Life Worth Living (6 page)

Confident that she had made the breakthrough, the psychiatrist allowed me home after three weeks in hospital. She instructed me to take daily the tablets her husband had prescribed, but, now knowing that they were male hormones, I agreed meekly to her face and then flushed them down the loo as soon as her back was turned. She even summoned up a smile as she said
that she and her husband would see me for my appointment the following week. It was intended to be the first of many appointments – more than one a week, every week, for the foreseeable future.

The best-laid plans can come a cropper, and hers unravelled before Mummy got me home. En route, I told Mummy point blank that nothing would induce me to see that woman ever again.

‘Take it up with your father,’ she said, and I did so that very evening. ‘She was awful,’ I said, ‘and
I will not go back to her
.’ I did not threaten or scream or plead. My tone was pure steel, and sensing my determination – and knowing that Mummy would not back him up after the ignominy of having been declared a bad influence upon her own child – Daddy backed off, saying something like, ‘Well, it’s your life.’ I never did see the psychiatrist again, and years later, Mummy informed me that she had died of cancer. ‘I hope it was as painful as the pain she subjected me to,’ I said. Mummy scolded me about wishing the dead ill, but I stood by every word then, as I do now, and even she had to concede that the woman was a monster. The only pity is that she was not unique. I have subsequently heard of many other psychiatrists, psychologists and psychotherapists practising torture and calling it medicine. For reasons which should be obvious to any thinking person, the profession attracts a fair share of sadists who prey upon the vulnerable while hiding behind theoretical dogma. Of course, there are also humane therapists, and it was later my luck to meet one.

But if I had won that battle, I had lost the war. I now found myself in limbo. I did not have my rightful gender, nor did I see any way of achieving it. Before this débâcle, I had at least nurtured the hope that once my parents knew how distressed I was, they would help me. But, due to a complete lack of communication on this subject, they were still as ignorant about the depth of my suffering, and all hope had gone.

As if that were not enough, I was left with the residual effects of the abuse to which my system had been subjected. No one can undergo a regimen of mind-altering drugs, insulin, sedatives and narcotics for a period of nearly a month and not be ‘hung over’ for some considerable time thereafter. For months I felt as if I was wrapped in cotton wool. The vibrancy which was a major part of my personality remained beyond my reach, and I was physically as well as mentally depressed. Benumbed, as opposed to merely numb, would be the most accurate word to use. I can only say that it was a most disagreeable sensation to have to endure.

Life, however, had to continue, and, terrified that I might be put into the hospital again, I kept my head well down. I assumed that my father, who had seemed a staunch admirer of the psychiatrist, was as much to blame as she was. I had no idea that he was a victim just as I was, and with each passing day, as I struggled out of bed in the morning to face a day of hell at school, only to return home to boredom and dead possibilities, I grew ever more antipathetic towards him. For his part, he did not appreciate the way I felt. Our relationship had never extended beyond the most rudimentary of exchanges, and we
were further apart than ever. He seemed to think that the treatment had taken to the point where I was prepared to live out my life in twilight.

But my brother Mickey was about to accidentally change my life for the better. Now sixteen, with an ever expanding circle of friends, he was a student at Jamaica College, the premier Anglican school in the land (following my mother and grandfather, he had opted to be an Anglican). One afternoon, he brought home two friends for tea. I had intended to keep out of the way, but I was forced to return home from Suzy Surridge’s house before the friends left because I heard Daddy’s car arriving. So it was that I met Bindley Sangster and Gilbert Ward.

Bindley’s parents owned a chain of bookshops and his uncle, Donald Sangster, was the prime minister of Jamaica. Gilbert’s father was dead, but his mother was married to the eminent jurist Sir Gerald Cash, who later became governor-general of the Bahamas. Good manners alone required me to spend a few minutes talking to Bindley and Gerald, but I made my exit as soon as I could, for I did not want to embarrass Mickey with my presence. I was stunned when Mickey came into the study after they had left and said, ‘Bindley really liked you. He thought you were very amusing.’

