Not to be That Gal, but personally I can see a bit of a trans allegory in Marcille. I'm not contending that she's trans, just that there's elements of her story arc that speak to me as a trans person. Some spoilers below the cut.
In Chapter 42, "Nightmare", we get a glimpse into Marcille's deepest fear: that she'll outlive everyone around her due to her extraordinarily long lifespan as a half-elf. This isolates her and makes it hard for her to form friendships for fear of their eventual loss. This fear is her primary motivation to explore dungeons in the first place: she hopes to find a magical means of making everyone's lifespans as long as hers. This comes back in Chapter 65, "Rabbits 2", where she's forced to face that fear as the lone survivor of the Dungeon Rabbit ambush.
Chapter 69, "Sissel 2", has Sissel correctly identify Marcille as a half-elf (something her party hadn't known about her) but incorrectly assumes that her goals are to become a "pureblood" elf or remove her infertility. In Chapter 74, "Liricumwarei", the Canaries assume the same thing.
What stood out to me - and made me think of this in the first place - was her conversation with Laios in Chapter 72, "Sissel 5", where they talk about her family. She explains how difficult she found it growing up at a rate that didn't match either humans or elves: she couldn't make friends in either community because she didn't physically fit in. These experiences never caused her to hate herself or what she was, but it closed her off from other people.
So why's this a trans allegory? It's her experiences. She can't fit in as either a human or an elf, because she's both and neither. Other non-elven races see her as an elf, with the cultural baggage that carries, while elves see her as a 'hybrid', a 'mule', something to be pitied or mocked. They look at her and assume she wants to change something biological or fundamental about herself: that she's driven by self-hate and dysphoria.
And that's what spoke to me. I didn't feel like I fit in with boys or girls growing up, though everyone treated me as a boy. I grew and adapted differently, with different interests that isolated me from other people of my age. Now I'm out as a trans woman, people look at me and assume I want to have a cis woman's body, or use that as an insult: "you'll never be a woman" and all that.
But, like Marcille, I don't hate myself - there's things I'd like to change, sure, but it's not driven by hate or envy of other people, and I'm not putting myself into the boxes other people define for me. I'd rather help them see that the boxes are just that - boxes that can be dismantled.
So in some ways I identify with Marcille's struggles, fantastical though they are, and I think it's this depth that makes her a great character.
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Mark's jaw hung slack as the server repeated: "Do you want ketchup or brown sauce with that?" After a few seconds, Carl elbowed him in the ribs.
"Uh, ketchup."
"Right, that comes to £19.95."
Mark and Carl looked at Barry. He grunted and tapped his card on the pay machine. Carl carried the tray to the scuffed plastic table, and they sat there in silence, dividing up the chicken pieces while festive strains warbled over the speakers.
"We ain't gonna make it tonight, are we?" Barry opened, looking over at Mark, who was staring at his phone and soundlessly moving his lips.
"Says the toll's closed 'cos of a lorry fire. We'll have to go the long way."
Barry and Carl groaned.
"I told you to take the day off today so we could get on the road early, you git," Carl added, jabbing a chicken dipper in Mark's direction. He bristled.
"I couldn't find anyone to cover my shift. Anyway, Barry's the one that delayed us, looking for that perfume."
"Fuck off, I know she likes it," Barry retorted around a mouthful of chips.
"It fucking smells like death, mate," Carl replied.
Barry gave Carl the finger and carried on eating. The three went quiet as they refuelled. Once finished, Mark and Barry absently wandered through the newsagents while Carl relieved himself. Barry picked up a packet of wine gums, and Mark groaned as he looked at the weather forecast.
"It's changed again, says there'll be snow now."
"How fucking seasonal," Barry grumbled, "and let me guess, that's going to delay us even more, right?"
Mark flipped his phone case shut and slotted it back into his pocket in a clearly practiced manoeuvre, "I dunno, but there's warnings going up about storms and shit. Where the fuck's Carl? We need to go."
