My mother gave birth to two children, naturally.
Myself and my sibling – I refer to her as my ‘sibling’, because she had the anatomy of a male child at birth and in-part still does.
Asher James – real name, no gimmicks is a pre-op transsexual. She was a little girl, even when she was a little boy, an example of this fact is depicted in the many photos taken of her post 1989 sporting our Nana’s high-heeled shoes – an innocent, naked little boy adorned in salmon lipstick and poorly fashioned 3 inch heels. Such was the questionable fashion of the day for a woman surpassing her mid-forties, in the late 80’s.
While my sibling didn’t begin to materialize the inner-yearning she encountered, to live her life as a woman until her early teens, the foundations for her future lifestyle were laid before Asher James could speak.
When questioned about my family by people I have recently met, upon listing my eight siblings and step-siblings, she is always the climax point, not for our full-blood connection but for the reaction I get when fondly referring to her as ‘my tranny’. There are two reasons I do this, the first being the shock value, in that I enjoy seeing the “I don’t know how to react to that” look on peoples’ faces and the second being this; I am not ashamed of my sister – she is the most fearless human I know and I envy her, her courage, defiance and natural, feminine beauty.
I am in awe of Asher James.
Genitalia aside, my sister is the epitome of a real woman; strong, confident and nurturing – with a 24 inch waist, flat stomach and long, well-defined legs, she anatomically and aesthetically represents the idea of what most women desire to be like and what most men desire to be with.
As for those who, upon first glance are unimpressed by my sister and her supreme allure, from experience I can honestly say that they can all be divided into one of three groups, there are the bull-dykes, the androphilic men and my ultimate favourite, the haters.
The Hater Club is mostly comprised of jealous, narrow-minded, (often, but not strictly) religious bigots who still believe we are sentient in a world where it’s “Adam and Eve, not, Adam and Steve”, an archaic aphorism, that inclines my desire to conjure a fanciful super-power designed to dispatch those who adhere to it back to the past where, it appears they remain stationed.
This is how I interpret a hater, by my own definition.
hater(s); person, or people who strongly dislike someone for possessing something they don’t feel they can attain but desperately want, so proceed to put down and/or project their weaknesses and insecurities onto those that appear to have it: “he’s not even that pretty, and anyway she has a penis”.
When I was a juvenile and the faculty of my mind was directed by society, before the sagacious domination of thought emerged, I would call her a faggot and Asher would call me a dyke.
I, myself am a lesbian – a gold-star-lesbian in fact, which is a term used to describe a lesbian who has not had penetrative sex with a man and does not intend to. In reference to the term, it is a medal in our community and I wear mine with pride, although my pleasure is based, not on the connotation of the title, instead on the gold rank to which it is associated, be it, as in any field, that whoever secures gold is victorious. Thus, by being a gold-star-lesbian I am ultimately a winner, by default.
Fundamentally it just denotes that I am a virgin – in heterosexual idiom, however it is my express opinion that being a silver or even a bronze lesbian, does not make you any less of a lesbian, although some would protest my perspective – primarily, my fellow gold-stars, it is a distinct reality that sexual orientation has transgressed the outdated ideas that once enclosed it. Sexual identity is now black, white, and every shade of grey conceivable and the boundary-lines of gender-identity and expression are now blurred.
Products of the mid to late 80’s; we were born 19 months apart. Asher James arrived in October of 1987, my mother’s only son, youngest offspring and arguably her preference of the two of us. This is not to say that my mother loves me any less than Asher, but speaks more for the bond they created in the formative years of my younger siblings life.
As the first-born child, it is instinctive that I was very protective concerning my brother, a feeling that remains a fierce and mutual force in the close, but sometimes dangerous connection we have constructed during the 28 years we have spent in each others lives. Only now, I am protective of a trinity – my brother, my sister and my tranny.
It was a brutal path to wander for a 14 year old tomboy and closet lesbian, even more difficult with the persistent presence of a 12 year old boy who behaved like a girl and was so often mistaken for one, that the task of correcting people had long ceased. In order to survive as fragments of the ‘queer’ community in a small town inhabited by an abundance of minds confined by prejudice – there was only one option in 1999.
Harden up. So we did.
The ultimate wish for any life-giving mother is the gift of grandchildren, my mother bore two offspring, both were delivered naturally, her youngest, Asher James is 28 years old and lives her everyday life as a woman – with male genitalia, while her eldest is Me, an evader of authority and active lesbian, aged 30. Neither of us have reproduced, nor do we intend to and although she has had several years to come to terms with the awareness that she will never be a Nana, the wound is still open and the pain still raw.
Confronted with an emotionally charged statement about it being unfair that she will never be a grandmother, Asher James responded to her mother with this;