Mischief Night and Turnip Lanterns

BRING BACK THE BRITISH TURNIP LANTERN! 

A long time ago, (oh well; the 60's and 70's) children in the West Riding made Turnip Lanterns and most of us kids had never set eyes on a pumpkin, nor ever wanted to! Hollowed out with great skill and effort using your Mum's blunt veggie knife, they were lit with a stump of candle. These were our constant companions on dark and misty nights as we roamed the fields near our homes or wandered around the village on Mischief Night. 

 I don't remember Hallowe'en activities. It wasn't on our radar at all. However on Mischief Night; November 4th, we kids roamed the streets tying neighbours gates up with string (begged from the postman and hoarded for this very purpose) or also tying bin lids to door handles. Dustbins were heavy galvanised steel objects in those days, mainly used for cinders from the coal fire. Tying one to a door handle, knocking the door and hiding, invariably resulted in a gigantic clang as the door was opened to see who was there. The bin lid went flying through the air with a rare old clatter. We children ran away cackling and giggling with the aroma of burning turnip in our nostrils. On we fled through the dark and misty night to carry out more pranks. They were harmless enough and good naturedly received as a rule. 

Wilder kids than ourselves and more daring, would place a lighted jumping jack into the same bins (it only worked if they were empty). With the heavy lid replaced, the racket which ensued was almost deafening. Our parents, though indulgent, strongly discouraged the practice! On Bonfire Night, there were seldom that many fireworks but there was bonfire toffee and home made parkin; sticky and delicious with its satisfying ginger aroma. For those who didn't keep kosher, there was also stand pie and mushy peas around a communal bonfire 'dahn't fields'. Hallowe'en and Guy Fawkes night just doesn't come close!

(In the UK on November the 5th, families light bonfires to remember Guy Fawkes (a Yorkshireman) who tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament with Gunpowder. In the West Riding of Yorkshire an ancient tradition is for children to play pranks on their neighbours on the night beforehand - Mischief Night)

For those of you enjoying Bonfire Night (or even Mischief Night) this year; please do so considerately and safely.

Jane

 
Autumn and Apfelkuchen

It is now 5783 and the start of a brand-new year. We traditionally associate this sweet and beautiful time with apples and honey, or at least I do. It is a nice juxtaposition; the sharp acidity of aromatic apples, tempered with the intense, floral sweetness of honey. Those two flavours symbolise the accomplishments of another year, or even a life. The sharp flavour of apples representing the challenges and difficulties we faced to get here. The honey is the sweetness of accomplishment and overcoming them. Together, they give a reassurance of our capability to deal with the fresh challenges the new year will inevitably bring.

When I was little, our garden at home contained two beautiful apple trees. I learned later that the variety was ‘James Grieve’. My parents had wisely grown them because they were trees that gave a special and versatile fruit. Picked early, around the time of Rosh Hashanah, the apples were green, sharp and acidic; more like a baking apple. They were superb for New Year dipping in honey. Picked later and wrapped carefully in paper, they could be put away in boxes until Chanukah. They would be periodically taken out to be examined and reviewed; Yom Kippur like, for flaws which would make the others go bad. Found lacking, they would not be sealed again in the box but consumed or baked if possible. By Chanukah, the remaining good apples would be rosy red; a little smaller in size; wizened, but beautifully sweet and ready to eat. They were like the memories of good times; the essence of long hot summer days distilled and captured to enjoy again in the cold and brief days of Kislev and Tevet. Summer seemed golden, viewed and tasted in that way. Looking back to my childhood from an adult perspective is much the same. When you are little; long hot summer days seem to last forever. It never seems quite the same as a grown up but in memory, we can relive those halcyon times.

Yet it is all too easy looking back, to remember the past as better than it actually was. We tend to put a gloss on things and overlook the difficulties and problems. We need checks and balances to ensure that we aren’t misled into a happy daze of imagining things to be better than they really were. It is good then that 10 days after New Year, we come to Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement is a reality check at the end of the Days of Awe; one which involves an external appraisal of our year, and requires a candid, honest view from ourselves. We see the flaws which can mar the sweetness. They will always be there but we have the choice to jettison them and make a fresh start. We need to, in order to ensure a sweet future for another year.