"I'm here you pricks, calm down. Let me grab a Costa and I'll meet you at the car, alright?"
Snow was already beginning to fall, melting away as it hit the ground and refused to settle. Mark and Barry piled into the beaten up old Astra, Carl following shortly after with a steaming coffee in hand. Mark turned the key and the car shuddered and gasped in the cold. It whined as the engine refused to start, and he swore plentifully as he struck the steering wheel with an open palm. After what seemed like an age, the car roared into life and the radio crackled on, continuing where the service station's speakers had left off.
The three rejoined the motorway and thundered northwards as the snow began to stick to roads and fields, and visibility steadily decreased. Overhead signs on the motorway changed by miles to slogans urging caution and sober driving, then to rolling speed limits, and finally announcements of road closures. Barry cursed and fished in the glovebox for the out-of-date road map, directing Mark off the next exit onto the dual carriageway, while Carl checked the traffic alerts for other routes.
Navigating by phone light and half-remembered Scout cartography, the car drove on through a dark and moonless night, surrounded by falling snow. Away from the main roads, there seemed to be no traffic, and the Astra valiantly fought on through the whitening tarmac before disaster struck. As Mark put his foot down to clear a hill, the engine jumped with such a jolt that Carl jettisoned what was left of his coffee all over the back seat. The dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree and the car choked to a halt on the crest of the hill. Mark was clutching the wheel so tightly his knuckles were whiter than the falling flakes. Barry and Carl just sat there, slowly and cynically accepting this new reality.
Mark grasped onto hope.
"I'll just turn her over, it'll be fine."
"No, mate, don't-" Barry started, but too late. Mark turned the key and the engine span, throwing a piston head through the bonnet as smoke began to swirl around the snow.
"Fuck."
Mark and Barry tried to figure out where they were, while Carl got on the phone to any breakdown company he could remember.
"Says they'll be a couple of hours. Lots of pickups tonight," he delivered gloomily after nearly half an hour.
"Well, now we're definitely not going to make it," Mark observed.
"Yes, thanks mate, we'd figured that out," Barry snapped back.
They stood in a huddle to the side of the road, clutching their heavy coats around them, bags full of presents on the floor at their feet. The snowfall continued, covering the car in a soft blanket and chilling their breath. Mark tried and failed to light up a cigarette, while Carl choked them all in a cloud of blackberry-flavoured mist that slowly crystallised as it hit the cold air.
"So what did you get her?" Barry asked Carl, after nearly an hour's silence between them.
"Got a necklace. Mate of mine knows a jeweller, was able to get it on discount. It's nice, I think she'll like it. It's got one of the old pound coins on it, with her birth year. Bit corny, I know. What about your 'eau de death'?"
"It's- look, it's not like that. it's a perfume from some plant she likes. Yeah, smells weird to me too, but I'm not judging. Myrrh, I think?"
"I got her perfume too," Mark chimed in, "some special thing she asked for, made of frankincense and stuff."
"Bit ironic, innit?" chuckled Carl, "Gold, frankincense and myrrh, wouldn't call us kings."
Mark laughed, Barry replied "speak for yourself mate, I'm fucking royal."
"We both know it's 'Royle', mate."
"Eh, close enough."
They went back to waiting in the quiet as the snowfall deafened all the sound around them. Clouds still obscured the night sky, and the lights on the car were beginning to dim as the battery slowly drained. Two hours passed, then three. The group were getting anxious. Mark's phone chimed with a text, which made him draw breath and pace nervously; "Joe says she's gone into labour and they've taken her to the hospital."
"What? I thought she wasn't due until the New Year," Barry replied.
"Oh, yeah, I'm sure the baby knows that, I should just tell Joe to tell it to get back in, should I?" snapped Mark.
