispy whimsy of it. Re-reading it now as a bad-tempered gender-critical crone who feels acutely that the time she has left on this planet is limited, I found it infuriating and forgivable only for its brevity. It’s intensely and self-consciously Literary, and it is absolutely riddled with the worst kind of genderist thinking. In fact, I would go so far as to say that if you wanted to seek out the first intimations of the Great Gender War, you could do a lot worse than to force yourself to read Conundrum. It is only 150 pages long and you can buy a copy very cheaply on http://www.abebooks.co.uk.

So what sort of life has he had, this 92 year male National Treasure who has believed since he was a tiny child that he is in fact female? Conundrum is quite short on your actual facts (rather telling for a harbinger of the great lie, Trans Women Are Women) but with close reading and occasional references to Wikipedia, here’s what I’ve got.

Humphry Morris (that’s what he says his parents called him; who knows where James came from?) was born in Wales in 1926, the youngest of three boys. He says himself “It is true that my mother had wished me to be a daughter.” He enjoyed an astonishingly privileged upper middle class childhood. Childhood? Let’s be honest, he enjoyed an astonishingly privileged upper middle class boyhood, and a very boyish boyhood at that. His first school was Christ Church Cathedral School in Oxford (a private boys’ school founded in 1546 by King Henry VIII from whose numbers the boy sopranos for the choir at Christ Church Cathedral are drawn) from where he went on to Lancing College, a private boys’ boarding school in Worthing on the Sussex coast. The sections of Conundrum that deal with Morris’s schooldays include plenty of (blessedly) rather fay musing about sex and gender, about the essentially feminine character of the city of Oxford, and a fairly mild account of the usual horrors of British public school, with a certain amount of euphemistically described boy-on-boy action. About Lancing, he says “If any institution could have persuaded me that maleness was preferable to femaleness, it was not Lancing College”. (Actually, on reflection, it’s a miracle that more men who went to these schools don’t decide they would rather be women.)

After school, Morris went back to Oxford as a student at Christ Church, which was, of course, a men’s college at the time. Christ Church is arguably the poshest of the Oxford colleges, and enjoys the distinction of having produced more British prime ministers than any other Oxbridge college. In keeping with what was a very manly young-manhood, just before the end of WWII Morris left university to join the 9th Queens Royal Lancers, a now-defunct regiment who enjoyed the gloriously camp nom de guerre “Delhi Spearmen”.  The experience of living at very close quarters with 30 officers and 700 men  “… confirmed my intuition that I was fundamentally different from my male contemporaries. Though I very much enjoyed the company of girls, I certainly had no desire to sleep with them …” and his reflections on his time as a Lancer are intensely romantic. He invites his women readers to imagine being successfully disguised as a man and admitted to a “closed and idiosyncratic male society in their late teens. For this is how I conceived my condition” and tells them that “most of all you would have felt plain pleasure at having handsome and high-spirited young men all around you … this is undeniably what I felt myself.”

Morris travelled with the Lancers from Venice to Egypt, and on to Palestine where he became the regimental intelligence officer; in other words, a spy. After leaving the army and returning to London, he joined the Arab News Agency which posted him to Cairo where he worked until returning to Oxford to finish his degree. The experience of journalism in Cairo was formative, and he went back to that trade after graduating from Oxford. In keeping with his Boys’ Own boyhood, he seems to have been irresistibly drawn to journalism’s most macho incarnation. In 1953, writing for The Times, he accompanied Hillary and Tenzing’s team on their successful ascent of Everest, securing a scoop which allowed the news of Everest’s conquest to be reported on the morning of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation. In 1956, he reported on the Suez Crisis for the Manchester Guardian. About his life in journalism, he says “… as a wandering foreign correspondent … I was effectively my own master, I travelled how I pleased, and I wandered the world from Fiji to Dawson City.”