In the ensuing weeks and months to come, Bindley became as much my friend as Mickey’s. Gilbert, too, became a close friend, but Bindley and I had a special bond. An only child, Bindley was spoiled rotten. He had his own car, a generous allowance and lots of freedom. He was also great fun, and we used to have the most wonderful time. It put a whole different perspective on Mickey’s feelings about me. Once he realised that his friends would not necessarily mock either of us because of the way I was, I became persona grata once again. I needed that fillip as much as Mickey did. Although school was as bleak and lonelier than ever, I now had a good social life, for Bindley, Gilbert, Mickey, Suzy, Sharman and I went everywhere together – to nightclubs, to restaurants, to the beach (where I always had to swim fully clothed to cover up the budding breasts which caused such merriment at school), to the movies, to friends’ houses.

Life took another turn for the better when Tony Shalom, a childhood friend and neighbour, broke his leg and was laid up for three months. Every afternoon after school Suzy and I would climb over her back fence and visit him. Before long, just about every one of our contemporaries was dropping in at Tony’s after school. On a daily basis there must have been between ten and twenty teenagers there, all from what our parents deemed suitable backgrounds. Jamaica was not the most egalitarian of places in those days, and considerations like that counted for a lot.

When Tony’s leg mended, the party was transferred to the Ziadie swimming pool. Daddy and Mummy did not mind how many friends we entertained during the holidays, so then Mickey, Sharman and I played host to anything from ten to thirty friends every day, all of whom had to be fed lunch and given drinks. On Sundays we always went to Morgan’s Harbour, if we
were not on the north coast at Ocho Rios. Teenagers often do not know when to stop, and we were no exception. Towards the end of the summer of 1965, Mummy said, ‘I don’t want to spoil your fun, but you children have been taking advantage of the servants. You simply cannot have them running up and down between the kitchen and the pool house all day, every day. They have feelings too. I want you to give them a few days’ rest. Tell your friends not to come.’

Being as indulged as we were, it had never occurred to us that the servants were not hot and cold running taps. The lesson was not well received, and we were back to our old tricks when the few days’ embargo had passed. Despite the fun I was having, I was only too mindful that I was living a life behind glass. I used to say, ‘I feel as if I’m watching a banquet, yet whenever I reach out to satisfy my hunger, my hand hits the invisible glass separating me from everyone else, and I have to sit on the side-lines, hungry.’

Like teenagers anywhere, we were preoccupied with love. It was the only topic of conversation, except for the inevitable sports discussions among the boys. At the time, truth books were all the craze. On each page of an exercise book, there would be a question. On the same line of each page, one would answer the question truthfully. I never saw a book which didn’t ask ‘Who is the best kisser?’ and ‘Are you still a virgin?’ At first, I used to avoid writing in the books, because I did not want to lie or to reveal too much about myself. Later on, I did play the game, but so enigmatically that few people could make head or tail of my answers.

It was only too obvious to all my friends that the masculine gender and I were incompatible. Because our circle was largely from a privileged background, we were all rather sophisticated for our ages. Many people thought I was going to change sex, and although this was erroneous, they completely accepted the idea. I refused to even acknowledge that the subject of my gender existed to anyone but Suzy, much less impart any information about it. However, I was careful never to wear masculine clothes. Always short white shorts, baggy, rather feminine shirts and leather thongs. All that changed when I was sixteen and fell in love with Michael Silvera. Michael was ‘the’ boy whom all the girls wanted. He was mature, fun, exciting, handsome and stylish. By now he was also my brother Mickey’s best friend. Michael was the first person, apart from Suzy, in whom I confided. Gradually, he also realised that I was in love with him, something he handled with a delicacy and consideration that still astounds me, for he managed to make me feel feminine and desirable without actually stepping over the line of friendship. His girlfriend, Suzanne Chin, who was one of my closest friends, also handled the situation with grace and kindness, encouraging Michael to set time aside for me, with the result that he visited me regularly and frequently.