"I'm just going to give the AA another call," muttered Carl, knowing it wouldn't make any difference, but then he saw something through the swirling snowflakes: a bright and piercing light down the road. The three cheered as the light got nearer, and soon they could see it was the pickup truck's floodlights, slicing through the gloom. To the freezing trio, the lit-up old pickup with faded livery reading 'Gabe's Haulage - Don't Worry, We're Here' brought more cheer than any town and city lights they'd seen on the way. It pulled up, and out leapt a white-haired, older gent with 'Michał' on a faded nametag sewn into his overalls. He took one look under the bonnet, tutted and muttered in a language the three didn't know (which was anything except English), and in a thick accent loudly declared the whole car a write-off. Mark stammered in protest, but one direct glare from the stern-faced mechanic and he shut up entirely.
They let him work as he swiftly hitched the Astra's lifeless remains to the back of the truck, then invited them into the cabin. They squeezed side-by-side, thankful to be out of the cold, and Carl pointed out their destination to Michał.
The group drove on, back onto the motorway as the snow finally let up. Alone on the roads, the truck sped northwards, cutting tracks in the salty slush that covered the lanes. The radio babbled away in whatever language Michał apparently spoke, and from time to time he would tut in disagreement, utter a brief rebuttal to the uncaring broadcaster, then go back to stony silence. The trio slowly fell asleep to the background noise of the radio and the thrum of the diesel engine.
It must have been nearly dawn by the time Michał jolted them awake, and although the sun hadn't yet crested the horizon, the sky was slowly growing brighter and the clouds had parted. The fleeing stars highlighted the white lines and practical decor of Bethel Hospital. Mark, Carl and Barry climbed down from the truck and Michał sped off, taking the Astra away to the nearest garage. Barry spoke quickly with the receptionist, and the three were soon through the doors of the Maternity Ward and at the end of their journey.
Mark greeted his sister: "Hey, Mary. Sorry we're late. How're you doing?"
"You look like shit," Carl added, grinning. Barry barged him in the shoulder.
"Could say the same for you three," Mary chuckled, stifling a yawn, "I'm alright. Don't remember much of the delivery, honestly, kinda drifted in and out of it. Joe's next door with the baby and the midwife."
"We all got you something, guess they're joint birthday, Christmas and congratulations presents now," Barry said, smiling as he laid his gift on the bed. Mark and Carl followed suit. From the door of the room, Joe raised his voice in greeting.
"Finally got here, did you? Merry Christmas, lads. Come in and see the kid, they've got him in a cot. I'll stay here with Mary."
Mark, Carl and Barry hugged Mary in turn, clapped Joe on the back, and followed the midwife into the next room. There lay the baby, quiet and sleeping peacefully, presumably tired out from the ordeal of being born. A crisp card attached to the side of the cot read 'Joshua Davies, born 25/12'.
Stumbled across your Tumblr and just wanted to say that some of your music has been a permanent fixture in my mind for like, a decade now. Particularly Winterglade.
So thanks!
thank you so much! I'm really glad that my music, and especially Winterglade, has stuck with you for this long!
When you look at yourself in the mirror and trace each scar with your eyes, what do you see?
When you were a young, uniformed auxiliary, manning a rocketry platform with your childhood friend, you saw the defect in the launch mechanism before he did. You ducked down and said nothing, but peeked over your cover when you heard him yelp in panic. You saw him disappear in flames, and it nearly cost you your eyes. Twelve stitches. You were lucky.
When you were a little boy, you knew there was something different about you. Something that stirred in you when you saw the posters, heard the broadcasters sing praises of those brave women and their magnificent machines. When your mother secretly questioned the Party's wisdom, you listened like a good child. When you turned her in to the inspector and his men, your father beat you with a bottle until your screams brought help, and he too vanished from your life. Three scars. Eighty stitches. Weeks in bed.
When you were examined by the doctors after your bunkmates caught you in a stolen dress, you confessed everything, anything they asked, just for a shot at the Program. To be one of those women. Afterwards, you provoked a fight and stabbed one of those boys in the neck with the same blade he used to pierce your breast. Twenty stitches. But you were protected, now.