At Chanukah, the apples from our garden were simply delicious; ready to eat. But at Rosh Hashanah, like ourselves, they still needed work. Peeled, prepared and carefully sliced; my mother crafted them with love into the most delicious apfelkuchen to be served at New Year and during Sukkot. Fortunately, the taste isn’t just a memory, I still have the ability to relive the taste and the experience. My mother, along with unfinished manuscripts, copious notes about historic war crimes and her innumerable book collection, also bequeathed her food stained, handwritten recipe book. The time worn pages bear colours and minute traces of foods and preserves, created while the book was open on the Tisch. The same table was home to feasts, family get togethers, candle lighting, blessings and Havdalah. So much in our home revolved around it. It is a far cry from the television centric homes of the present day. My mother’s battered blue volume of recipes and meal ideas underpinned, prepared and provided for all our festive occasions. It did so as much as any Machzor or Siddur. Her handwriting, bold, simple and decisive in style; still brings her back to me. As I read her words, I can hear her voice. As I follow their rapid flow, I can sense the urgency and energy in her writing. It was a zest she put into everything she did, from the speedy rattle of her Adler typewriter, the ripping of flawed pages from the machine’s carriage, to the satisfied click of finished manuscripts as they were stored in their binder.

I include one of her recipes at the end of the article. This one is for an apfelkuchen with a sponge base. As always, my mother was never as precise as her recipes suggested. She baked by intuition and with love, not with science. There are many different apple cakes and I realise that this is one of many. The margarine we used was Rakusens which is dairy-free. My mother (and people generally) vary in how they arrange the apples. There are two alternatives in this recipe. The one pictured below or another where the apples are cut into quarters and slit 5-6 times to make a ‘fan’. These are then pressed into the dough at intervals to make an attractive pattern. We tended to eat this as a ‘coffee cake’ but it can make a good dessert too. I am unsure where the recipe came from; my mother handed it down to me as it came to her; from family.

Apfelkuchen

Ingredients

½-¾ lb of sharp baking apples (about 3) - check for blemishes.

2 heaped tablespoons of sugar

1 level teaspoon of mixed spice

¼ lb of kosher vegetable margarine (use butter if intended to serve on its own)

¼ lb of sugar

6 oz. of self-raising flour

2 large eggs

Icing sugar for dusting (optional)

Method

Rub the margarine or butter into the flour well, with the tips of your fingers and add the ¼ lb of sugar. Beat the eggs and add a little at a time until all is used. It should make a dropping consistency (it took me ages to learn exactly what that was from my mother). Peel the apples, core and cut into thin slices. Grease a baking tin or dish and pour the mixture into it. Carefully lay the apple slices on top of the mix; overlapping slightly as you go. Combine the sugar and the spices and sprinkle or sift over the apples. You can add more or less to taste. Bake in the centre of a moderate oven for 35 to 40 minutes until the sponge is risen and the apples/sugar have begun to caramelise slightly. Allow to cool on a baking rack before turning out of the tin. Dust with a little icing sugar to decorate if desired. Serve with a good ground coffee for a delicious Zweites Frühstück.

Trans Visibility in the Lockdown Era

I’ve written so many blogs for Transgender Day of Visibility - TDOV. They were penned when obstacles to visibility were personal fears. This year obstacles are Covid-related.  I’m writing in an era of sweat pants or PJs all day; not bothering with make-up; no social gatherings; a time of home and office involuntarily coalescing. Is there visibility in a time of lockdown?  Being out and proud with gender identity seems impossible when the official directive is ‘Stay at Home’.  Suddenly there’s no choice, we are all ‘invisible,’ locked down before screens at home whether we like it or not.

