anything more of it, as the conversation veered towards rugby, cars, mountain biking and other areas within the male domain. But we’d be glad to give Her an outing. She was comfortable at home, with only the two of us around. For years I thought that was all She needed.
Flying from New Zealand to Europe is a slow process. There are many air miles one can give over to thinking. As we landed in Dubai, I looked at the segmented building and thought about how your decision to transition had come as a bolt from the blue for so many. I had hoped that others would have glimpsed Her over the years – something in your eyes or your stance that revealed your femininity, without the need for ballet flats or mascara. I had hoped they’d have seen what I’d seen. But it seems no one had.
Through the years, you readily took on female roles, but what rational male of our generation wouldn’t? You were not the type to be reticent about shopping, cooking or child rearing. You made baby clothes for nephews and nieces, and took several years out to be the house-parent when our own children were born. But you’d still go to the pub with the lads, partake in extreme sports and appreciate an attractive woman as much as other guys. You may not have been an archetypal ultra-masculine man, but you wore your male totems and jumped through the appropriate boy-hoops.
We started telling people about your transition in late 2012. That New Zealand summer seemed to burn on for months. It was a slow and cautious rollout, a hierarchy of friends and relatives that had to be told in a specific order, to avoid hurting someone because they’d been told after others in the wider circle. The careful orchestration required many late-night phone calls to our native UK, so brothers and sisters would receive the news simultaneously. Revealing your plans to elderly relatives was especially daunting.
‘Do you remember when I was a kid and I used to insist I was really a boy?’
‘I remember you always said ki korbo ? Always asking what to do next.’
My eighty-four-year-old father was a little hard of hearing and very adept at changing the subject.
‘Yeah. I know I bugged you and Mum all the time. Sorry about that.’
I tried to get back on track. The long-distance call was punctuated with random whistles and purrs, making it even harder for Dad to hear me.
‘Yeah, but remember I was always saying I was a boy and refused to wear dresses?’
‘Mum used to …’ and he was off in a different direction again, reminiscing about my dead mother.
‘Yeah, but about the boy thing. There are some kids that really are that way. They don’t grow out of it. They go on to have sex changes.’
‘Is it evening there?’
‘Yeah, nine twenty New Zealand time. Must be eight twenty in the morning for you? But you’ve heard of sex changes, right?’
As a rule, my father was uninterested whenever I talkedabout you. There was a certain amount of history there. Fathers rarely think their daughters’ partners are good enough for them. I was about to throw a can of petrol on that fire. I persevered. The phone carried on making its odd whirring and buzzing sounds.
After fifteen minutes, I asked him if he understood what I’d said.
‘No,’ he replied, and carried on talking about something entirely unrelated. It fell to my siblings to break the news to him, and to deal with his shock and anxiety.
Telling our colleagues proved a little easier. We chose the day after the marriage-equality bill passed its third reading in New Zealand’s parliament. There was a lot of discussion on the subject, and a strong feeling of support in many circles. We celebrated the fact that we wouldn’t have to have our marriage annulled. You baked me a cake, which I shared with my workmates.
We landed in Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris on a Friday, thirteen days before you were due to go under the knife. Leaving our luggage at the Gare d’Austerlitz, we walked through Le
Flying from New Zealand to Europe is a slow process. There are many air miles one can give over to thinking. As we landed in Dubai, I looked at the segmented building and thought about how your decision to transition had come as a bolt from the blue for so many. I had hoped that others would have glimpsed Her over the years – something in your eyes or your stance that revealed your femininity, without the need for ballet flats or mascara. I had hoped they’d have seen what I’d seen. But it seems no one had.
Through the years, you readily took on female roles, but what rational male of our generation wouldn’t? You were not the type to be reticent about shopping, cooking or child rearing. You made baby clothes for nephews and nieces, and took several years out to be the house-parent when our own children were born. But you’d still go to the pub with the lads, partake in extreme sports and appreciate an attractive woman as much as other guys. You may not have been an archetypal ultra-masculine man, but you wore your male totems and jumped through the appropriate boy-hoops.
We started telling people about your transition in late 2012. That New Zealand summer seemed to burn on for months. It was a slow and cautious rollout, a hierarchy of friends and relatives that had to be told in a specific order, to avoid hurting someone because they’d been told after others in the wider circle. The careful orchestration required many late-night phone calls to our native UK, so brothers and sisters would receive the news simultaneously. Revealing your plans to elderly relatives was especially daunting.
‘Do you remember when I was a kid and I used to insist I was really a boy?’
‘I remember you always said ki korbo ? Always asking what to do next.’
My eighty-four-year-old father was a little hard of hearing and very adept at changing the subject.
‘Yeah. I know I bugged you and Mum all the time. Sorry about that.’
I tried to get back on track. The long-distance call was punctuated with random whistles and purrs, making it even harder for Dad to hear me.
‘Yeah, but remember I was always saying I was a boy and refused to wear dresses?’
‘Mum used to …’ and he was off in a different direction again, reminiscing about my dead mother.
‘Yeah, but about the boy thing. There are some kids that really are that way. They don’t grow out of it. They go on to have sex changes.’
‘Is it evening there?’
‘Yeah, nine twenty New Zealand time. Must be eight twenty in the morning for you? But you’ve heard of sex changes, right?’
As a rule, my father was uninterested whenever I talkedabout you. There was a certain amount of history there. Fathers rarely think their daughters’ partners are good enough for them. I was about to throw a can of petrol on that fire. I persevered. The phone carried on making its odd whirring and buzzing sounds.
After fifteen minutes, I asked him if he understood what I’d said.
‘No,’ he replied, and carried on talking about something entirely unrelated. It fell to my siblings to break the news to him, and to deal with his shock and anxiety.
Telling our colleagues proved a little easier. We chose the day after the marriage-equality bill passed its third reading in New Zealand’s parliament. There was a lot of discussion on the subject, and a strong feeling of support in many circles. We celebrated the fact that we wouldn’t have to have our marriage annulled. You baked me a cake, which I shared with my workmates.
We landed in Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris on a Friday, thirteen days before you were due to go under the knife. Leaving our luggage at the Gare d’Austerlitz, we walked through Le
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