5 Morgan (no longer Megan) has self-identified as gender-free for six years now, they've learnt to be cool with it when people don't use or understand their preferred pronouns initially they wanted to punch their lights out they're leaning on the wall overlooking the River Thames outside the crowded after-party of The Last Amazon of Dahomey at the National Theatre, written and directed by none other than Amma Bonsu the legendary black dyke theatre director
their head is still shaven, once a week their bald pate is made smooth and shiny courtesy of a razor run once in one direction over shaving foam and once in the other that's it – 'hair' done their white shirt sleeves are rolled up high to show off tattoos of red and yellow flames rising up their arms, black jeans are slung low, fold up at the end to show off white ankle socks, brogues Morgan's relieved to have escaped the schmoozing egotarians of London's cliques a couple of them had been forced to say hello when they stood in their flight path, but instead of stopping for a chat had quickly moved on, Morgan wanted to have at least a couple of meaningful convos with the natives before they left, how ridiculous to come all the way down to London and spend it alone yet this is exactly what's happened because unlike their social media persona which is confident and witty when there's time to redraft posts at leisure and Google long words before using them, it's another matter in the flesh so far they've not said a complete single sentence to anyone Morgan had escaped outside, lit a roll-up, a glass of pretentious fake champagne in hand (no down-to-earth beers or lagers) they look over at the overblown buildings on the other side of the river the usual clashing mish-mash of the capital's monstrosities Morgan gets lost in this city, their senses assaulted to the point of disorientation by the jumble of high roads and side roads and relentless traffic and the pressure of millions of people walking too fast who'll mow them down like convoys of unstoppable army tanks crushing their spidery self they can't get their head around city-dwellers who complain the countryside looks all the same to them when it's this city that's chaotically confusing Morgan has no problem navigating the Yorkshire Dales, Peak District or the wilder reaches of Northumberland with an uninterrupted view of the sky to keep one's line of vision empty and psyche
healthy they've only been here a few hours and are already missing the North, where people are more genuine, friendlier, and don't put on airs and graces Londoners think they're the centre of the bloody universe, ignore the rest of the country and keep up their relentlessly unfunny jokes aimed at the peasants who live ooop North, eat fried Mars bars for breakfast, get so hammered at weekends they end up pissing their pants in the gutter, and are generally inter-generational, unemployed scroungers as Morgan encountered from two Londoners on the train down from Newcastle this very afternoon who'd amused themselves by spoofing the stereotype, not for a minute thinking the black person sitting opposite them was a born and bred Geordie Morgan's badly missing Bibi, too, they only said goodbye to her this morning, caught the train down, and will see her again tomorrow they feel vulnerable being so far away, after six years together the two of them are in synch with each other's rhythms their lifestyle is quiet, peaceful, compatible they'll happily spend their evenings sitting side by side with Bibi on the sofa reading, something Bibi insisted Morgan take up in order to broaden their mind, imagination and intellect, I can't be with someone who doesn't read books Bibi reads non-fiction, her latest hero is Gloria Steinem, Morgan reads thrillers sex is interesting, they enjoy sharing their reinvented bodies with each other, giving and receiving pleasure according to what works for them every other weekend they visit GG from Friday night to Sunday morning, help out with stuff around the house and farm, go on long walks GG can't get a handle on Morgan's gender identity – understandable when she's spent ninety-three years living on the same farm in one of the remotest parts of the country GG's incredibly fit for her age, and incredibly stubborn, she won't move out of the farm and into a home, Morgan and Bibi worry about her, have
given up trying to persuade her it's the best course of action I was born here and I'll bloody well die here, she said last time they tried, and anyone who says otherwise can sod off the last time they visited, GG said she'd changed her will and left it to Morgan on the understanding it's kept in the family, invite all your non- binding people to come and stay and be themselves if you like, and when you die, you can pass it on to the family member most likely to look after it: why should I give it to my bairns when they abandoned it as soon as they were legally able to abscond and will have estate agents poking around before I'm cold in the grave after they'd got over the shock, Morgan thought it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to them, so long as they survived the inevitable shitstorm from the rest of the family, who'll accuse them of sucking up to GG to get hold of her estate and might even contest the will, say GG was of unsound mind Bibi was totally game, they'd since discussed the idea of reinventing the farm for people who have reinvented themselves astonished that GG had come up with such a radical idea Morgan recently arranged an Ancestry DNA test for GG which links people with blood relatives who've also had it done GG had talked a lot recently about her own mother, Grace, who'd not known her father, a seaman called Wolde from Ethiopia, it bugged her right until her death it was the big mystery of Ma's life, she said, and GG felt sad that Wolde would forever remain a mystery Wolde, who stopped off in South Shields in 1895 and impregnated Daisy, her grandmother, before buggering off which is what Morgan will shortly do from this awful after-party they were asked to review the play for a fee for the lifestyle magazine, Rogue Nation, on account of their Twitter following of over a million followers which apparently turned them into an 'influencer' as opposed to a high school dropout who wasted too much time online and had no discernible career to speak of as they joked to Bibi who didn't disagree with them