I have polled others in the Trans community about their experiences.  Many are gloomy and depressed.  Those struggling to come out have suddenly found lifelines cut.  The support groups and gatherings offering safety in their target gender, have gone.  Those stuck at home in abusive relationships face pressure; conforming to someone else’s idea of who they ‘should be’. Those needing hormones and surgery face indefinite waits while health staff focus on the pandemic.  Hope disappears and, one by one, the lights that gave hope, go out. I have comforted friends expressing suicidal thoughts and wondered about the seeming cruelty of it all.

Into all of this came Channel 4’s ‘It’s a Sin’ with its exploration of AIDS in 1980’s Britain.  For me, it came like a stone pitched into a pool, each episode setting off ripples of painful memories.  I was a gender-queer 20 something in 80’s Newcastle-upon-Tyne; out on the scene but very vulnerable.  Exploring my gender presentation and sexuality meant intimate involvement with others, yet my relationship was deeply conventional. My then partner knew nothing about the secret life I led.  As the poorly understood means of transmission got clearer, I suspected I might be HIV+ but didn’t dare get tested. Many Trans and Non-Binary people refused because testing meant revealing secret gender identities.  Being outed as Gay looked bad enough; being outed as a Trans meant losing my job, my home; maybe living on the street.  As the scenes of It’s a Sin rolled on screen, I felt a deep shame about it all. My previous actions seemed so selfish and at times I didn’t want to see any more.

I completed my transition many years ago.  My current birth certificate records my birth as female. I’m someone’s wife. I had the longed for big white wedding. I became a Mum with two kids and later two step children. I had the awful shock of understanding I was heterosexual.  These days I work and volunteer for George House Trust and yes, before I had Gender Confirmation Surgery (GCS) I got tested and found out my status. Now I consider it my responsibility. Others tell me I pass well (something I still find hard to believe). Ironically, ‘passing’ hands you the option of invisibility:  In the Trans community, we call it ‘Going stealth’.

In the end I chose NOT to go stealth.  How could I? Winning the Trans genetic lottery and having a winning photographic smile doesn’t entitle you to turn your back on sisters and brothers. By the same token knowing your HIV status doesn’t take away the responsibility of managing relationships. I had the option to hide my past and to fit into normative cisgender society. It was tempting. In an earlier, less affluent time, like many transsexual women, I worked the sex industry to pay transition related bills. I could feel shame and hide but who would that help? Visibility is not just about physical presence, it is about being counted when it comes to trans-activism and upholding the rights of all trans and non-binary people. You can do that whether you are Trans, Gender-queer or even a Cis-gender Ally. It is about joining the debate, whether you are stuck ‘invisible’ at home or not. It is also about getting tested and encouraging Trans friends to do the same; to test despite their fears. Visibility is not just for you, it’s for all of us.

Typescripts, Peace and Emotional Memories

Hi,

How are you? It has been a long time since I last wrote. Here in Manchester UK, things are still locked down at the moment but we have a timetable for normalcy to return. It has been so long coming, hasn't it? Up until the end of 2020 I was still been behind a desk in an office, just. In late November two days went down to just one day, the barest minimum essential. It seemed to echo the foggy, closed down zeitgeist of late Autumn and increasing Covid 19 mandated closures. Since January, all work has all been done at home. I work in finance, some things like cash payments can only be done from the office, it has been tough; tough for all of us. 

Since I wrote last, I have taken on the challenge of a second coming out. I'm a Jew, I never told you did I? As anti-semitism began to ramp up here in the UK and the shootings of Pittsburgh and Poway hit the headlines, I began to fear. One friend I shared my anxieties with, gave a startling response. In the face of oppression, she suggested, do not hide, it only makes it worse.  Live boldly, get out there, own who you are and be proud. Haven't I heard that one somewhere before?

Those of you who have read this blog from the beginning know I came out over 16 years ago. I learned to own my identity as a woman. Why couldn't I own my faith and heritage.