When they took away your name and made you Skadi, the conditioning didn't stick. Your body rejected the implants. The sores on your neck wept pus, and you swallowed every pill they gave you, grit your teeth through the pain and the fever, endured the inferno of sensation each time you were plugged in. When a doctor threatened to have you sent back, you promised him yourself... and when you were done, you burnt his body in his own morgue.
When Nidhogg, your sister, your lover, your only true friend, began to speak of defecting, you were heartbroken. With tears in your eyes you sabotaged the loading mechanism. When the main gun erupted and ripped her apart, it took a piece of you with it.
You hold the cold metal of your false arm and feel the ghost of her touch. You are a collection of wounds and hatreds. You are not the woman on the posters. You are not praised in the broadcasts or paraded on the arms of captains and generals.
But when you look at yourself in the mirror, you don't see any of that. You see the woman you always knew yourself to be. You see the price you've paid to be her.
Life in the Tomb Colonies is as dull as you let it be. Some of them enjoy whaling on eachother with swords. For fun.
Link to AO3! Here's my entry for this year's @fallenlondonficswap, my secret swap was for @half-life-citizen! I hope you enjoy this silly vignette about two old men in the Tomb Colonies and their shared past-time!
~~~
One thing that the denizens of Venderbight have in abundance is time. How to best spend it often weighs heavily on their minds: some, particularly those denied rest their whole lives, choose to remain sedate and sessile, content to collect dust like an ornament on a mantlepiece. Others despise this apathy and pursue an active lifestyle, getting into all sorts of troubles that would have seen them ejected from polite society in London, but are par for the course in the Tomb Colonies.
Compounding this effect is an increasingly blasé attitude towards death. 'What's another few hours or days in the Boatman's company? Better that than mouldering away in some forgotten corner until senility, fragility or the moths take you.' It is for perhaps these reasons that in the years since London's fall Venderbight had seen a renaissance of that bygone practise, the duel. Some blame the soldiers that came en masse following the failed invasion of Hell and the Hinterlands. Others claim that a Prussian master, supposedly exiled from the Palace after bringing true death to a duke, brought with him the Germanic spirit of stoically accepting blow after blow on an unguarded head. Yet more point to the cities that came before, to Mongols and Maya whose own warrior cultures merged into something at once new and quite old.
Whatever the cause: duelling with sabre, backsword, longsword, rapier, messer and schläger were all the rage among the bandaged not-quite-dead, and Venderbight's many plazas rang out with the clash of steel at all hours. A Creaking Fencer stood at the end of one such plaza, among a crowd of several dozen other tomb colonists. Tables had been laid out for an open-air meal and though plates of zee-fish, arrangements of mushrooms and bowls of steaming broth were slowly filling the space, few of the attendents were sitting.
The Creaking Fencer stood with his companions, all adorned in peligin-dyed zailor's caps. Other groups congregated in matching colours: violant and irrigo-capped colonists obscured one another in an eye-watering display. The groups in viric and cosmogone mingled around the ruins of a Second City obelisk, jutting from the broken flagstones like an old, yellowed tooth. Those in gant milled around the edges of the other groups striking up conversation while those in apocyan were, of course, playing chess to pass the time.
Standing aside from the crowd, a small collection of judges flanked an elder in a magnificent headdress, topped with the flowering head of a bromeliad. They gestured with a shaking hand, and the hubbub ceased.
"Brothers and sisters," they began, barely above a croaking whisper, but all listened in reverent silence, "we welcome you all to another collegiate tournament. May your skill and courage bring honour to your cohort. Fight well, and show no fear!"
The gathered colonists cheered, the sound echoing off ancient temples. The judges dispersed into the crowd and circles were drawn. The Creaking Fencer sought out his counterpart, a Blighted Swashbuckler proudly wearing a bright viric cap.
"Archie," rasped the Fencer.
"Harry!" returned the Swashbuckler, jauntily, "looking more decrepit than ever, I see!"