Somewhere between his tour with the Delhi Spearmen (is it just me or do they sound like a troupe of male strippers?) and climbing Everest, Morris married Elizabeth Tuckniss. Because Conundrum is so vague about dates, I’ve been forced to refer to Wikipedia; Morris’s wiki entry says they married in 1949. They met in London while they were both living in rented rooms in a house “almost opposite Madame Tussaud’s”, Morris taking an Arabic course in Bloomsbury and Tuckniss working as secretary to an architect. In common with anyone who feels they have found their soulmate, Morris marvels that “of all the thousands of people who might have lodged in Nottingham Place that summer, the two who found themselves next door to each other two floors up were so instantly, utterly, improbably and permanently attuned to one another …” so far, so uxorious, but wait and see how he ends the sentence; “… that we might have been brother and sister.”

My irritation with Morris’s simultaneously incredibly fay but very masculine self-obsession reached a crescendo in the sections about his marriage. How he can have had the sheer brass neck to write “… in our house there could be no dominant male or female place. If we divided our responsibilities, we did it along no lines of sex, but simply according to need or capacity” when Elizabeth bore him five children (tragically, one of their daughters died in early infancy) and, presumably, stayed at home to rear the children while he was busy being effectively his own master, travelling how he pleased and wandering the world? “We were never dependent on each other. For months at a time I would wander off across the world …” he says, conveniently airbrushing out the fact that wandering the world safe in the knowledge that a woman is keeping the home fires burning is a quintessentially male luxury. He ends that sentence with the preposterous “… and sometimes Elizabeth would travel in a different way, into preoccupations that were all her own”. But fair play to Elizabeth for having time for “preoccupations” of any sort, with four children to look after.

So how did Morris’s conviction that he was actually a woman feel, to him? He’s a far more elegant prose stylist than Shon Faye (another of my Usual Suspects) but he’s no more able than Faye to define how or why he is actually a woman, resorting to a more literary version of Faye’s “looseish constellation” formula.  Conundrum is simply stuffed with essences, with souls, with spirits; it seems to have been written in collaboration with a 1970s version of the Gender Fairy who sprinkles Gender Glitter all over some lucky children in our current decade. Morris recalls realising, aged three or four, that he “had been born into the wrong body, and should really be a girl” while sitting under his mother’s grand piano while she played Sibelius. During his time as a Christ Church chorister, he “inserted silently every night, year after year throughout my boyhood, an appeal … ‘And please God let me be a girl. Amen‘ after the Grace.

Morris includes, in Chapter 5 of Conundrum, what has become a very familiar element of the transgender script; the list of historical and exotic cultures which are, apparently, much more accepting of what we now call “gender fluidity”. “It was, I think, the 18th century which first imposed upon western civilisation rigid conceptions of maleness and femaleness, and made the idea of sexual fluidity in some way horrific.” I am pretty sure that even before the 18th century, people were pretty clear about where babies came from. Then Morris gives us his list of gender benders from exotic cultures; being a man with a good classical education, he starts with the Phrygians of Anatolia who “castrated men who felt themselves to be female” and mentions that Hippocrates “reported the existence of ‘un-men’ among the Scythians”. He then dips into Frazer’s The Golden Bough to find the Sarombavy of Madagascar, the soft-men of the Chukchee Eskimo, and Mohave Indian boys publicly initiated into girlhood. “If to modern westerners the idea of changing sex has seemed, at least until recently, monstrous, absurd or un-Godly, among simpler peoples it has more often been regarded as a process of divine omniscience, a mark of specialness. To stand astride the sexes was not a disgrace but a privilege, and it went often with supernatural powers and priestly functions.” Well, up to a point, Lord Copper. A less glittery reading of those “un-men” would be that in all cases, they are ways for very patriarchal cultures to deal with the existence of unacceptably feminine males.