But all the kindness in the world couldn’t make the gruesome reality go away. Once love and sexual feelings were introduced into the equation, my gender became of overriding importance. Without my correct gender, I could not have boyfriends. I could not lose the virginity that everyone else maintained they were clinging on to while they were having it off in the back seats of
their or their parents’ cars at the drive-in cinemas at Harbour View and Washington Boulevard. I could not dance, or kiss, or do any of the things that everyone else was doing. There were times when I felt as if I would burst, and sometimes I was so keyed up that I would lie on my bed and kick the air in silent futility. By the summer of 1965, I could not stand watching life pass me by any longer.

Terrified as I was of a repetition of the hospital episode, I had to reopen the subject. I spoke to Mummy, with whom I at least had channels of communication, who spoke to Daddy, with whom I had none. Once more Daddy was advised that a psychiatrist should be called in. This time, however, it was not some Freudian crackpot, but a sensible practitioner. He visited me twice, on Saturday mornings, up at the pool (it would not have done for me to have seen him at his office, lest word got out). After the second visit, he advised my father that my problem was not psychiatric, and that therefore the solution did not lie with psychiatry. He then withdrew from the case, but not before I managed to use his presence to my own advantage, to be allowed to smoke.

Thereafter I was the envy of all my friends, none of whom was permitted to smoke in front of adults. With such trivia did one console oneself.

I half expected Daddy to tell me that he had made an appointment with another doctor, but, as the days became weeks, I got the drift. Nothing was going to happen. This time, my response was open rebellion. I don’t think the poor man ever got over what hit him. ‘You were certainly troublesome,’ he reminisced to me a few years ago.

Sex and pop music were the latest rage, and I now used them to challenge him. I became an open advocate of sexual freedom, something which was anathema to my religious father, who still believed that all nice girls went to the altar virgins. I grew my hair as long as I could, wearing it
très
Audrey Hepburn, which resulted in a bitter confrontation every few weeks when he wanted me to cut it and I refused to do so. I took advantage of the new styles in both male and female clothing to wear trouser suits or outfits with shorts which could not be termed anything but feminine. Except when Daddy asked me what I was wearing.

‘It’s the very latest. It’s Carnaby Street. The Beatles wear things like this.’

Depending on his mood, he would either look dubious and retreat into his bedroom, or appeal to me to try to look more masculine, saying that I was pursuing a path that was bound to open me up to a great deal of prejudice.

‘You have no idea how cruel people can be. It’s my duty as your father to protect you,’ he often said.

‘You can’t protect me from life,’ I would reply.

As for school, I now made absolutely no effort, and took secret delight in coming third, then fourth. My
father freaked out, but when he realised that I had genuinely ceased to care, he launched into the first of many subsequent appeals.

‘I’m not always going to be here to take care of you, Georgie. Your education is the most important thing in your life. No one can take knowledge away from you.’

‘Spoken like the true son of refugees,’ I retorted. ‘Well, this is Jamaica 1965’ – or 1966, or 1967 – ‘not Lebanon 1899, so why don’t you just get off my back? I’m not a horse and you’re not a jockey.’

Poor Daddy, lost for words at the best of times, was no match for me verbally. He used to walk out of my room shaking his head.

As in so many situations, both parties are right, but the channels of communication were so silted up that nothing positive could get through. For two years we were at daggers drawn. Daddy and I had found ourselves marooned on separate islands of hostility, recrimination and misunderstanding, and neither of us had the wherewithal to get off them. Never once did it occur to me that I could express my concerns in words. People in our circumstances at that time simply did not behave like that.

With hindsight, I can see that Daddy was trying to bridge the gap. Occasionally, he would come into my bedroom and try to talk. Sometimes it was about nothing; other times he would touch upon the question of my gender. ‘I know you think I don’t love you, but I’m only doing what I think is best for you.’ One of Daddy’s traits was that he would have conversations that were exact replicas of previous conversations. This could be quite funny, and led to us children mimicking him wickedly from time to time.

‘You’re only worried about the scandal that will attach itself to your precious name. You can’t fool me. You’re as transparent as glass and I can see right through you.’