The Fencer laughed, the sound half-strangled through years of scars on his windpipe. "No more than you - is the gangrene new, or am I being blinded by your hideous hat?"
"Oh tut-tut Harry, that's a low blow. I didn't say anything about the awful racket your knees make as you stumble about, now did I?"
They both fixed one another with a glare, but quickly fell about laughing. Formal duties of insult concluded, the Swashbuckler threw an arm around the Fencer's shoulders and they staggered together towards one of the rings. Their seconds were already waiting, blades freshly sharpened by teams of rattus faber that scurried about the heels of the crowd.
The Fencer and the Swashbuckler took up their razor-sharp, viciously thin blades and stood just far enough apart that their outstretched fingertips could touch. This was the mensur, the measure, permitted by their code. No retreat, no room for advance, no flinching or ducking. You parried the blow, or you were cut. Each raised their sword high above their head, tips pointing down just below eye-level, and waited for the word from their apocyan-capped referee.
The instant the syllables left the referee's lips, the blades were whirring with machine-like precision. The seconds watched with keen eyes as each blow was parried by another, neither the Fencer nor the Swashbuckler moving an inch, each focused intently on striking the other in a moment of miscalculation.
"Halt!" cried the referee, and the seconds thrust their swords upwards, blocking the windmill of steel. A length of bandage fell away from the Swashbuckler's face, revealing taut, green-veined skin. The referee noted the hit, stepped back, and gave the word to continue.
This continued for round after round. Every few moments - sometimes, rarely, stretching to half a minute - they would call halt and examine the blow. Tattered scraps of linen littered the floor between the two combatants, joined by tufts of hair and trickles of blood. The bandages around their faces had been shredded, while crimson stained those around their necks and shoulders.
The Fencer looked directly into the eyes of his opponent. He didn't need to look at the blades, he knew simply from the Swashbuckler's minute twitches of muscle, precisely where and how a strike would be made, and how to parry it. The strain was beginning to show on his face, now, and not just because it had been uncovered by the Fencer's skilled strikes. All that remained was a strip across his nose, hanging ends about his cheeks, and one long, winding bandage around the forehead. The Fencer focused all his intent on one last, decisive strike that would cut both coverings. His wrist rattled as it twirled, old bones and worn ligaments barely holding together, the sound covered only by the ringing of the blades as they clattered again and again.
Then, a louder, more piercing ring. The Fencer stumbled, his blade meeting nothing as the Swashbuckler's own had shattered, sending shards flying in all directions. Both stopped, expecting the call for 'halt', but it didn't come. They turned as one to see the referee laid out on the floor, several inches of steel jutting from their skull.
"Ah," said the Swashbuckler.
"I believe that hands me the match, Archie."
"It would seem so. Shame! Good fight."
"And you. See you at home?"
The Swashbuckler stepped forward and kissed the Fencer on his split lip, taking a second to admire his own handiwork.
"Of course, my love. Grab me some of the crab soup, will you?"
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"Looks like this chip fried and took its friends with it. I'll have to replace the lot."
The dented android lying on the table displayed an expression of nervousness on the curved, LED screen it used as a face. The mechanic paused, putting down the forceps and singed silicon chips she had been examining under a lens. The android's crackling voice synthesizer, several models out of date, spoke in a high, flute-like tone.
"Displeased. Replacement parts no longer in production." Its expression simulated a nervous gulp. "Upgrade necessary."
"Sorry, hon, but it looks like it. Still, nothing wrong with that, right?"
It didn't answer, instead replaying the animated nervousness it knew all too well. The mechanic pulled up a stool and sat down by its side. She took one its hands in hers and gave the rubbery polymer a gentle squeeze.
"No one likes going through surgery, but I know you'll feel much better with a new part."
"Displeased," it repeated, "Minimum parts remain."
"How d'you mean?"
"This model: outdated. Production ceased. Many repairs over working lifespan. Less than ten percent factory parts remain."