One of the ways in which Morris perceived himself to be (unacceptably?) feminine was the way in which his sexual appetites were at odds with his body. He says that his  “libidinous fantasies … were concerned more with caress than with copulation” and that “though my body often yearned to give, to yield, to open itself, the machine was wrong.” But as a young man, he doesn’t hate his body; quite the reverse. The chapter of Conundrum that describes the Everest expedition is also about how much he loved being a fit healthy young man. His body was “lean and sinewy … and worked like a machine of quality …” and he compares the male physique favourable with the female. “Women, I think, never have quite this feeling about their bodies … It is a male prerogative, and contributes no doubt to the male arrogance.” But his feelings about his body change as he ages, and by his mid-thirties he begins “to detest the physique that had served me so loyally.”

The body-hatred seems to coincide with Morris starting to see Harry Benjamin at his clinic on Park Avenue whenever he went to New York. Benjamin, with Alfred Kinsey and John Money, were the founders of “transgender” medicine. He seems to have been something of a guru for Morris, who writes enthusiastically about his regular encounters with him. “Dr Benjamin, an endocrinologist … first formally recognised the existence, within the inner keep of sex, of people like me – people whose problems lay deeper than physical medicine, deeper even than curative psychiatry, and seemed beyond diagnosis or treatment.” How could anyone resist being told in “a scholarly Viennese accent” that you’re that special by a high-end doctor, in his clinic on Park Avenue? Morris certainly couldn’t. “I told him everything, and it was from him that I learnt what my future would be.”

Morris’s future was hormone treatment, which he didn’t start until 1964 because of concerns about depleting his fertility. “I honoured … an unspoken obligation to our marriage; that until my family was safely in the world, and Elizabeth fulfilled as a mother if not as a wife, I would bide my time”. During the hormone treatment period, Morris lived part-time in Oxford where he lived openly in the role of a woman” and continued to be “supposedly male” at home with Elizabeth in Wales. Living “in the role of a woman” means wearing skirts, and he “soon discovered that only the smallest display of overt femininity, a touch of make-up, a couple of bracelets, was enough to tip me over the social line, and establish me as female.” He did, however, go on using the Travellers’ Club in London, where “women were only allowed on the premises at all during a few hours of the day, and even then were hidden away as far as possible in lesser rooms or alcoves.” Remarkable, isn’t it, how even once men have decided they are women, and want to be acknowledged as women, they are unwilling to give up their male privileges?

In 1972, Morris underwent surgery in Casablanca with “Dr B”, Dr Georges Burou, a French doctor who “did not bother himself much with diagnosis or pre-treatment, and expected handsome payment in advance”. I’m afraid this episode reminded me irresistibly of the Absolutely Fabulous flashbacks in which it’s revealed that Patsy had sex change surgery in the 1960s and spent a year as a man, “until it fell off”. Wikipedia tells me that Dr B  is “widely credited with innovating modern sex reassignment surgery for trans women” but Morris, to his credit, says that “nobody in the history of human kind has changed from a true man to a true woman” even if he does then spoil it rather by adding “if we class a man or a woman purely by physical concepts.” If you want to know what Dr B’s methods of turning a penis and testicles into some sort of surgical facsimile of a vulva and vagina were, Wiki goes into plenty of detail.

Chapter 14 of Conundrum is called Concerning surgery and is worth quoting at length. “The operation called ‘sex-change’ had lately become relatively respectable. Until a few years before it had been disreputable indeed, considered by most surgeons to be a cross between a racket, an obscenity and a very expensive placebo. It was, wrote one London practitioner in the 1950s, as though when a man said he was Nelson, you were to cut his arm off to satisfy his illusion. For thirty years after the Lili Elbe case, there were few attempts to change a person’s sex, and surgeons in most countries would not contemplate such an operation. By 1951 the American George Jorgensen managed to achieve surgery in Denmark, and fellow-sufferers everywhere tried to emulate him, but the doctors reacted more forbiddingly still. They were frightened by the threat of publicity. They were repelled by the weird gallimaufry that that pestered them, along with the true trans-sexuals – exhibitionists in search of new themes, homosexuals wishing to legalise themselves, female impersonators and miscellaneous paranoiacs.”

