step in

Queen’s Park is a lush green exhale among the shops and tenements and traffic. It’s not perfect or manicured, but rather lived in, like a familiar coat, holding all who pass through this gate in its gentle embrace. In summer, the lawns are filled with sun seekers, and in winter, the slopes throng with daredevils who glide through the snow on oven trays and dustbin lids. I come here often to hear the rustle of wind through oak and sycamore, to breathe in the scent of damp earth and cut grass, to observe joggers and students and lovers and cyclists. Mostly, I come here to connect with my body, to process and reflect. I discover something new about myself every time I step through these gates.

I didn’t know that I was trans for many years. I am 35 years old as I write this, and I didn’t work it out until a few years ago, until I slowed down and listened to my body. Took note of the wind ruffling my hair, the sun caressing my skin, the feeling that crept over me like ivy winding up a tree. I’m still growing into myself now. Just like Geocaching, the process has involved deciphering clues, following my instincts, searching in places I hadn’t considered before, and trusting my gut.

The narrative about trans people is often told by those who aren’t trans themselves: politicians, pundits, and the press. Their versions are filled with fear, misunderstandings, or misinterpretations that don’t leave room to explore the nuances and diversity of trans experience. This institutional narrative has shaped peoples’ perceptions of trans people into something negative, which in turn influences harmful policies – think about the recent UK Supreme Court ruling that the legal definition of ‘woman’ is based on ‘biological sex’ under equalities law. This is just one example of many regressive policies taking root in the UK and beyond, and these shifts in legislation and public opinion form part of a cultural climate where trans voices are repressed in favour of more politicised and harmful narratives. This is my attempt to provide an alternative narrative: one that centres a trans voice.

Queer people have always left traces of ourselves to say I was here – think about the Queer Appalachian project, Derek Jarman’s garden at Prospect Cottage, Queering the Map, carved initials on benches in memorial of lost friends and lovers at Hampstead Heath. I can’t explain everything with certainty, but I want to share my process of looking, taking note, and rethinking. Take your time as you follow this trail. Breathe. Appreciate this beautiful park. Leave a message along the way – a comment on the Log, perhaps a thread tied to the Cache, or a pile of stones nearby.