@transwarrior was initially used to chart their journey from tomboy to non-binary, these days they use it more widely for general trans issues, gender, feminism, politics it's good for lobbying and adding their outraged voice to protests their Twitter account brings them invites to everything: concerts, first nights, film premieres, book launches, private views, hotels, edgy fashion shows Morgan doesn't have a clue how to analyse or contextualize a play, book or film, it doesn't matter, it's their following that counts, not the quality of their critique or prose soon there'll be no need for proper critics, the so-called 'experts' who've been running the show since forever, most of them here in London, it's all about the democratization of critical opinion, the papers say, and that includes someone like Morgan whose tweets get more readers than the proper critics it can go to a person's head if they're not careful as Bibi reminds them Bibi keeps them grounded, says the so-called democratization of reviews means the lowering of standards, and that subject knowledge, history and critical context are at risk of being lost in favour of people who only know how to write in attention-seeking soundbites, I don't mean you, Morgan, Bibi reassures them, you're a true trans warrior who's making people pay attention to important issues sometimes Morgan thinks Bibi does mean them Morgan turned down an invitation to write their autobiography, told the publisher they couldn't imagine writing more than 280 characters at a time, and anyway, they really didn't want to write hurtful things about their family, the angle the publishers were after, a 'how I triumphed over my painful childhood' number on that note, things have improved with the folks at home to the point where Morgan is on good terms with them these days Mum dotes on Bibi, of course she does, she's feminine Morgan has already posted their first comment on the play
Just seen #TheLastAmazonofDahomey @NationalTheatre. OMG, warrior women kicking ass on stage! Pure African Amazon blackness. Feeeeerce! Heart-breaking & ball-breaking! All hail #AmmaBonsu #allblackhistorymatters Book now or cry later, peepalls!!! @RogueNation it's been liked 14,006 times and retweeted 7,447 times and the numbers keep ratcheting up there'll be more to come on that score: Unmissable! A tour de force! Go see, transgirls, transboys, ladyboys & butchies, all the queers & all the queens & the intersectional warriors out there and all my fellow non-binary darlings #africanwomenshistory4everyone Morgan throws the wine glass into the Thames where it'll sink to the bottom to join other objects like leather shoes and goblets preserved deep in the river bed from before the Roman invasion as Londoners are proud to brag in those documentaries fronted by posh gits who've been to public school they take a last drag of their third roll-up, stub it out, will slope off to the expensive hotel room in King's Cross in order to get the first train out of The Smoke in the morning, when they see someone familiar standing talking to a black bloke they recognize off the telly, Roland somebody, all poncey in a bright blue suit it's the kid from their lecture last year, what's her name? Morgan recognizes her from their first ever talk on being trans delivered at an International Women's Day event at a university in Norfolk last year she'd been unmissable sitting in the front row of the lecture theatre with a crazy-ass afro and stunning face, clad in a tee-shirt with a blonde Barbie image on it, the words IRONY scrawled in black underneath very witty, kid, Morgan thought, you're my kinda person Morgan only agreed to do that first university talk because it supplemented their paltry salary serving in Drunken Nostalgia down the road from the cottage, the hangout for the local drop-outs who don't mind their glasses stained with lipstick, crockery chipped, tables left unwiped and toilets turning into rivers of urine through which they not so much walk as wade
Aaron, the owner, likes Morgan because they're a mardy cow and as a non-binary bald person with tattoos is cooler and edgier than most all meant as a compliment, and taken as such Aaron says he'll says lose his core clientele if his staff look normal and are nice to people, or if he smartens the place up, his happiest times were in the Student Union bar in Manchester just before closing time on a Saturday night been trying to re-create the same vibe ever since being trans is personal, Morgan began, trying to sound confident in the windowless lecture theatre, their first time actually inside a university let alone delivering a talk, and I interpret trans to include non-binaries like me, trans men, trans women and cross-dressers, others might interpret it differently talk about scary, standing rooted in the spotlight, confronted by rows of unsmiling students, all of them more educated than the person they've come to hear Yazz, that's her name, was different, grinning with pre-approval it felt like the rest were staring down at a circus freak as if they weren't alien youngsters from the world of normal by the look of what was obviously the fashion there for girlie dresses although Morgan suspected a few might progress to khakis, combat boots and tattoos to rival theirs by the time they graduated I can only represent myself, Morgan said, warming up by forewarning the audience against their doubtless assumptions that all trans people are the same, I'm not a spokesperson for everyone or the leader of a transgender movement, merely an explainer of my own unique journey into being non- binary, more specifically, I consider myself to be in the gender-free category Morgan made eye contact with the fresh-faced youngsters who made them feel, at twenty-seven, incredibly worldly-wise gender-free means I identify as neither male nor female, I also identify as pansexual, which means I'm attracted to individuals on the male-female- trans spectrum, although my long-term partner is a trans-female and I'm not trading her in any time soon, not that it's any of your business who I sleep with, if you really must know, I'm spoilt for choice, all bases are covered, yeh, I've got it made, peeps!
