Just Call Me Lady: A Work of Completion

Copyright © 2018 By Amanda Taylor

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Edition Printing & Release: 2018

ISBN: 978-1-54394-044-2 (print)

ISBN 978-1-54394-045-9 (ebook)

Edited By: Andrea Nemeth, R.A. Priddle (copy editor)

Cover Design: Joey Wargachuk

Cover Photo: Barb Greczny

Back Cover Author photo: Mitchel Raphael

Some of the names in this book have been omitted or changed to protect the innocent and not so innocent.

For my entire Taylor & Houston families;

they are all an important part of my completion.

Special Thanks

RCSC Corps Haida, Uncle Johnny & Auntie Flo, Sheridan College Oakville/Brampton, Rod Maxwell, Maureen Shone & Ron Graves, Camp Pine Crest, George Pratt Club Colbys/Bachelors/Flash nightclub, Ellen Cameron, Paul Coleman, Andrea Nemeth, Joey Wargachuck, Ori Dagan, Lisa Particelli’s Girl’s night out jazz jam, Mason Byrne & Richard Henry. And all of our local musicians, singers, and comics that inspire me every day.

Tasha Jones (Chris Murphy).

And a big thanks to my best friend and business partner Todd Klinck.

Contents

WHERE THE HELL IS MY HOO HOO?

HEY YOU! WEE LASSIE!

MRS TAYLOR?

SET SAIL AND SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU SCURVY SEA DOGS!

I have never done that before, how was it for you?

Mr. Climb on, I’ll give you a ride

That poor boy was christened Queer

My first kiss

Show-off boy

I FORGIVE ME

THANKS FOR THE OFFER BUT NO THANKS

DOWN TO BUSINESS COLLEGE

MUSICAL THEATRE - MY GOD, I THOUGHT THAT WAS A GIRL SPEAKING

IF NOTHING ELSE, THERE’S APPLAUSE….

COMING OUT

SUMMER STOCK & BEING WATCHED BY COWS AND SCARECROWS

WORKING A GAY BAR - MY KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOUR

LIFE’S A CABARET WITH ELLEN

A GAY BAR AND MY DRAG DEBUT

JIM’S ABUSER AND MY BIG BREAK

A GAY BAR AND A FRIEND FOREVER

TURNING INTO A SWAN

PLEASE WELCOME JOHNNY FANTASY

THE LOVE OF MY LIFE

ANXIETY, AA, AND ME

THE ALL CLASS REVUE

STRIPPER AGENT

STRAIGHT MALE STRIPPERS IN A GAY BAR

KATRINAS/CLUB COLBYS

THE GAY CURSE TOOK MY LOVE

BACK TO THE GAY LIFE

MOVING ON TILL I DON’T

OPENING NIGHT AT BACHELORS

MY DAD’S DEATH LEADS TO MY BIRTH

I AM WAITING FOR A BUS, OFFICER.

YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE A WOMAN, RIGHT?

MY TRANSGENDER AWAKENING

DOES GOD KNOW YOU WATCH THOSE SHOWS?

MY FAMILY CAN WRITE THEIR OWN DAMN BOOK

OH MY GOD IT MUST BE THE COPS!

MEETING PAUL

WE USED TO BE SHEMALES AND TRANNYS

TODD KLINCK RENEWED MY HOPE IN HUMANKIND

A TRANNY SEX CLUB BECOMES A COMMUNITY INSTITUTION

MISS SHEMALE WORLD

SHEMALE STRIPPERS & NUDE GUYS

MANDY GOODHANDY ENTERPRISES

FORCED TO BUY A RESTAURANT

MY FEELINGS ABOUT T-GIRLS

TRANNY CHASERS & T-GIRL ADMIRERS

CURRENT RELATIONSHIPS

CLUB120 AND 120 DINER

FIRST TRANS WOMAN STAND-UP COMEDIAN IN CANADA

LIVE MUSIC

FROM BACK THEN TILL NOW

GAY BARS AS A TRANS WOMAN

LEADING THE COMMUNITY 2010

A WOMAN IN FOR A PROSTATE EXAM?

THE BEDPAN SHUFFLE

THIRD TIME HOSPITAL STAY IS A CHARM?

WHY HAS PEEING BECOME SUCH A BIG DEAL?

IN CLOSING

Glossary

JUST CALL ME LADY:

One person’s work of completion

WHERE THE HELL IS MY HOO HOO?

I remember going to the public swimming pool with my older sister Betty when I was about six years old. I was wearing a cute little one-piece flower number that I had borrowed from her. I was gorgeous with my long brown curls, running and screaming with all the other children.