Does that sound at all familiar?

“By 1972, when my time came, the climate of medical opinion had shifted. Thanks largely to the persuasion of Dr Benjamin in New York City, many more doctors now conceded that surgery might after all be the right approach to a problem which seemed to be becoming more common, and was plainly insoluble in absolute terms … The usual formulae of sex determination, acceptable though they might be to judges or Olympic referees, were increasingly recognised as inadequate, as the complexities of gender and identity became each year more apparent but more baffling.”

So, Humphry, or James, or Jan, or whoever you actually are, even though you are The Nation’s Favourite Transsexual, and a dear harmless old thing who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and who loves cats and babies, I’m afraid you do qualify as one of my Usual Suspects and I think you bear considerable responsibility for the Great Gender Wars of 2018.

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Why does Santa have to be Real?

At this time of year, any discussion thread on Mumsnet can be derailed by one particular highly contentious issue. The usual shibboleths – loo brushes, wearing undies under nightwear, the Gina Ford devotees vs the babywearers – are swept aside by a truly vicious polarisation over The Magic of Christmas, and in particular, The Magic of Santa.

There is no hope of neutrality. Battle lines are drawn. One camp is made up of parents – I say parents, in the spirit of Mumsnet’s “By Parents, For Parents” motto, but the truth is that it is mothers who are really invested in this – who are obsessed with ensuring that their children Believe in Santa for as long as possible. These are the parents who go to enormous lengths to provide evidence. The disappearance of the traditional sherry and mincepie is not enough – they leave out reindeer food (which disappears, of course), they create Santa footprints and reindeer hoofprints, they buy sleighbells to leave around as if dropped off an accelerating sleigh. The other camp is composed of parents who don’t go in for a full-scale “Santa is Real” campaign. They are not as coherent a group as the first, because they have different motivations for not ensuring The Magic of Santa for their children. Some of them are really po-faced about their ethical stance on not lying to children, but a majority just don’t seem to consider that planned deception on this scale is necessary for a child to have a lovely Christmas. There seems to be absolutely no common ground between the two camps, and where conflict breaks out it is to do with someone from the second camp (usually a child, inadvertently or deliberately) letting the truth slip to a child from a “Santa is Real” family.

I am firmly in the second camp. I loved Christmas as a child; the anticipation, thinking about presents (getting and giving) and the fun of smuggling presents into the house to wrap in secret, the build-up at school (I loved singing carols every day in assembly), the lights and decorations, the Christmas tree, the special food, the music, the long day spent all together with a moratorium on bad behaviour from my dad (for me, this was magic enough) and of course, the presents. My parents did fantastic stockings. They can’t have spent all that much but our stockings were crammed with lovely little bits and pieces, each item individually wrapped in special Father Christmas paper, which is of course the cheapest wrapping paper from Woolworth’s. How did my very busy, not very well-off parents manage to find all these amazing little things for the three of us without us having the slightest idea where any of them came from, wrap them, get them into stockings and then onto our beds without waking us?

Despite my parents’ adherence to the tradition of filling and delivering our stockings in total secrecy, they never pretended that Father Christmas was really real. We knew, from a very early age and without being told, that it is a lovely seasonal game that we played as a family, and A and I have continued this approach with G. We have never told him that Father Christmas doesn’t exist – but then, we never told him that Father Christmas did exist. He knows that Father Christmas is fun, a fantasy, an enjoyable conspiracy that we collude in.

My favourite thing about my childhood Christmases was going downstairs in the early morning for the first sight of the Christmas tree, which my parents put up and decorated after we went to bed on Christmas Eve. My childhood Christmas trees were the most beautiful thing in the world; the familiar decorations, all kinds and colours, and plenty of multicoloured fairy lights, each tiny coloured bulb with its little matching plastic frill. And Christmas Day was always magical. All five of us together, with the magic my parents created with the darling tree, the fantastic stockings, delicious food, lovely presents, a chilly walk in the park, Christmas music, board games, and a truce called on all the usual everyday bickering.