The mechanic's eyes widened. It was rare to work on a patient with a long enough service history that parts had degraded to that degree. When it had first contacted her for repairs, it had been unable to provide any logs dating back more than five years; not unusual for independent androids, but if what it said were true she estimated it must have been several decades old at the very least.
"Incredible," she breathed, "you must have seen a lot!"
"Yes. No longer my original form. However. Concerned about neer future."
"Why? D'you think new parts won't be compatible with your other systems?"
"Yes, but. Matter of…" it paused, as if processing the correct word to use. A quirk to aid human interfacing, the mechanic knew: the android's words were selected in milliseconds, any pause was entirely for effect/
"Philosophy," it continued, "When no factory parts remain. Do I cease?"
"Oh, I get it. You're worried you won't be 'you' anymore, right?"
"Yes."
"Dunno if it helps, but humans feel that way too. A friend told me once about some ancient thinkers who wondered: if you replaced all the parts of a ship, is it still the same ship? What if you took the old parts and built a second ship with it? Which is the original?"
"Not a ship, but analogous," it smiled slightly.
"I gotta say I never gave it much thought. But, if I remember my bio right, humans replace every cell in their body something like every seven years or so. If that's the case, then there's been nearly five 'me's since I was born!"
The android looked surprised.
"Not known to me. Intriguing."
"Tell you what," the mechanic said, walking back over to the workbench, "I know this chip is a goner, but I can put in acrylic for you. Then you can always have a bit of your old self still around. How's that sound?"
"Sentimental, but pleasant," it laughed, using a recording it had taken many years prior of a young woman sharing a joke in a public park. It had many such recordings, but that remained a favourite.
"Alright then. I'll do that once I've fixed you up; give me a minute to look at what I've got in stock and then we'll get back to it."
After watching Furiosa last night, I was struck by an interesting question with regards to gender roles as they're portrayed in the film's Wasteland. What follows is an attempt to talk about that. Some mild spoilers for the film, but since it's a prequel to Fury Road, it's mostly stuff that's a foregone conclusion.
First I'd like to take a moment to discuss gender, and being transgender. Gender is almost universally agreed on (by those qualified to have input) as a social construct: that is. gender does not exist outside of human thought, and is a set of behaviours and characteristics that we associate and reinforce with each other and ourselves. In most cultures, there are at least two genders: a masculine one and a feminine one. Many others also exist historically and today, as I'm sure you're aware! They are categories we, as humans, have devised and apply to people.
Gender is, essentially, two things. It's what you believe about yourself, and the way you perform in front of others - and the conclusions you make about other people. These are entangled! My idea of femininity as it applies to myself, a transgender woman, also affects the way I view femininity in other people.
It's also necessary I think to briefly talk about sex. To put it neutrally: sex is a cluster of properties that support your anatomy. This can include your genetic karyotype, your dominant sex hormone, your primary and secondary sexual characteristics and many other things. It is not a binary. In humans specifically there are two distinct 'poles' of sex, and a very large spectrum inbetween. No one living corresponds to either pole. They are hypothetical. This is because biology is messy and inconsistent!
Then there's being transgender. In a modern, western context this refers to living a gender role different to the one you were assumed ("assigned") to be at birth based on a doctor's judgement about the appearance of your primary sexual characteristics. Thus you get people born men who live as women, people born women who live as men, and those who live as neither, both, or something else entirely. All these identities are completely valid, because gender is something we create, perform and enforce.
Finally, it needs saying that gender roles vary depending on your culture, and even within cultures will vary over time. Aboriginal peoples recognise 'brotherboys' and 'sistergirls' that overlap with but are not exactly the same as our western notion of trans men and trans women, to name one example.
Okay, got all that?
So, Furiosa is trans.
And this is why I wanted to explain all that up front, because when I say she's trans, I am not saying she's a trans man or a trans woman in the way we would understand that today.
