This is probably
going to annoy people, but over the next couple of weeks I’m going to be
talking quite a lot about Dazzling Darkness again. (‘Did you ever stop?’ I hear
my brother Andy chirp.) For, to my amazement, it’s now a year old. And – given how
big its publication has been for me – it seemed a good moment to reflect on its
impact and what it’s meant for me.
This time
last year was an extraordinarily stressful time. In addition to worries about
how Dazzling Darkness might be received in the sometimes febrile world of the
Church of England, I was dealing with the usual stresses of being a vicar and
the many other commitments I had and have. However, looking back, I can now see
that the fact DD was about to drop weighed very heavily on my mind.
As I’ve
said to anyone who’ll listen (usually some poor chap minding his own business
on the bus), Dazzling Darkness is the only book I’m ever likely to write that
really feels like it matters. I know that’s pretentious guff, but if everyone
has got a book in them, it feels like, for me, DD was the one. What I mean by
this inflated rhetoric is that it’s the book that totally laid and lays me on
the line. I’ve recently sent a new book manuscript off to my publishers (entitled
‘The Risen Dust’) and I think it’s a good offering. I think it’ll be a striking
book about passion and resurrection. But it’s not a confessional book. If it
exposes me to censure or praise it is at one remove. Because The Risen Dust is
made up of stories and poems about passion and resurrection, the book feels
slightly less personal. Dazzling Darkness - by trying to tell key parts of my
life as a trans woman, as a lesbian and as a chronically ill person - could not
be more personal if I tried.
Dazzling
Darkness has been life-changing, but perhaps not in the way some people might
imagine. Like all writers I wanted DD to sell lots of copies and, within its
narrow and quite specialist area of interest, it’s done pretty damn well. I’ve
also enjoyed taking the opportunities to speak which have arisen as a result of
DD. The showy part of my personality has had a lot of fun. But neither of those
things has been really that significant. The most important aspects have been two
fold – firstly, the personal sense of liberation and, secondly, the unexpected opportunity
to hear and share in other people’s extraordinary stories.
Anyone
who is like me – that is, who is different from a perceived ‘norm’ and who
occupies (even in my own lowly way) a public role like a vicar – is at risk of
a ‘monstering’ from papers like The Daily Mail. Even in this age where the
media has become ever more obsessed with ‘slebs and politicians, there is sufficient
transphobia around that trans-based stories still take up news space from time
to time. Ever since I’d been recommended for ordination training, I’d occasionally
have cold sweats thinking about the phone call from a tabloid threatening a
cheap exposé. When DD came out I don’t think anyone could quite be sure what
would happen. My instinct was that given it was being published by a small
theological publisher the level of press interest would be minimal, but no one
knew for sure. Prior to the official launch, I remember chatting with a colleague
at the cathedral about whether we needed to ensure we had stewards in case we
had protests!
I’d be
lying if I said I haven’t experienced some pretty cheap transphobia over the
past year. Most of it has come via the internet. This is hardly surprising. I
guess people enjoy the internet’s capacity to create the effects of both
proximity and distance. When someone is pilloried or insulted, the perpetrator
relies on the medium’s immediacy for effect, but also feels safely at a
distance. However, transphobia aside, I’m stunned by how liberating DD has been
for me. While I still know only too well how some journalist might write a
nasty story about me, I feel congruent with the world. When someone calls me a ‘tranny’
I can (whilst acknowledging the nastiness) say, ‘Yeah. I know. It’s in the
book.’ If someone tried to do a ‘sex change exposé’ I can say, ‘I got there
first.’ There is a real power about disclosure on one’s own terms.
Perhaps I
was naive, but I was genuinely surprised when – a few weeks after DD came out –
people started getting in touch with me about their experiences of being
gender-variant or gay or, well, just being different in the church. With
hindsight I can see that that was not entirely beyond possibility. I guess for
someone who’s supposed to be reasonably smart I can be very thick sometimes. I
have to say almost all of the conversations I’ve had with people off the back of
DD have been a privilege. But I am stunned by how the book has opened up a
space for people to share the most remarkable and often painful things.
The
simple fact is that, even if I feel I’m in a more spacious place as a result of
being out in the church, the church remains a terribly difficult place for trans*
and queer folk to be. I sense we are very slowly getting there as an
institution, and Manchester has felt in a kind of vanguard, but there is a
terribly long way to go. If my conversations with those who’ve got in touch
with me via email, phone & in person have been mind-blowing and sometimes
heartbreaking they have inspired me to not give up. At a personal level, I know
my decision to go public might have future implications for stuff like my employment
in the church. I am currently in a place where I feel well supported, but I
could see how DD might be held against me should I wish to move parish. But as
I see it, it’s better to be congruent than hiding something I’m proud of. like
it was an ugly secret.
As ever I
want to thank my family for being heroically and amazingly supportive. And to
everyone who’s read or bought a copy of DD – even if you hated it – thank you!
The support and love I’ve experienced over the past year – in the church and
without – has been mindblowing. Ta. xx