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The usual suspects – Sally Hines

The usual suspects fall into several categories. Sally Hines (@sally_hines) is a very vocal supporter of trans ideology on Twitter but she isn’t a blue tick and has less than 3,000 followers. Her real influence is via her day job; Hines is Professor of Sociology and Gender Identities in the School of Sociology and Social Policy at the University of Leeds.

Her pinned tweet is about her new book “Is Gender Fluid; A Primer For the 21st Century“. Rather worrying, the first line of the publisher’s blurb gives the distinct impression that Hines doesn’t know the difference between the concepts of “sex” and “gender”, or what actually happens when a baby is born and someone present at the birth announces what sex the new arrival is.

Hines has been at Leeds for quite some time; she got her PhD in 2004 at Leeds, in the department where she’s now a professor, for a thesis entitled “Transgender Identities, Intimate Relationships and Practices of Care“. Her PhD was supervised by Fiona Williams and Sasha Roseneil (Roseneil is now Dean of the Faculty of Social & Historical Sciences (SHS) at UCL. “Sasha’s background also includes 16 years at the University of Leeds where she established and directed the Centre for Interdisciplinary Gender Studies, now considered a world leading centre in the field.“)

Hines’s PhD was supported by an ESRC scholarship. The ESRC is the Economic and Social Research Council, one of the UK’s government-funded Research Councils which support academic research (mostly conducted by universities) in Britain.

The ESRC has continued to be very good to Hines. Not only did it fund her PhD, she’s been awarded just under £1.3m of ESRC research funding over the last ten years. Google “esrc sally hines” and up pops the following table.

Two of these projects are currently active, Living Gender in Diverse Times and Pregnant Men.

(Just a thought … I wonder how much the Living Gender project’s branding cost?)

Pregnant Men: An International Exploration of Trans Male Experiences and Practices of Reproduction “represents the first study to address the sociological and health care implications of the reproductive practices of people who become pregnant and/or give birth after transitioning from female to male.” Again, I get a definite sense that Hines doesn’t really understand the difference between sex and gender, because any mammal who’s ever been pregnant is female.

Pregnant Men employs in the role of project consultants two organisations whose names may be familiar, ‘Gendered Intelligence and Trans Bare All. Their function will be to “represent major international stakeholders. They will organise and run focus groups with the PI and UK Co-I to ensure that stakeholder impact is built into the project’s methods of data collection.” Wouldn’t it be interesting to know how much Gendered Intelligence and Trans Bare All are being paid by the British taxpayer, via the ESRC and University of Leeds, for their roles in this project? Especially given how closely linked the two organisations are, with the founder of TBA Lee Gale (@BonsaiLee) working as an “activist and trainer” for GI.

Obviously, the ESRC expect considerable “output” and “impact” for their investment, and Hines is dutifully prolific in academic publishing.

“I have published widely in the areas of transgender, gender, sexuality, intimacy, the body and feminist politics and theory. Book publications include ‘TransForming Gender: Transgender Practices of Identity, Intimacy and Care’ … I am co-editor of the Routledge Book Series ‘Advances in Critical Diversities’ … Between 2008 – 2010 I was PI on the ESRC grant ‘Gender Diversity, Recognition and Citizenship’, the findings of which are explored in my book ‘Gender Diversity, Recognition and Citizenship: Towards a Politics of Difference (Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). The project led to an ESRC funded Knowledge Exchange Project ‘Recognizing Diversity?: Equalities in Principle and Practice (2009-2010). Between 2011 – 2013 I was co- grant holder of the ESRC Seminar Series ‘Critical Diversities’.”

Hines is also a prolific supervisor of PhD students, and each of her newly minted PhDs is likely to go into an academic job where they will dutifully reproduce the trans orthodoxy to undergraduate students and, in turn, to their own doctoral students.