After a fun time, we went into the shower area to rinse the chlorine off our bodies and swimsuits. I was still so excited and I was standing under the water naked and jumping up and down. The shower area became very quiet, then some of the little girls started pointing at me, some in shock and some giggling. I realized that none of the people in the shower had anything hanging down between their legs except me. As we all know, small children are innocent, they are unabashed and unashamed until they realize they are different from each other in a variety of ways. It became obvious to everyone but me that I was in the wrong shower area. My parents were not big on explaining things in detail in those days, especially when it came to sex and, in this case, my genitalia. My sister and my friends were all girls and had hoo hoos, but I did not notice that fact then and did not even know what a hoo hoo was.

Anyone who paid attention would have figured out there was something different about me, even before that day. I was always in one room of the house dressing up in my sister Betty’s clothes and playing with her toys, while my older brother Ian was in another room of the house, probably building another house. The difference was not just that I preferred toys and clothing that were produced for girls; it was that I naturally felt that I was a girl. I will not use the cliché that I was born the wrong gender. I was born the right gender on all accounts of what society, the church and science dictates but every fibre of my being screamed out to me that I should naturally be living as a girl.

As far as I recall, it was after that swimming incident that I was urged to dress as a boy and my beautiful curls got cut, just before starting school. My mother basically said nothing about this dilemma, not that she did not care, but what could she say? My father, however, was extremely clear on his message and it had the usual working class Glaswegian in the ’50s loving and caring message of Quit runnin’ roun’ like a wee lassie, you are a wee boy and I will gee ye a skelp if ya keep acting like that. My dad was actually a big softy compared to some dads in Scotland in those days, so you can imagine just how bad some of the other men were.

HEY YOU! WEE LASSIE!

When I started school, the other kids kept asking if I was a boy or a girl even though I was wearing a boy’s school uniform. I had a hard time adjusting to this outside world experience of other kids deciding what was acceptable and what was not. They proudly presented me with my first nickname: wee lassie. It was a name given affectionately to little girls but given maliciously to effeminate little boys.

One day, the teacher stepped out of the classroom leaving us kids alone. A boy in my class pointed in my direction and yelled Hey you! Wee lassie! I, along with some other class members, looked behind me to see what wee lassie this boy was pointing at. I soon realized that the wee lassie was me. I was not sure whether to be scared or flattered that he noticed I was indubitably a girl and a large mistake had been made that had caused me to be dressed inappropriately in school boy attire. He continued with Meet me outside after class! In a Scottish public school, that was the bully’s signal for you are getting a beating.

I don’t think I had ever said more than one or two words to this person. In fact, I do not remember speaking more than two words to any person at school, out of fear that it would confirm I was, in fact, a wee lassie. The entire class was abuzz about this main event yet to come. Nowadays the entrepreneur in me would be selling tickets because this was going to be bigger than a Mayweather-McGregor fight…if Mayweather were the king of the ogres and McGregor were Bambi. I only had physical battle experiences with my older brother. And when I say battle, I actually mean him sitting on top of me and slapping me repeatedly. Then he would tell me to stop bawling and greeting like a bairn. That phrase, which meant to stop crying and complaining like a baby, made absolutely no sense: how could someone endure that type of abuse in a calm and quiet manner? So, I never learned how not to be bawling and greeting like a bairn. My brother Ian had a policy that only he was allowed to give me a hiding but, as he was two years older, he was at a different school, and would not be standing up for my honour (or his own). So, I had no protection, no bed to hide under, no mother to hide behind and no plan of escape. I left the classroom as the bell rang and started walking casually and praying that the boy had forgotten. Or that he may have decided that he could not hit a defenseless wee lassie wearing boys’ clothing. My home was past the school’s playground, across a road, then a short block. But during that walk, the playground became the length of New York’s Central Park and the road I was to cross appeared like Highway 401 at rush hour. I started walking quickly across the playground to reach the road to reach my tenement building and the safety of my flat.

I was trying to be nonchalant about my walk; I was doing everything but putting my hands in my trouser pockets and whistling, as I had seen my dad do so many times when being casual. That was a man thing, obviously, though deep in my heart I knew I would never be able to pull it off. I could hear the sounds of excited children behind me, as I casually looked up at the sky and then tried to kick a pebble as far as I could, in a poor attempt to show strength and skill. But to no avail, first, because I completely missed the pebble, and secondly because it was apparent that no one was falling for my fake casual act or my pretend feats of strength. The voice of my bully behind me made me stop dead in my tracks. Where do ya think ya are going, ya wee shite? Though I had graduated from wee lassie to wee shite, I was not sure it was a step up. My mother and nana would have been appalled. Even though we were typical working-class children, we were always taught to mind our manners. My nana was brought up by her mother in an Irish home that was also a bed and breakfast with lodgers, so she was taught to be polite to people, and she was also taught basic table manners, and this was passed on to my mother, who then passed it on to us. It was in very poor taste to yell in the street, let alone yell out shite to a poor girl dressed as a boy who had some semblance of breeding. But it seemed that different rules applied in a schoolyard rumble. Of course, in this case, the only rumble that would be happening would be me rumbling to the ground and being pounced upon by a Goliath wearing a Scottish school uniform. Desperately, I thought about my battles with my brother. I had absolutely no other life experiences to draw from. I knew I had to be brave about this bully situation. I looked up at the boy as he lunged forward and wrapped his arm around my neck. I sensed at that point that he also had no other life experiences to draw from. He was slow and clumsy, it took him a few seconds to calculate my neck region, and a few more seconds to get a grip. As bullies go, he was a disgrace; my big brother was much better than this guy. Ian would have had me tied up in a granny knot in ten seconds while eating a bowl of porridge.