Looking back at childhood, I belatedly realise that I was raised as a girl anyway, fully destined to become the woman I am today. In retrospect, so much of what I needed to grow was there all around me and my mother provided it. Even so, I barely understood its significance. At home, I learned to bake challah; a plaited, ritual bread,  light the Friday night candles, say Shabbat blessings, sing songs and a study a little Torah. Back in the 60's many of these were matriarchal elements in Jewish life. In many ways they still are. That I let myself forget them all amid teenage sex and gender worries seems a liitle sad, but forget them I did. Maybe it was the contrast between what I had prepared for and what hormones prepared me for that brought my world crashing down.

Last November coincided with the Hebrew months of Cheshvan and Kislev.  Kislev has the minor holiday of Chanukkah, Cheshvan has no real holidays but it is a month for rememberances. I was born on Cheshvan 19. That it is a bitter month of memories, my mother was careful to remind me. The horrific events of Kristallnacht happened that month as well as the assasination of Prime Minister Rabin. It has once again thrown me back to being with my Mum and the many discussions (and arguments) we had back when I was a young.  I have already mentioned in an earlier blogpost that my mother was a feminist.  She was also a pacifist and a member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament.  At times we attended a local Quaker meeting where some of her fellow campaigners worshipped. She had a great respect for a church that believed so strongly in Peace. I know that she also respected their role in helping Jewish refugees.

My mother's wartime experiences made her determined that we should never see another conflict on the scale of the Second World War.  She also considered herself a Zionist. We often argued about the need for Israel to defend its borders because although my mother fervently believed in the idea of a Jewish homeland, she had trouble reconciling herself to the conflicts that ensued. When Rabin was murdered she was so sad. "When one Jew kills another, we all bleed", she remarked.

Being an impetuous teenager I felt like saying that a nation couldn't stand by peacefully if attacked, and I did.  She replied that war was never justified, no matter how strongly we believe. She used Parshat Vayeira, and the story of the Akeidah to illustrate her point.  Vayeirah is the Torah reading for the Sabbath preceding my birth. It describes Abraham's conviction that he must kill and sacrifice his son. God does not want anyone to sacrifice another for the sake of principles, my mother maintained, least of all our children and yet we perpetually send our young people to war.

How I miss those discussions and arguments.  I missed out on attending Shul as we weren't members of any synagogue and I never learned much Hebrew; what little I have learned has been self taught. I am however grateful for the way in which she challenged me to think, to justify argument and to write. They are lessons you never forget!

My husband and I had planned to go to Amsterdam for a few days on our Wedding Anniversary (October 28th last year).  We spent our honeymoon there. We like to visit the Plantage district and visit what is left of the Hollandsche Schouwburg to pay our respects to those that were transported to death camps from the theatre.  My Grandmother's family name was Salz (later changed to Salt).  I understand that some Aunts, Uncles and cousins may have made their final journeys from there.  One day I must go back and search their archives to look for details. This year and last, COVID 19 curtailed travel and we stayed home. I missed going, we had travelled there every year since we were married.

Latterly I have begun to digitally scan my mother's typescripts for her unpublished novels. They were produced on her noisy Adler typewriter. I have fond memories of arriving home from school to find my mother still typing away alongside a wastepaper basket full of discarded drafts. She had trained as a shorthand typist in the final months of wartime and worked for a while in the offices of the Hunslet Engine Company.  When I arrived home, she'd be horrified, saying: "Look at the time!" and jump up in haste, mid sentence, to put the dinner on.  There are two novels; 'A Conscience Divided', set in Holland and 'The Faded Emblem' set in Germany. There were others which I know were later destroyed. Both are set in 1944 when my mother would have been 14.  She wrote both novels in her mid twenties.  They both tell of love under difficult circumstances, families divided by belief and outlook and clandestine relationships between serving German Army personnel and Jewish women.