laughter erupted around the room, whew, ice broken, Morgan had managed to entertain a room full of people – a first Sandy the lecturer, sitting in the front row, long hair dyed blue, wearing a medieval-style dress, who'd come across Morgan on Twitter, beamed appreciatively that her untested guest speaker was delivering on the goods to her charges Morgan talked for nearly an hour about their experiences of growing up their rejection of feminine ideals (while simultaneously being ignorant about feminism), their nervous breakdown (the lost months at the Quayside), leaving home (for a hostel), finding a partner who was right for them, not mentioning Bibi by name (keep me out of it, love, I'm old- fashioned, I only want a private relationship with you, I don't want to be part of your public brand) Morgan discovered it was actually enjoyable talking to the students, who were quickly and obviously rapt, especially when it came to their decision to get a pair of unwanted breasts surgically removed Morgan hadn't planned this, it just seemed fair and honest to do so, knowing they'd be curious they told them it was a relief to have their breasts departed forever, and as they'd been bound with a compression shirt for so long, nobody much noticed, their lover was fine with it, said they'd fallen in love with Morgan, not their body parts Morgan said their body felt lighter after the soreness had subsided, the pleasure they get from being able to sleep comfortably face down to never again see them bobbing up in the bath like two unsinkable buoys they were going to get tropical bird tattoos inscribed on that part of their body in time, turn their chest into a spectacular work of art when they'd finished, hands shot up for questions, Morgan was praised for being so brave, fascinating, educational, entertaining Morgan felt that all the years of exploring gender in books and in discussion with Bibi had paid off, and has done a few more gigs since so this Yazz came rushing up at the end of the class to exclaim that the lecture (lecture?) was mind-blowing, and she was thinking of becoming
non-binary as well, how woke was that? she said excitedly, like she was going to embark on a trendy new haircut Morgan let the kid down gently she needed to know that being trans wasn't about playacting an identity on a whim, it's about becoming your true self in spite of society's pressures to be otherwise, most people on the trans spectrum felt different from childhood, they said, trying not to sound too harsh as the audience filed slowly out of the room, a few students hovered around to listen in, all friends of this Yazz it transpired, including a Somali-looking girl wearing a blinged-up hijab, a rosy-cheeked milkmaid who looked about twelve, and a Kardashian-Arab type with a designer handbag, cleavage, heels, and black hair so straight and glossy it looked like a wig made of plastic (weren't students supposed to be scruffy and smelly?) it's something inside you, Morgan said to her, not a trend, although others might adopt a trans position as a political statement, which is okay when it comes from a place of integrity, of solidarity, when it's a genuine rejection of society's gender impositions not because it's hip or woke it's why women became political lesbians years ago, choosing to have sexual relationships with women because they'd had enough of sexist men not because they no longer desired them Morgan had come across this in the online archive of a long defunct, second-wave feminist magazine called Spare Rib if they'd been too harsh on Yazz, it didn't show, she was nonplussed, insisted on dragging Morgan off to a campus café with her entourage where they unashamedly pumped their visitor full of questions and cappuccinos and were so irreverent about transgender issues, Morgan loosened up which didn't happen very often (according to Bibi) Waris, who was Somali, joked it was easy in some Muslim societies for a man to pass as female because you just went out in purdah and nobody was any the wiser Courtney, the milkmaid, said she'd like to transition to male because her father would have to leave the farm, if the bank didn't claim it, to her instead of her younger brother, it was the only reason she knew what the word primogeniture meant
Nenet, the Kardashian, said she couldn't become a man because she liked wearing high heels too much, barely finishing her sentence before the others pounced on her for getting it all wrong as if they were suddenly the experts and here was Yazz popping up again, at the National, rescuing Morgan from feeling isolated it turned out that she was the daughter of Amma Bonsu, and like their first encounter Yazz was so excitable, it was infectious fancy me bumping into Mx Morgan Malinga! how cool is that? all the way down from oooop North, wey aye, man, I bet you love being in London, are you going to move down? you so belong here, everyone will love you, wasn't the play great? have you met my mum? whadyamean you haven't met her? she's the Queen of the (old) Dykes, I'm well proud of her and relieved I won't have to stop her jumping off Hungerford Bridge tonight because the play's gone down like a lead balloon I've been following you on Twitter, have you noticed? probably not with, like, a million followers, I retweet practically everything you post, no, not stalkin' just supportin'! what do you mean you were just leaving, no way, come inside and say hi to Waris and Courtney who'll be mega-pleased to see you, and let's hope the prosecco hasn't run out because all the old pissheads are here and trust me they don't know when to stop.
Hattie