I also would not have made it three feet out of that classroom door, if it had been Ian in pursuit. Suddenly, I had a weird renewed respect for my big brother. This guy was an amateur! But I would still have to be braver than I have ever been and rely on strategy and wits, not brute strength. I was able to slither out of the boy’s poor attempt at a headlock and looked him straight in the eye. And then I ran like hell!

I learned that day that though I might not be stronger than my attackers, I could be more slippery, and faster. This incident was on a Friday, so I had all weekend to wonder what my fate would be at school on Monday. I had important things to keep my mind occupied till then, such as sneaking on my sister’s frocks and running from my brother, my usual pastimes, except for when my Dad was around when I would do what any girl pretending to be a boy would do. Then when my dad left the house, back to playing games with my sister or jumping rope with all the other girls in the neighbourhood. Most of the neighbourhood girls were used to me by now and had stopped asking questions.

Back at school on the Monday, it was like the Friday fiasco had never happened. I was treated just as always and nobody bothered me much, not physically anyway. But I did remain wee lassie for the rest of the time I lived in Scotland. I guess wee shite was given to someone else more battle-worthy. Maybe I was considered too fast a runner for other bullies in that school, as I was never given a physical challenge again. They probably did not want to be seen being left in the dust by a wee lassie wearing boys’ trousers. Or I had proven I had no hidden physical strength that had to be tested by the bully pool. About a month later, I walked past a crowd of children cheering as another boy was giving my bully a pounding. I actually felt sorry for him. But I felt sorrier for the boy pounding my bully, as he would have to always prove himself, and take on all comers. Prove himself to whom? Who the shite knows? I was just glad that even though I had to live as a boy, in my mind I never had to be one. At least not that type of boy.

MRS TAYLOR?

As an adult, I have forgiven myself for always trying to get my father’s approval. I didn’t know I was even trying till puberty set in, though even when it did, it was more like puberty-ish. My voice didn’t lower much and I remained a hairless creature. I prayed for more body hair and kept doing voice exercises to lower my voice. When I answered the telephone at home with Hello, people calling would reply, Mrs. Taylor? I would practice even more with what my family would call my phone voice. It was difficult, like being a character in a play every minute of every day but without the fame, fortune or chance of winning an award.

SET SAIL AND SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU SCURVY SEA DOGS!

My parents decided to move to Canada in 1965 when I was twelve years old. We set sail on the Queen Mary for a week-long journey. My uncle Johnny (my mother’s brother) and aunt Flo lived in Canada with my three cousins Pat, Maureen and Anne Marie. We would be living with them until we got settled. I was going to be leaving my wee lassie legacy behind and would try even harder to be a boy to survive in this new country.

When I say the wee lassie legacy, I mean it as the nickname only. It turned out that my three cousins, who were all girls, had a big dress-up trunk in the basement of their house. They had dresses and wigs (weird plastic ones but wigs just the same) and shoes and everything else. It was paradise down there and I used to play dress-up with my cousin Maureen who was the closest to my age.

My parents had thought that moving to Canada would be a chance for them to have better lives. They went from having exhausting factory and cleaning jobs in Scotland to having slightly nicer factory jobs in Canada. And I discovered you can take the wee lassie out of Scotland but she will become little girl in Canada.

After we settled in Streetsville, the small town where my uncle and aunt lived, I joined the Sea Cadets. I was just about to turn 14. My big brother had joined them a year or so before, at the suggestion of my uncle Johnny, an ex-navy officer. I thought I could learn more girl pretending to be a boy becoming a woman pretending to be a man things. I was surprised how much I loved being part of this sea cadet group. At this time, girls weren’t permitted to be Sea Cadets, so it was even more of a surprise that I not only survived being with all boys and but even was accepted.