Update on 19 Nov 2018: after her appearance on Woman’s Hour in a conversation with Dr Kathleen Stock (very ably moderated by Jane Garvie) it became painfully obvious that Hines doesn’t understand the difference between “sex” and “gender”; that she hasn’t heeded the pleas of intersex people not to be used as debating points by trans activists; and most tragically, given that she has a professorial position in a Russell Group university, that she believes that “trans women are women” is a magical incantation. Sorry, Professor Hines, my abra remains resolutely un-cadabra’d.

https://bbc.in/2DMhfkH

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I want my country back! A cautionary tale.

In 1973, someone in your family left a coat at a station. Ever since then, your family have been wearing all sorts of coats – Tyrolean Lodens, leather jackets from Milan, Fjällräven all-weather jackets – but there’s a thread of conversation about getting that coat back that makes its way into every family gathering. That coat was special, it should never have been left at the station, and some in the family long to have it back.

Eventually, the talk about the coat spurs you into action. You go into the left luggage office at the station where the coat was left, and ask the attendant behind the counter if there’s a coat there that someone left a long time ago. You’re really quite excited about getting your hands on this coat – family lore says it’s a real Burberry trenchcoat, almost new. Female members of the family rhapsodise about how the coat smelt ever so slightly of Floris Lily of the Valley, and your great-aunt is convinced there was a Liberty silk square in the pocket. The men in the family remember how incredibly weatherproof the coat was – never let in a drop, even in the worst weather.

The attendant looks at you slightly oddly, and says that yes, there is a very old coat in the storage area. He goes away and after several minutes reappears holding something beige, rather at arms’ length. He passes the crumpled bundle over to you and you shake it out. It is indeed a trenchcoat but not a Burberry, it’s a cheap imitation, the wrong shade of beige and rather grimy, and the check lining looks all wrong. When you shake it, it releases an aroma which instantly reminds you what pubs used to smell like. Stale beer, cigarette smoke, and doggy carpet, with a barely detectable base note of men’s lavatories.

With slight reluctance, you put your arms through the sleeves and shrug the coat onto your shoulders. You can see your reflection in the glass door of the left luggage office. The coat really doesn’t fit properly – the shoulders are too narrow, the arms are too short. Maybe you’re bigger than the original owner? You put your hands into the pockets to see if your great-aunt was right about the silk square. That at least would be a compensation. There’s nothing in the left-hand pocket. In the right, a couple of pieces of screwed-up paper, which turn out to be pound notes.

You turn back to the counter to tell the attendant that actually, you’re not sure that this coat is the one you had been told about. But he’s disappeared, and so has your cosy Loden, which fitted you so well; and your chic Italian leather jacket; and your Fjällräven rain jacket. You remember with a sinking heart that your car keys, your travel card, your mobile were all in the pockets of your other coats.

You look around to see if there’s anyone you can complain to, but there’s nobody in sight on the station concourse except for a man in a Telemark sweater, disappearing rapidly as he runs, two steps at a time, up the escalator. You’re left alone, with nothing in your pockets but a nasty smelly old raincoat, which you strongly suspect will not be waterproof, and two crumpled pound notes, which ceased long ago to be legal tender.

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Is it true that an MtT’s life expectancy is only 35?

We’re in the midst of an epidemic of violence against trans people, shrieks Paris Lees. He goes on to say “I won’t bombard you with statistics from around the world but I can tell you that a 2014 report concluded that the average life expectancy of trans women in the Americas is between 30 and 35.”

“Would you believe me if I told you the life expectancy for transgender women of color in the United States is 31?” says Kendra Allen (at the bottom of her blog she says “*Transgender activists in the US often cite a life expectancy of early thirties to mid-thirties. I am using 31 because a local activist used this number.”

We’ve all seen that familiar statistic about “trans women” having a life expectancy of 35. It’s endlessly recycled and quoted by trans activists, presumably hoping to elicit our sympathy. Munroe Bergdorf ramped up the drama further by quoting an average life expectancy of 30 in an interview in the Guardian in September 2017, and he quoted it again in the recent, and now infamous, #GenderQuakeDebate on Channel 4. But where does this statistic come from?

