Princess Fairchild
A little bit of Fiction as I prepare for Stasi Scotland
With the Scottish Hate Crime Legislation coming into force Monday I’ve had to develop a ‘safe-plan’ for my son if and when I get charged. Despite not being a criminal, I’ve already experienced threats for ‘wrong think’ and for that mine and my son’s young life will be thrown into turmoil.
This legislation is giving a metaphoric gun to unhinged people. And although it is widely acknowledged to be riddled with problems and most anticipate it will fall to pieces within months it serves as no comfort to those of us who will get caught in the cross hairs.
I suspect I am very much at risk of being charged with a 'hate crime' not because I have any 'hate' or 'ill will' towards anyone but because I have thoughts that are out of the allowable bandwidth in Scottish society. For this the police can show up at my door, seize my devices, and imprison me. I can have a ‘non-crime hate incident’ put on my record which will inhibit my ability to work in places that require enhanced PVG checks. I have to prepare for this. That is the law come Monday.
That crime? The statement that sex is real. That children should not be medicalised in the name of 'trans medicine' for being gender non-conforming, autistic, or gay. That if a child presents with the statement 'I am a boy' (as a female) or "I am a girl" (as a male) this statement should be taken in the context of child development (3 year olds also declare themselves super heroes), and external factors that may be leading to their bodily distress (autism, puberty, sexual abuse, eating disorders). That our first role as adults is to protect children. To be informed as best able. Sometimes saying 'no' is the kindest thing.
With the release of the WPATH documents (The World Professional Organisation for Transgender Health) we see a Mengele level list of outcomes for this purported 'gender medicine' - osteoporosis, sterility, liver cancer, an increase in psychiatric distress, stunted brain development and early death to name a few.
I have always stood up for children. Always. I have done so at huge sacrifice to myself. Decades of projects off my own back to bring happiness and connection to all people, children especially. I danced for TWO YEARS at the Glasgow Broomielaw JUST to bring happiness and dance to people. The many projects I have initiated in Pollokshields, and monies I have raised. I have lost toenails, I have done so despite not having funding from the cultural sector, filling the enormous gaps left behind. And yet despite my advocacy for the things that are best that have been seen as good and needed, I am being made into a criminal.
My awareness of this began in 2016 when the local arts venue Tramway decided to switch to "gender neutral" toilets. At the time I was a community councillor and several local people came to me. The Tramway only consulted with the Scottish Trans alliance for this move. They did not consult with any local organisation, any Muslim groups, any women's groups, not the disability charity in residence, or any of the local schools. Whatsmore the toilets were (and are) illegal. "Gender Neutral" toilets do not exist in law. "Unisex toilets" do. They merely changed signage. Therefore increasing provision for males (as one does not pee with one's gender but one's sexed body). It was here I began to understand the scope of this problem.
At that time merely for bringing this issue to light, for trying to find a way through (to ensure that due diligence was done). I was placed onto a 'watch list' called 'Terf blocker'. These were the first lists generated by trans activists to bully and silence women who were trying to ensure that due diligence was done and that rights, and safety were upheld.
At the time I was annoyed but did not think anything of it, I was blocked from certain twitter accounts. But then I watched organisations fall one by one in the idea that sex was immutable and that speaking otherwise was akin to wishing death upon someone. This is a paranoia that has been bred. it does reflect any real danger women (and let's be clear that is the target) pose. Trans adults need trans children to validate their existence. No adult should use children in this way. We must be robust in safeguarding and protection of our children, as children.
That said, in terms of individual rights, I am a free speech absolutist. If a trans activist wants to believe in a magical sky king that hands out good and bad bodies up in the cloud gender factory, they can fill their boots. But I will not be compelled in my own world to validate that. Because that is dangerous. Being able to state what is real, is the bedrock of stable societies.
Over the summer there were several high profile cancellations in the arts world. David Greig, Graham Linehan, Jenny Lindsay, Rosie Kay. In dance I had been watching as the work that is funded, and what is spoken about was increasingly becoming more 'queer' focused.
Over the time this has woven into funding strands and our cultural institutions it is presented as a social justice issue. NOT subscribing to it labels you a ‘bigot’ and someone who wishes dangerous harm to people.