So I find myself in a position to work alongside my impetuous and impassioned 20 year old mother as a mature 60 year old daughter.  I am slowly editing her writing, adding where I think it is necessary and copying her style.  I have no idea what I will do with this when I have finished.  It has however been incredibly uplifting to work 'with' her even though she is not physically present.  It has given me an insight into how she thought and what she believed. Being typescript, even very little things make me smile.  I see the typescript getting fainter as the ribbon wears then suddenly becoming very black again.  Changing the ribbon was always a very messy, inky fingered business and I can see my mother doing it now and exclaiming in exasperation. It makes me smile. I'll let you know how it goes.

Huggs,

Jane

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Dear Youngest Daughter

When we transition, so many #girlslikeus can lose family.  The reasons are not always straightforward.  Family might do their best to stand by us.  My family did.  My youngest daughter most of all.

Transition, like teenage can be a very selfish time in our lives. Hormones are raging, we are growing and developing.  We are often catapulted into a world of love and sex unprepared for the way it will affect us and how it will change our lives.

Those of you who have also been single parents will know how difficult it is too to start dating someone.  All the time you are haunted by a fear of what a new relationship might do to strong bonds and family relationships.  You find new love with joy but also that fear in the back of your mind.

Only later, when perhaps it is too late, do we take stock and realise that maybe we could have managed things differently.

I'm posting this letter to my youngest here in the hope she might somehow see it.  I have no address or phone number, so here's hoping dear daughter, that one day, you will read this and know I'm sorry.

Dear Youngest Daughter,

How are you. I hope that you and your love are well.  I’m writing a short letter in an attempt to build bridges and to say sorry for letting you down. I really mean that.

Four years ago, you too wrote a blog for your friend who you felt you had hurt.  It was a brave attempt at an apology and one of the most sincere things I've ever read.  You wrote from the heart. That is what I'm doing now too.

In your own blog, you wrote prophetically:

"And by the way to eny won out ther who dose have a best friend/love one/family memberDon't take them fore granted.appreciate every thing they do and make shore they no it. Be mindful full of how they feel and never let your insecurities get the best of you it a think can brake friendship if your not careful."

Here is my public apology to you. I am so very sorry. I too was insecure. I needed a man's love in my life but I let the pursuit of that love come between you and me.  That should never have been the case.

So much in my life has changed in the last 2 years.  It’s helped me realise how isolated you must have felt in Llandudno and how badly I let you down. Looking back, I know now that I failed to support you.  It’s not easy for me to write and admit that but I need to say it. I’m not giving excuses: I don’t have any  Beth.  I take full responsibility for what I did and quite understand if you feel angry with me. You have every right to be.  I can’t change that but I can at least say sorry and mean it.

More than any other person (and that includes my husband), you helped me through the very worst of times. You supported me and were my friend when I had no other friends at all.  That must have been tough, not something a daughter should have to do but you did it.  I’m so thankful. You, more than anybody, know how difficult my life has been. You were the best.  You listened with a kindness and wisdom beyond your years.  I will always say that kindness, compassion, the ability to listen and empathise seem to come naturally to you. They do it in a way that is seldom true for others.  As a counsellor I know that. You have a rare and precious gift, don’t lose it.  It helps so much in relationships.

You had nobody apart from your wonderful Grandpa, your Mum, Lucy and also me.  When Grandpa died and you hit so many bumps in the road, you had a right to rely on both me and Pauline to support you and see you through.  Though you still had your Mum, I realise that I personally failed you totally at that point.  You had a right to expect support and help from me too. Instead, I fell so deeply in love with someone that he became my whole world. He still is, that’s why we married. But I should never have allowed that to shut you out.  You deserved better from me, way better.  You had a right to feel included and I should have made clear to my him from the very start that we were a family. In a family, no one should get left behind. During those times in Llandudno, you must have cried so very much, felt so hurt at my unkindness and felt incredibly alone.  I am so sorry for what I did and how I wasn't there for you. My partner has deep regrets too but that would be for him to explain if you ever feel able to talk to him.