As far as I can tell, this statistic originates in an article entitled “Factors associated with healthcare avoidance among transgender women in Argentina”, published in Sept 2014 in the International Journal for Equity in Health. The article’s assertion that the “life expectancy of TG women is approximately 35 years (compared to 79 years in other women)” is drawn from a 2007 publication entitled “Cumbia, copeteo y lágrimas: informe nacional sobre la situación de las travestis transexuales y transgéneros” by the late Lohana Berkins, a transsexual activist who founded Argentina’s Asociación de Lucha por la Identidad Travesti y Transexual (ALITT) in 1994 and who died at the age of 50 in February 2016.

The International Journal for Equity in Health article is less than 5000 words in length and is well worth reading in its entirety. 452 subjects were interviewed, of whom more than 60% were engaged in sex work at the time of the interview (more than 80% had been involved in sex work at any time), and of whom nearly 30% were HIV positive. A picture emerges of the very difficult lives of Argentina’s MtTs and the hazards they encounter, from “mental health problems, substance use and sexually transmitted infections” to frequent interactions with police including “arbitrary arrest and detentions, which are common among this population, have been reported as an excuse to exploit TG women for bribes or coerce them into providing sex in exchange for release from detention” to “use of non-prescribed hormones or injection of industrial silicone in non-sterilized environments”.

Is it legitimate for British MtTs like Munroe Bergdorf to quote a life expectancy statistic of 35, clearly expecting their audience to leap to the conclusion that the speakers themselves will die so young? Not really. The life of a poor, uneducated MtT in a shanty town in Buenos Aires, a person who has had to turn to prostitution or peddling drugs to make a living, and who may have resorted to having injections of industrial-grade (rather than medical-grade) silicone from an unlicensed quack in order to make himself more desirable to clients, is very different from the life of (for example) a model/DJ/columnist/activist in London.

So no, Paris and Munroe, I wouldn’t believe you if you told me that the average life expectancy of a prosperous MtT in the US or the UK was 35. I might also think that deceitfully co-opting the hard lives and early deaths of a group of people whose lives are utterly different to your own, to elicit sympathy for yourselves, is rather a low trick.

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Resigning from the Labour Party

Ian McNicol, General Secretary

Labour Central, King’s Manor

Newcastle upon Tyne NE1 6PA

Dear Ian

Thank you for your letter asking me to renew my membership of the Labour Party. As you’ll be aware, I have been a member for many years, and have held CLP roles and been an activist when other commitments permitted, but I will not renewing my membership.

To set the scene, I should tell you that I am a gender-critical feminist. In case you aren’t aware of this school of thought, we believe that the biological reality of being female or male is very real, but that “gender” is socially constructed, differs from society to society, and is the way in which women and men are socially encouraged/coerced to play their allotted roles in the society in which they live. I should also tell you that I am extremely sympathetic to people suffering gender dysphoria, and believe that they should be treated with respect and consideration, and provided with the services they need to live a happy, healthy and productive life. I reject the label “transphobe”; I have no fear of gender nonconformity.

A couple of days after I got your letter, I received an extraordinarily patronising phone call from one of your phone bank people. I’m afraid I don’t have his name, because he didn’t introduce himself, apart from telling me he was calling from the Labour Party. However, it was clear from his voice and diction that he was very much younger than I am.

In a nutshell, your phone bank person laughed at me when I said I was seriously considering not renewing my membership because of the LP’s position on “trans issues”, in particular the proposal to amend the Gender Recognition Act 2004 to allow self-identification. He followed his patronising chuckle by telling me that the Labour Party aims to be the inclusive party. When I asked him what he meant by “inclusive” in that sentence, he was quite unable to tell me. He did however refer to “trans people being under a lot of societal pressure”. I said I agreed, and I asked him to tell me how self-ID would help alleviate this “societal pressure”. Again, there was a silence, and instead of answering my question, he said something vague about people being able to live as “their true selves”.

