Moran - How to Be a Woman

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W olverhampton, April 5, 1988

Here I am, on my 13 th birthday. I am running. Im running from the Yobs.

Boy!

Gyppo!

Boy!

Im running from the Yobs in the playground by our house. It is a typical playground of Britain in the late eighties. Theres no such thing as safety surfaces, ergonomic design, or, indeed, slats on the benches. Everythings made of concrete, broken bottles, and weeds.

As I run, Im totally alone. I can feel the breath in my throat catching, like vomit. Ive seen nature documentaries like this before. I can see whats happening here. My role is, clearly, that of weak antelope, separated from the pack. The Yobs are the lions. I know this never really ends well for the antelope. Soon my role will turn into a new one: that of lunch.

Yah, pikey!

Im wearing Wellington boots, National Health Service glasses that make me look like Alan Bennett, and my dads Withnail -style army coat. I do not, I admit, look very feminine. Diana, Princess of Wales is feminine. Kylie Minogue is feminine. I am... femi-none. So I understand the Yobs confusion. They do not look as if they have dabbled much in either (a) the iconography of the counterculture or (b) the inspirational imagery of radical gender-benders. I imagine they were confused by both Annie Lennox and Boy George when they appeared on Top of the Pops.

If they werent so busy chasing me, I would probably say something to this effect. Maybe I would tell them that I have read The Well of Loneliness, by famous trouser-wearing lesbian Radclyffe Hall, and that they need to open their minds to alternative modes of dress. Perhaps I would mention Chrissie Hynde, too. She wears masculine tailoring.

Yah, pikey!

The Yobs stop for a moment and appear to confer. I slow to a trot, lean against a tree, and hyperventilate wildly. I am knackered. At 182 pounds, I am not really built for hot pursuit. I am less Zola Buddmore Elmer Fudd. As I catch my breath, I reflect on my situation.

It would be amazing, I think, if I had a pet dog. A well-trained German shepherd, who would attack these boysalmost brutally. An animal really in tune with the fear and apprehension of its owner.

I observe my pet German shepherd, Saffron, 200 yards away. She is joyfully rolling in a slick of fox shit and waving her legs in the air with joy. The dog looks so happy. Today is working out really well for her. This is a much longer, and faster, walk than usual.

Although today is obviously not working out very well for me, I am nonetheless surprised whenhaving finished their tte--ttethe Yobs pause for a minute, and then start throwing stones at me. That seems a bit extreme, I think. I start running again.

You dont have to go to this bother to oppress me! I think, indignantly. I was already pretty subjugated! Honestlyyou had me at pikey.

Only a few of the stones actually hit me and, obviously, they dont hurt: this coat has been through a war, possibly two. Pebbles are nothing. Its built for grenades.

But its the thought that counts. All this time spent on me, when they could be engaging in other, more worthwhile pursuitslike abusing solvents, and fingering girls who are actually dressed as girls.

As if reading my mind, after a minute or so the Yobs begin to lose interest in me. It looks like Im yesterdays antelope now. Im still running, but theyre just standing stillthrowing the occasional rock in my direction, in an almost leisurely way, until Im out of range. They dont stop shouting, however.

You bloke! the biggest Yob shouts, as a final thought at my departing back. You... bummer !

I get home, and cry on the doorstep. Its honestly too crowded to cry in the house. Ive tried crying in the house beforeyou explain why youre crying to one person between the sobs, and then youre only halfway through before someone else comes in and needs to hear the story from the top again, and before you know it, youve told the worst bit six times and wound yourself up into such a hysterical state you have hiccups for the rest of the afternoon.

When you live in a small house with five younger siblings, its actually far more sensibleand much quickerto cry alone.

I look at the dog.

If you were a good and faithful hound, youd drink the tears off my face, I think.

Saffron noisily licks her vagina instead.

Saffron is our new dogthe stupid new dog. She is also a dodgy dogmy dad procured her in one of the deals he periodically conducts at the Hollybush pub, which involve us sitting outside in the van for two hours, while he occasionally brings us crisps, or a bottle of Coke. At some point, hell suddenly come bowling out at a rapid lick, carrying something incongruous like a bag of gravel or a statue of a concrete fox with no head.

Its gone a bit serious in there, he would say, before gunning off at top speed, pissed.

On one occasion, the incongruous thing he came out carrying was Saffrona one-year-old German shepherd.

Used to be a police dog, he said proudly, putting her in the back of the van with us, where she promptly shat all over everything. Further investigation revealed that, while she had been a police dog, it was only a week before the police dog trainers realized she was profoundly psychologically disturbed, and scared of:

1) loud noises

2) the dark

3) all people

4) all other dogs

5) and suffers stress incontinence

S till, she is my dog and, technically, the only friend I have who isnt a blood relation.

Stay near, old friend! I say to her, blowing my nose on my sleeve and resolving to become cheerful again. Today will be truly notable!

Having finished crying, I climb over the side fence and let myself in through the back door. Mum is in the kitchen, getting the party ready.

Go into the front room! she says. Wait in there! And DONT LOOK AT THE CAKE! Its a surprise!

The front room is packed with my siblings. They have materialized from every nook and cranny in the house. In 1988, there are six of usthere are eight by the time the decade is out. My mother is like some Ford car production line, producing a small, gobby baby every two years, as regular as clockwork, until our house is full to bursting point.

Caztwo years younger than me, ginger, nihilisticis lying across the sofa. She doesnt move when I come in. There is nowhere else for me to sit.

AHEM! I say, pointing at the badge on my lapel. It says, Its my BIRTHDAY!!!! I am forgetting all about crying now. I have moved on.

Itll be over in six hours, she says, flatly, immobile. Why dont we just stop the charade now?

Only six hours of FUN left! I say. Six hours of BIRTHDAY FUN. Who KNOWS what could happen! This place is a MADHOUSE, after all!

I am, by and large, boundlessly positive. I have all the joyful ebullience of an idiot. My diary entry for yesterday was moved the deep-fat fryer onto the other worktopit looks BRILLIANT!

My favorite place in the worldthe south beach at Aberystwythhas a sewage pipe on it.

I truly believe the new, stupid dog is our old dog, reincarnatedeven though our new dog was born two years before the old dog died.

But you can see Sparkys eyes in there! I will say, looking at the stupid new dog. Sparky NEVER LEFT US!

Rolling her eyes in disdain, Caz gives me her card. It is a picture of me, in which she has drawn my nose so that it takes up approximately three-quarters of my head.

Remember: you promised youd move out on your 18 th birthday, so I can have your room, it says inside. Only five years to go now! Unless you die before then! Love Caz.

Weena is nineher card is also based around me moving out and giving her my bedroom: although she has robots saying it, which makes it less personal.