Meeting your wonderfully supportive partner and girlfriend was good for you; the best thing, and I’m glad that you both did.  It came at the right time when you needed someone. I realise a little of what your love for each other means and how close you both are.  I’m glad, so glad for both of you. Always remember that love is simply love. Those who make out differences between same sex and heterosexual relationships, miss that point. One day it will not be important any more.

People were unbelievably horrid to me in Llandudno before I left, particularly at work.  There was no excuse for their hate and transphobia but it made my life intolerable. I had few friends willing to stick up for me. Llandudno is still full of frightening and unpleasant memories.  I had to get away.  You will recognise the feeling more than anyone. You probably know now that I run a small coffee business here and love it. You will find us at most of the Prides here this summer. There have been lots of good times including making coffee for the mayor of Manchester. I’ve found new Gay, Trans and Lesbian friends that I’ve become really fond of.

Most of all though, I’m happy where I live in now Manchester. It is a place where I’m accepted and it’s changed me a good deal as a person.  I hope in a much better way.  People say that I’m happy, less uptight and relax, more zen.  In New Islington I live in a very accepting community where I’ve come to realise that friendship and genuineness are more important than other things. 

People who’ve known me a long time have said kindly that I’m more like the person they used to know (but very much a woman). I guess this is another thing prompting me to write this letter.

If you ever want to write you can email me on here. My phone number remains the same.  I’m seldom on Facebook now, I do Instagram here: https://www.instagram.com/retroba57girl/. I’m also on WhatsApp.  If you want to follow my life on there, feel free.

Please however don’t feel any need to reply to this.  You too have made a fresh start somewhere new.  That’s enough. Good for you.  You deserve good times and I hope that you’ve found them.  I run a business however, I have contacts in Manchester. If there is anything I can do to help, please ask.  If the two of you fancy a visit to the Cat Cafe and you want a lift over I’d be more than happy to treat you and give you a lift.

I’ve put pics of my new kitten on here. It took me a long while to get over losing Star.  I know we both still miss him but I couldn't be without a cat, I always had them when I was little and Star left a big gap in my life. In June last year, a friend asked me if I would re-home one of her cat’s kittens.  He came with a name, Binx, (you know like Thackeray Binx in Hocus Pocus).  His Mum is a little cat called Tico. I’m posting some photos of him so you can see what he is like. Binx has such soft fur.  He was born on April 19th last year; your Grandpa’s birthday so he’s really special to me.  He is so affectionate, much more so than any other cat I’ve ever known. He sleeps on my bed at night and wakes me up so very very gently by pawing at me about 6.30am. If you ever visit, you can come and see him.

As well as my pop-up coffee stall, I am also a volunteer counsellor within the LGBT community here in Manchester.  So many people have helped me start a new life that I wanted to give something back by using my training and qualifications.  I work with people who are HIV+, helping them to adjust to their diagnosis and to cope with stigmatisation.

Where I live in New Islington, there are a high proportion of LGBT people, generally the less well off ones.  Most of us live here because it is one of the most affordable places to live.  It is also a community who stick together and always help each other.  They are my Urban Family. I don’t think I’ve ever had such lovely neighbours or done so much for other people my whole life.  It’s a world away from narrow minded Llandudno and Colwyn Bay.

I hope that one day you will read this dear daughter and know that I never intentionally set out to make you feel lonely and shut out.  We all need family. We all need friends. You will always be friend and my family both in my thoughts and heart,

Lots of love,

Jane xx

Processions 2018 - Why Trans Sisters Need to March Alongside Their Sisters

My Partner and I at Processions 2018 - Credit: Tina Williams

I am my grandmother’s granddaughter. She fought for my right to vote and I wanted to honour that. On June the 10th this year my partner and I (pictured above) travelled to London to participate in Processions with thousands of other women. We were paying homage to the women of suffrage but also making our voices heard about current issues. I was nervous: Both myself and my partner Tina are Trans. We marched with friends from Sparkle; the National Transgender Charity. I’m a transexual woman, my partner is bi-gender. we were aware that the debate about trans women in women only spaces is highly charged. Might some deny our right to be considered women and to participate in such an event?