I had not been doing well regarding making friends in school, I had no athletic skills that I was aware of, and even my grades were bad. I hated school so much. I hated the way I was looked at and was always made to feel inferior by some of the other boys. It is not unusual to say I was bullied, many kids were and still are. My bullying was verbal and emotional, but just as tormenting as if it were physical. Though it was only a handful of boys doing the verbal bullying, those are the ones you remember. When you are bullied you always remember, and it does not matter if only a few kids took part, when it’s happening, you feel like the whole school hates you. There were actually a lot of great kids in my school and a lot who were just going through the paces like I was, till this part of our lives was over. The only time I did well in class was when I liked the teacher and was in class with kids who did not make me feel weird. In gym class, I was useless in every team sport, probably because I never felt like a part of any team. I was ruled by fear and anxiety and would not even try to excel out of fear of being laughed at. But I was laughed at because I did not excel, so there was no winning in the situation. As I mentioned, they nicknamed me little girl here in Canada, which was weird since my nickname in Scotland was wee lassie, Scotland’s version of little girl. I wondered if the bullies of each country had a worldwide chapter and would contact each other if one of their victims tried moving to another country, town or village. Hey John in Streetsville, this is John from Glasgow. Little Girl has tried to escape over there to Canada. Do us a favour and give her a nickname, so she knows she is missed. Maybe they held jamborees with representatives from all over and workshops on new bullying techniques. I just wanted to survive each day without being picked on or beaten up. Luckily, there were usually teachers around, and I was able to get out of school and reach my home quickly before anyone had a chance to pounce on me.

Being part of Sea Cadets was the opposite experience from school. I learned so much more about life and social skills. I came to discover that I was not hated by everyone in the world. The Sea Cadets had many activities that I did not even think I would enjoy. As we all now know, sports are not just for boys, they are enjoyed by girls as well. I was bad at so many things because I let boys make me feel bad, and I was too scared and uncomfortable to join in with them. All this was different when I was very young, I played all sorts of games as long as it was with the other girls. I was skipping rope and having so much fun till I was told that doing what comes natural is not always right. I was so much better in those environments away from the male bonding pressure. It was like forcing a girl to play a contact sport with all boys. Not that the girl would not be capable or skilled at the sport or strong enough to play the sport: It would be the lack of camaraderie, the feeling of not being part of that all-male team and the ultimate rejection by those who otherwise should be your peers. Most girls/women, no matter how strong or skilled, would be affected mentally by that experience, and I was no different.

Sea Cadets met one evening a week and we went to different places and events as a corp on the weekends. We went to sailing regattas or marched in parades, visited armed forces bases such as Camp Borden in Ontario or Camp Cornwallis in Nova Scotia. We could take different cadet courses in the summer to improve and climb up in rank. That was one of the great things I found about Sea Cadets; the opportunity to get higher in rank made me feel I accomplished something. The other boys in my corp were mostly from surrounding small towns, so they did not know my reputation of being little girl or being fairly useless at being a man. During these times, I was still wishing my voice would deepen and I would mature more as a man. One experience that stood out for me, among many in my quest to be a boy, occurred at a Sea Cadet function.

We were in Toronto preparing for an upcoming naval regatta and parade. There were Sea Cadets and naval reservists all packed in Toronto’s Moss Park Armory. The Sea Cadet corps were from many different cities and towns all over Ontario. Our corp had about 30 of us, and all the divisions were being taken through drills in preparation of the upcoming parade march. This involved marching maneuvers, including drills with rifles. We needed to be precise and move as one. The petty officer and lieutenant for our division had been called to get instructions in another part of the armory, and I was told that I was in charge of the division till our petty officer and Navy lieutenant returned, as I was the next highest in rank. I had never been put in charge before so this was fairly sudden. I knew about division drills and how to give out orders, but only through observation. All the other divisions of cadets were going through their paces, and senior cadets were barking out orders to their divisions. My division was a mess, however. All the cadets started talking amongst themselves and getting out of military formation. I was in a panic. I had never given orders to these guys before, we were friends and there was no hierarchy between us at that point. But I could not let my petty officer and lieutenant come back to an uncontrolled rabble. The leaders of the other divisions were looking at us with disgust and disrespect. I was incensed, I could not allow this. All of a sudden, a loud deep voice yelled across the whole armory, Pipe down! which was the naval term for shut the hell up, you scurvy sea dogs! Everyone in the hall went quiet. The shocking thing was that that loud commanding voice came from me. I had reached down deep and found what would become my leader-of-men voice and I am in charge here demeanour. Even I stood there stunned for a couple of seconds, but I quickly composed myself in a very military fashion. I continued to give a series of drill commands like I had been doing it forever. There was a new respect bestowed upon me by my cadet corp. It was then that I discovered that a woman, who was born a man and for survival reasons has to live uncomfortably as a man, can be as much of a man, as a man born a man, who is comfortable living as a man.

More than the activities and things I was learning, cadets gave me the experience of having friendships. I spent a lot of time on weekends visiting my cadet friends. A particular group of four of them lived in Erindale, a small nearby town (also now part of Mississauga). Sometimes I would ride my bike or walk there, it was about an hour each way on foot. I would visit on a Friday night and sometimes not come back until Sunday night. I remember hitchhiking late on a