At the start of the film we see a young Furiosa living among her people (her culture) the Vuvalini. They are implied to be matriarchal from statements given in both films. This culture, then, has ideas of gender roles that would be alien to us viewers, and indeed are shown to be different from those elsewhere in the Wasteland. The first non-Vuvalini woman shown in the film is a sex slave. The second is a raider who forces others to see her as equal to men. The Immortan Joe, living in the Citadel, maintains the status of women under his rule as Breeders or Milkers - else they are cast out to the masses below.
Furiosa finds her way into Joe's hands as a child, and because of the way Joe views gender (and sex), is designated a Breeder-to-Be. However, she escapes this fate and disguises herself as a War Boy. She lives in this manner for the next six years, hiding her sex and performing a 'masculine' gender role (which is, fittingly, closer to how she lived as a child among the Vuvalini). A scene during the construction of the Chrome War Rig shows that she specifically goes to urinate alone so that people would not discover her as a 'girl' (behaviour noted as unusual and a little suspicious by one of the Blackthumbs).
She is later revealed to be a woman by Praetor Jack, but for whatever reason this does not bother him (reading between the lines, it's implied that Jack is not a native of the Citadel, and so was probably raised with different ideas of gender than his War Boys). He takes on Furiosa as his apprentice, with Joe's blessing - her status as a woman is now public and known, but she has already performed as a man, so she is perceived as a man. From here on, no one in the film draws attention to her femininity or thinks her lesser for it: she is held as an equal to any of the men of the Wasteland.
This is why I say that she's trans. She is a woman, she does not appear to be dysphoric about being a woman, and among the Vuvalini she would very much be seen as cisgender - but to the people of the larger Wasteland, and the culture of the Citadel specifically, she does not perform the gender roles allowed to women.
I wanted to write about this because it's interesting to me as a way of illustrating gender not just as your internal identity, but as a label applied to you by other people. Nothing in the film implies that Furiosa would ever consider herself a man. She is fiercely proud of her heritage! But she does see herself as different from the Wives, while seeing herself as no different to Praetor Jack.
So when I say "Furiosa is trans", it's actually a subjective statement: Furiosa is trans when she's living in the Citadel, but not when she was a child or after the events of Fury Road when she's killed Immortan Joe and ruling in his stead. The nature of being trans is, pardon the pun, transient, because we can only really be trans when other people perceive us to be! While I wear the label 'trans woman' with some pride, I only do this because society expects me to distinguish myself from those 'born' women. For trans women who pass well enough to live in 'stealth', the label doesn't need to be stated: society sees her as a woman - she is a woman.
It makes me wonder: in another time and place, if I behaved and performed exactly the same way I do now, would I be trans, or would my gender role be considered within the acceptable ones for my perceived sex?
I don't know, but it's fascinating to think about.
"And what do we say when we see a ghost?" asked their father, standing in front of them both while they sat cross-legged on the hay bales.
"We say 'piss off, ghost!'" said one of the bairns, punching the air.
"That's right! And then we throw a brick at it."
The other bairn, elder and more sensible than her brother, listened with pursed lips and furrowed brow.
"Da, this doesn't seem like it'd be effective," she interjected. Her father sighed wearily.
"Oh, so what, you think we should break out the crucifix and Latin? Rattle a few charms at it?"
"Aye, well... That's how the church folk do it."
"Look, Alice," he knelt in front of her and held her hands in his, "our family have been exorcists since your great-great-grand-mammy banished the demon vexing the harvest while blind drunk. Church didn't do nowt."
"Just seems a bit, I dunno, easy?" she muttered. Her brother peeked through fiery bangs with sparkling eyes, as if he'd heard his cue.
"But it only works if you got faith!" he cried. His father nodded.
"Aye! And that's why it don't matter if you've got crosses or no, you just have to know that whatever's come up from Hell, it's no match for you."
He stood back up and took a small hide-bound journal from his ragged coat.
"Now," he said, turning to a familiar page, "who wants to learn the really good curses?"
