The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2791 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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I learned later that week that we had another transgender woman who’d ended up in a men’s prison, only unlike the former incident where the woman was moved to a women’s prison, this person couldn’t cope and took her own life. Hopefully the embarrassment it causes the Ministry of Justice will ensure something is done quickly to prevent it happening again.

It would be easy to think like a Daily Express reader and suggest that if you don’t commit crimes you don’t go to prison, which is mostly correct if a trifle simplistic. Many transgender women or wannabes, live chaotic lives with little or no support networks from family and friends; they frequently abuse alcohol or other substances to help them cope and also are often involved in petty crime directly or indirectly. Like many other groups they have some who are unstable emotionally possibly because of abuse they’ve received when declaring their intent to transition.
Prostitution is sometimes seen as way of earning money because more usual work is unavailable.

No wonder some end up in prison where one person in three has mental illness issues, and one in four has served in the armed services. I should imagine it’s bad enough ending up in the same category of prison as your declared gender, because prison isn’t designed to be a pleasant experience and some of the other inmates make sure of that—especially if you’re in shock from the experience of being in court and then transported to be banged up.

To be sent to the wrong prison, one that isn’t congruent with your declared gender must be a combination of all your nightmares arriving at the same time. With a bit of internet searching I discovered that Vicky Thompson, the woman who killed herself, was a master criminal—she took some teenager’s mobile phone and was trying to get the girl’s mother’s phone as well. I can’t condone what she did it was wrong, but so was sending her to a men’s prison when she’d lived all her adult live as female, especially as she petitioned the judge to send her to a women’s one and her boyfriend warned the prison that she might self harm. They ignored her and locked her up in the same wing as all the paedophiles and other sex offenders. She couldn’t cope from the abuse she received, according to her boyfriend, and she ended her life.

I sat drinking my tea and staring at the pile of paperwork in front of me. I felt dismayed, not especially by the mound of dead tree but by the way the system deals with people. Not just transgender or other minorities but altogether.

We live in a dog eat dog world which is what capitalism is, the pursuit of money by taking it off others—usually legally, but not always. As a consequence some are very good at it, amassing the lucre, and others aren’t. No system will work because it will always favour some and not others and some people are better at making money than others. We used to protect those who weren’t able to support themselves but because of abuse by a significant number who could work but preferred not to, the current government policy is to treat everyone who isn’t in work as the undeserving poor and try and reduce their benefits even more as well as cut the benefits of those in low paid jobs who frequently struggle to survive and whose children will begin life with disadvantages, certainly in financial terms and possibly in other ways as well such as nutritionally or environmentally—they occupy the worst accommodation because it’s all they can afford and the government are hell bent on selling off all the public housing.

Basically, the poor and those poor with extra problems like gender dysphoria, often suffer excessively without the support of families and friends. Loneliness can cause depression which can lead to alcohol abuse or self harming, it certainly wouldn’t help in coping with getting and keeping a job or having a comfortable home in a decent area. Abuse from others would add to the troubles and it would spiral from there.

I had no answers and it made me feel anger and then despair. I’d been so lucky in that I appeared to make an acceptable female, I was supported by the establishment and I’d made friends and found a partner with little difficulty. I’d had problems at home and tried to kill myself but failed, thank goodness, because since then, since I dealt with my depression, my hopelessness, life had been good on the whole and I had plenty of blessings to celebrate. Sadly, there were those whose experience of living the dream turned into a nightmare.

“Have you signed those letters, Professor?” asked Diane.

“Um—which ones?”

She bustled at my desk sifting through various files and then plonked the relevant one down on the top of the others with more force than was necessary. I got the impression she was a bit miffed with me.

Next she opened the file picked up my fountain pen and handed it to me. I signed without even reading them and she scooped them up and marched out of my office without a word. I discovered later one of them was being collected by a courier who was waiting in her office.

I stirred myself and dealt with the mass of papers in the in-tray and by midday had pretty much cleared them. It was just as well because Pippa phoned to say that Tom was taking me to lunch. It appeared it wasn’t a request for my physical beauty and scintillating conversation, but an order for my presence. It was just as well that I was wearing a suit and not my jeans and sweatshirt—the advantages of office, I don’t think.

At twelve thirty, Tom bustled in with some stranger. A woman, who was wearing a suit and too much makeup. “This is Lucy Hepplethwaite from the DWP, come to check on our anti-discriminatory policies. This is Cathy Cameron, professor of biological sciences.” We nodded at each other. “You can drive,” he said to me, “usual place.” Then in case our visitor thought him gruff with me he added, “Cathy is my daughter.” I don’t know about her, but I was in slight shock, he was talking English.

The drive to the restaurant was straightforward, for once the traffic was free flowing and we were there within ten or twelve minutes. As Lucy and Tom disembarked I noticed she was carrying the university equality and diversity policy. This was going to be a fun working lunch.

“Ah, Lady Cameron, so good to see you again, Professor—the curry is just as you like it.” The manager knew us from our regular custom, I suspect someone was opening a tin of tuna as we seated ourselves at Tom’s usual table. I tried to keep smiling as the waiter came to take the order of our guest, Tom and I asked for our usual order.

“Did he say, Lady Cameron?” asked Lucy.

“Fraid so, but don’t worry, we cover aristocrats in our policies on endangered species,” I beamed back at her and Tom’s ears went red along with the rest of his face.