Jardin des Plantes. Wandering through the uniformly pruned plane trees that vaulted over our heads, I saw you smile. Soft drizzle dusted our faces as we looked at polygons of grey light filtering through the branches. You reminded me we’d walked through these same gardens in the 1980s with our one-year-old daughter. As we walked hand-in-hand, we contemplated how she would cope with this monumental step. She was struggling with the changes. Naturally close to her stay-at-home father, she had an immense feeling of loss. I’d tried to explain that you were still you. Different, but the same. Less strength in your upper body, but morearticulate. Still able to share all the same memories, but so much happier – not living a lie. I dropped your hand, self-conscious, not yet bold enough to parade my new gayness with confidence.
We found a cafe, shared a beer. The block opposite held apartments, four stories high. Occupants had placed ornate rows of topiary, like regiments of neat soldiers, on the tiny balconies. You commented on how full the air was, full of the shouts of invisible people, and the sharp smell of unknown solvents. Sometimes all we can hear in our New Zealand home is the plangent call of dairy cows and the soft sound of our own breathing. The air is tinged with the brash green fragrance of a freshly mown lawn, or the smell of hissing rain on the hot rock of the Port Hills.
We walked along the Seine towards Notre Dame. I took photos of you posed beside hulking sculptures – some of the last pictures of your familiar face before it was altered forever. The discordant clang of bells from a smaller church pierced the air. We came across the Pont des Arts. The sun poked through the clouds and picked out the glint of shining metal as we approached the bridge. Had I known of the tradition of engraving a padlock with lovers’ names, I would have got one made with your newly chosen name carved next to mine. Another lock to add to the thousands packed tightly on the grill of the pedestrian bridge. Not everyone approves. It brings to mind the bra fence in Cardrona, in Central Otago, New Zealand. People loved or hated the collection of bras that appeared in the late 1990s. There were hundreds of them. The council cleared them in 2006. I’ve heard a rumour the bras have recently reappeared. I will take you there one day, and we’ll leave a bra each.
We talked about our hopes and fears over a sashimi meal, before racing on the TGV to Reims. Every time we see old friends, there is a process to go through. You first met Sophie in the mid-1980s, whilst busking in Paris with friends from the North of England. She was married to an American at the time. A group of you played music and drank into the small hours every night. Then you’d hit the Metro in the afternoon. A bunch of guys with amps, guitars and drums that you’d lug onto train carriages along with your voices. You’d play Irish jigs and reels mixed with a collection of homemade songs.
Sophie was waiting for us in her silver car at the station. There was that look of uncertainty in her eye, a certain hesitance. I’ve seen that look numerous times over the months. A questioning stance that asks, ‘Is my friend still there?’ You still had the same face, but modified by the unmistakable trappings of femininity. Light make-up and dangly earrings. You are one of those lucky transgender women who still have their own hair. There are those who opt to only go so far down the path of change, avoiding surgery or hormone therapy. Others embark on it too late in life. Some end up with the round dome of male pattern baldness. Unlike birth women with alopecia, or those undergoing cancer chemotherapy and radiation treatment, trans women are destined to wear wigs or hats – it is difficult to ‘pass’ as female with a hairless head, when other subtle differences belie a male origin.
We stayed with Sophie, her partner and son for a few days. Over that time, the
We found a cafe, shared a beer. The block opposite held apartments, four stories high. Occupants had placed ornate rows of topiary, like regiments of neat soldiers, on the tiny balconies. You commented on how full the air was, full of the shouts of invisible people, and the sharp smell of unknown solvents. Sometimes all we can hear in our New Zealand home is the plangent call of dairy cows and the soft sound of our own breathing. The air is tinged with the brash green fragrance of a freshly mown lawn, or the smell of hissing rain on the hot rock of the Port Hills.
We walked along the Seine towards Notre Dame. I took photos of you posed beside hulking sculptures – some of the last pictures of your familiar face before it was altered forever. The discordant clang of bells from a smaller church pierced the air. We came across the Pont des Arts. The sun poked through the clouds and picked out the glint of shining metal as we approached the bridge. Had I known of the tradition of engraving a padlock with lovers’ names, I would have got one made with your newly chosen name carved next to mine. Another lock to add to the thousands packed tightly on the grill of the pedestrian bridge. Not everyone approves. It brings to mind the bra fence in Cardrona, in Central Otago, New Zealand. People loved or hated the collection of bras that appeared in the late 1990s. There were hundreds of them. The council cleared them in 2006. I’ve heard a rumour the bras have recently reappeared. I will take you there one day, and we’ll leave a bra each.
We talked about our hopes and fears over a sashimi meal, before racing on the TGV to Reims. Every time we see old friends, there is a process to go through. You first met Sophie in the mid-1980s, whilst busking in Paris with friends from the North of England. She was married to an American at the time. A group of you played music and drank into the small hours every night. Then you’d hit the Metro in the afternoon. A bunch of guys with amps, guitars and drums that you’d lug onto train carriages along with your voices. You’d play Irish jigs and reels mixed with a collection of homemade songs.
Sophie was waiting for us in her silver car at the station. There was that look of uncertainty in her eye, a certain hesitance. I’ve seen that look numerous times over the months. A questioning stance that asks, ‘Is my friend still there?’ You still had the same face, but modified by the unmistakable trappings of femininity. Light make-up and dangly earrings. You are one of those lucky transgender women who still have their own hair. There are those who opt to only go so far down the path of change, avoiding surgery or hormone therapy. Others embark on it too late in life. Some end up with the round dome of male pattern baldness. Unlike birth women with alopecia, or those undergoing cancer chemotherapy and radiation treatment, trans women are destined to wear wigs or hats – it is difficult to ‘pass’ as female with a hairless head, when other subtle differences belie a male origin.
We stayed with Sophie, her partner and son for a few days. Over that time, the
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