There is a bloke in Mullumbimby whom I adore. I don’t know him, I don’t even know his name, but when I see him I feel this huge surge of happiness. I have never seen a person more comfortable with who they are. Every time I see him I am reminded of how wonderful it is to be exactly who you are. It shouldn’t be that hard, but in a society that smashes difference into sameness, that marginalises, taunts, victimises and ridicules, I am humbled by how spectacular and inspiring that particular type of courage is. The Just Being You courage. Not the You that You are supposed to present for social acceptability, but the kooky, strange, unusual You that you really are.
It sometimes makes me wonder who I would be if I didn’t care what other people thought of me. If I didn’t need to be liked. If I had grown up in a society where I didn’t seek the approval of people I would never meet. What would any of us look like if we no longer acquiesced to judgment? This man is my new guru. I have seen him for years. You can’t not notice him. From the waist up he’s any regular bloke. Could be a landscaper, or a road worker. I sometimes see him in a hi-vis vest. Or a tight workman’s shirt. He often wears regulation bloke stubbies.
But he loves stockings. The sensuality of the nylon caressing his man legs. Sometimes he’ll wear them under his stubbies, or he’ll pull them up over the top. He doesn’t wear stilettos. He’s a practical type of bloke. Probably doing some yard work. So he wears boots. Workboots. The other day I was rushing around town, stressed off my nut, and I saw him. I was so moved I almost cried. He was rushing towards the hardware store and peeking out from his shorts were very sexy white suspenders holding up some delicate lacy bridal stockings.
How can you not love that? He’s not hiding his love of lingerie behind closed doors like it’s shameful, or worried that it will make his masculinity questionable. He wears his lingerie on the street. He redefines it. And it doesn’t actually look weird. It suits him. He’s not trying to make a statement. He’s just going about his day being who he is. I thank god he lives here. I would hate to think of the carloads of sexually repressed bogans that might vilify or cause him harm.
A few weeks ago I walked through Perth late at night with a 6-foot-6 woman who would describe herself as ‘transitioning’. Adele was striking. In her former struggle with her masculinity she’d been a body builder. Although the hormones had softened her she still had a sense of extreme physical power. Every surface of her body was covered in tattoos – even her neck. She wore a short skirt, a loose-fitting shirt, ripped fishnet stockings and Docs. She played in a metal band. Her hair was long and luscious and she wore her lips fire-engine red.
The 20-minute walk to her car was terrifying. I could sense the danger everywhere. As we weaved through the midnight crew of Saturday night clubbers pouring onto the streets, probably around the same age as Adele, I could hear the comments. These were comments Adele was meant to hear. It was like pushing against a tide of drunken sameness. Here they were, the ugly arbiters of difference. As we passed, and just out of earshot, we hear, ‘Oh my God, what the fuck is that?’ or ‘Fucking hell, what an ugly slut’ (I think that might have been meant for me). The abuse and the judgment were unending.
Everyone seemed to think that someone else’s life choices were part of their concern. I don’t get it. Adele could have been walking past muttering, ‘You boring same-same unchallenging fucks’. Or words to that effect. But I guess when you are outside the dominant paradigm, when you live your life as the ‘other’, you just have to find a way to live with it without it crushing your spirit. How does a person keep loving themselves when this happens?
It was so painful to walk beside her. These were under-25s. Young people who really should know a lot better. Haven’t things changed? You could feel the potential for violence. I asked her if it ever frightened her. If they ever tried to hurt her physically. Adele just smiled with those big generous red lips and said softly, ‘I can still handle myself. I don’t think any of them want the humiliation of being beaten up by me.’
Wow! What a girl. What a braveheart. I would be so proud to call her my daughter. And you know what, even though it was terrifying, it was strangely exhilarating to walk beside a woman so much bigger than I (it rarely happens). Like Amazonian Warriors. Battling bigotry one bogan at a time. I still don’t get it, though. Why is someone being themselves such a threat? Why is it still amazing to see someone comfortable with themselves. It shouldn’t be ‘brave’. But it is. We’ve still got a long way to go on the walk to acceptance.
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