In the end we had a lovely day.  We were fortunate to walk alongside other women who praised our involvement and welcomed us.  We felt included and accepted. I know that I did my grandmother proud yet I’m concerned that we have still so much to fight for. For trans women, equality is not just a fight to end the gender pay gap, oppression in the workplace, sexual objectification and unequal rights. As a lifelong feminist, I care deeply about those things. Trans women like myself however are now forced to defend our right to be considered women. 

Both my partner and I are no strangers to the visual disapproval and comments of others women as we seek to do everyday things like using the loo, try on clothes, or hold hands in public. In North Wales, while working as a teaching assistant, female colleagues made complaints to management, forbidding me from using female toilets and changing rooms. Earlier, as a single Mum taking my 11 year old daughter to A&E, I was repeatedly questioned by a staff nurse about my right to be identified as her parent and go with her into the examination room.  A later FOI request revealed she had reported concerns to Social Workers about a child accompanied by ‘a man dressed as a woman’. At work I was called ‘a freak’ and ‘an offence against nature’. My locker was defaced with sentiments suggesting I should die. Last year, on our way to a Pride event, a van was driven at my partner and I, forcing us to scatter while the driver hurled abuse from his window.

I understand that behind all of this lies fear, fear of men masquerading as women to prey on women and girls; fears about personal safety and the safety of children. I can empathise with that fear but it is nonetheless completely irrational.

There is no credible evidence to support the idea that trans women pose a threat to their cisgender counterparts. Women like my partner and I have been using women’s facilities for many years. We get changed, pee, touch up our make up and go about our business. To focus on supposed threats to safety emphasises differences rather than similarities and ignores a commonality of experience that all women, trans and cis, share together.

I’m fortunate and honoured to share that experience. Trans women worry about ‘passing’; the privilege of being accepted without question as woman. Friends tell me I pass well.  ‘I wouldn’t have known’ is the response if I choose to out myself.  It is a dubious privilege. I get wolf-whistled and cat called, chatted up, kissed by strangers and propositioned. I’ve been mansplained at and condescended to. I have lower pay than my male colleagues and I have to queue for the loo. 

Processions 2018 was a hot day, I kept well hydrated and drank lots of water. It was a mistake. With thousands of women wanting to pee on route, both myself and others were soon frustrated to discover many premises had closed their toilets. I know that feeling too well. That day, both trans and natal women felt the same.  We learned that using the loos and freshening up isn’t a threat to anyone, no matter how you identify.  It is about basic need, comfort and safety. Being excluded just makes you feel desperate leaves you in pain.

My grandmother, Jenny Spencer, chained herself to railings in Dewsbury to win me the political franchise. I  intend to use tha rights to win equality for all women, not just a few. So please let’s sink our differences. Let’s talk to each other rationally and fight for the things that matter; ones that affect us all.

Huggs, Jane xx

Why Rainbow Coffee Cups Might Not Be So LGBT Supportive As You Think

Source: Whitbread Plc 2018

Here in the UK COSTA are celebrating Pride in some locations this year with a new line of rainbow coffee cups. So supportive of LGBTQ Rights, right? 

Err not exactly. As it happens, COSTA recently rolled out its stores in some of the most oppressive regimes in the world. In some of these countries you will receive the death penalty for being Gay...goodness knows what would happen if you were a Trans barista like me.

Source: Whitbread Plc 2018

Source: www.independent.co.uk

Why am I interested? Well I happen to be a Trans Woman and also the founder of a mobile coffee business. I run a business that routinely gives up to a third of its profits to LGBT causes and always buys fair-trade. I run a pink business and am proud to be serving coffee at most of Greater Manchester's Prides this year.

Photo credit: Martin Williams

So, this Pride, BEFORE you walk out of COSTA bearing one of their delightfully attractive rainbow cups, think again. 

Support Pink businesses that really care about your community rather than using the rainbow as a cynical marketing ploy.

Huggs, Jane xx