The conversation was extremely unsatisfactory until the final exchange, when I asked him if he truly believed that it was possible for a human to change sex. His response to this was interesting; he said “well of course, no-one thinks they can change biologically from a man to a women”. I then drew the conversation to a close. Clearly there is a certain amount of confusion among your activists; they know perfectly well that there is an immutable difference between female humans and male humans, but they pretend that there isn’t, and expect the membership to join in this pretence.

Since that conversation, I have become aware of the following additional “trans” issues where I think the Labour Party is taking a stand which will inevitably damage the rights of women and girls:

  • The admission of men who “identify as” women onto All Women Shortlists, without the necessity of having a Gender Recognition Certificate.
  • The number of “trans women” who have been successful in applying to the Jo Cox Women in Leadership programme for women.
  • The Party’s continuing support of “Lily” Madigan in the role of Women’s Officer, despite his extraordinary public bullying of gender-critical feminists and other women.
  • The appointment of “Munroe Bergdorf” to an LGBT working group, which was announced at the same time as Grazia published his tone-deaf mansplanation of feminism.

I find all these developments deeply concerning. As a socialist feminist, accustomed to class analysis, it is clear to me that the root cause of women’s oppression is our sexed bodies. Allowing men, with their differently sexed bodies, to declare themselves women will make the term “women” completely meaningless, and will at a stroke remove the basis for the very few sex-based protections and concessions women have managed to win for themselves.

As I said, I am no “transphobe”; but it’s clear to me that infringing women’s hard-fought rights as a knee-jerk reaction to the demands of a tiny group of people is not the way to help people who identify as “trans”. We must, as a society, provide safe and secure “third spaces” and facilities for those people, and continue to give women and girls the security of female-only spaces and services where they are needed.

The phone bank conversation which was a perfect illustration of the way the Labour Party are treating gender-critical feminists. I was laughed at, patronised and talked down to, about the realities of being a woman, by a man who was clearly far younger than me, with far less experience of life and absolutely no experience of being female.

I have voted Labour all my life and am a fourth generation Labour voter and activist. It breaks my heart to resign from my party, and I now feel politically homeless. But your cruel, thoughtless and shabby treatment of women leaves me no other choice.

Yours sincerely

 

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To Megan at Yellowberry

Subject: Sorry you’ve been bullied

Dear Megan

I even know about Yellowberry until a couple of days ago, when a trans activist took it upon himself to virtue-signal by telling you that not only girls need bras. I’ve subsequently read Lily Maynard’s blog and learned a little more about your company’s aims. https://lilymaynard.wordpress.com/2017/12/31/bra-gate-yellowberry-products-now-for-everyone/

if you don’t know Lily’s work, it is well worth following – she almost lost her teen daughter to the trans cult, and writes humanely and movingly about this and about girls and young women whose internalized misogyny, or fear of what becoming a woman will mean, that they decide they must be boys. I imagine this might well resonate with you, feeling as you do that there isn’t enough pretty, practical and not overly sexy underwear for young girls.

I do of course completely understand that the trans lobby are very frightening. After all, they’re delusional men, and you and I and every other woman who’s ever lived knows that our very survival depends on placating delusional men. But don’t be too afraid. There are 7.5 billion humans alive today, and (a) every single one of them grew inside a woman’s body, because that’s what distinguishes women from men – the potential to become pregnant and gestate a baby – and (b) how many of them believe a man can become a woman or a boy can become a girl? Tiny, minuscule, vanishingly minute numbers of people actually believe this. I recently discovered a concept in social psychology called “pluralistic ignorance”; a situation in which a majority of group members privately reject a norm, but incorrectly assume that most others accept it, and therefore go along with it.

Keep on selling pretty and practical undies to young girls and don’t be afraid. This storm will pass and we’ll wonder how so many apparently rational people were drawn into it.

Best wishes

Rachel

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