Upon the cancellations I (in a private dance members page) expressed my concern that as artists we should be worried about the infringement on free speech. Of course the conversation turned to the theme of the cancellations - the battle to state sex is real. For this my post was removed and the head of the organisation made a statement saying 'if anyone was upset by my statement to contact her and that of course the organisation supported trans members'. 80 people supported that post. Not one came back, even privately, to support me.
The education of these artists must be very poor. Because look into the history of Communism , of the Red Guard in China, of the Stas, of Hitler youth, or of the disappeared in Argentina or Chile and you see it does not start as a 'bad moment' just like that where people are killed on a stage during a struggle sessions, or dropped out of airplanes. It's the gradual grooming of citizens until what was previously abhorrent becomes morally justifiable in the name of the cause.
You want to see how 'good Germans' were bred? Look all around you. The complacently comfortable. In their government jobs and good salaries.
The Hate Crime law requires no proof of crime, and a person can be reported anonymously. Someone who has a vexatious claim can report to their hearts delight with no possibility of recourse. I have received threats in recent months for speaking up for children, in particular for them to be told their bodies are good, that there is no such thing as a 'wrong body'. This is my sin. I assume these individuals partially come from the breeding ground of radical activism within the dance sector. I expect another sector will be transactivists who have organised a mass reporting event on the lists they have compiled as I have noted earlier.
I don’t think this is worthy of criminality, but for this we could be sunk more deeply into poverty, my son’s life will be thrown into chaos, and I will be made even more unable to work.
I have just watched Lemony Snicket “A Series of Unfortunate Events” with my son again. These stories are quite useful. In it there are adults who continue to forge ahead enabling bad things to happen to the children even when it's obvious it is harmful. They trust the experts, trust the law, trust the government. In that story it doesn't matter to those 'good adults' what happens because they continue to have nice lives regardless. This is where we are.
Someday I will use the people around us, the people whom I have counted as friends, who have been cared for and by and valuable to me and my child of how good people did bad things, how capable good people are of doing bad things as a way of shielding him, of keeping him aware of how bad lurks everywhere, and good too. We shall judge people by their actions in the moments.
What has happened to my beautiful Scotland and its people breaks my heart. It really does. I hope more can wake to what is unfolding around us and do better. For all the children in Scotland, whose future is bleak if it continues in this way.
Thank you for reading. Please consider supporting my work. You can ‘buy me a coffee’ here. Or become a paid subscriber for as little as £3.50 per month, £25 for the year, or £250 for a founding membership. Every penny makes a difference and allows me to keep speaking out about the failure in safeguarding for our children in schools and cultural institutions. We need to recognise, preserve and celebrate childhood. No one else is doing this in the arts in Scotland. And know that I will not be silenced. We must all live in truth. Thank you.
And now a *new* story. Sometimes I wonder if I was given some sort of message over 20 years ago about what is happening now. The following is a bit of fiction I developed then. Fiction might be our best way forward. This was all developed before social media. It is a beautiful reminder of the glorious freedom I had. We all had. It is a work in progress….
Princess Fairchild
Intro and Chapter 1
Intro
In June 2002 I got this ‘idea’ to travel to Prague, a city with which I had no memory, no experience, no knowledge. So with fifty pounds in my wallet and a one way plane ticket, I went. I wanted to ‘allow my artistic truth to manifest itself in my moments’, but didn’t have a plan. I ended up staying/surviving in Prague for seven weeks, then traveled through to Switzerland, Germany, and Italy. I returned to Glasgow in November. Living day to day I lived a heroine’s journey, shedding my skin, meeting ogres, sages, witches, knights. I created visual art, performance art, writing and peace via my new founded connections to people from every place and walk of life. From art came more art. The following is a story I penned via a meditation on my photographs from that journey.
CHAPTER ONE
Six years ago it had began. There she had sat in the back garden of her parent’s home in the small provincial kingdom of Mainline. It was a strange day. There had been a drought for many weeks, months even. The heat rose up from the pavements like a demon. People stayed inside their glass houses, leaving the stones outside and pumped up the air conditioning. They did not exit and the hot air of the fumes heated the eyeballs of those who could not afford to have coolness. Hence they became more demonic and began to gather the stones. Princess could see the tide rising, knew a change was coming but didn’t know in what form.
‘Ho hum,’ she said aloud, ‘my life is so boring’.
She scanned the wilted, browned and dying shrubs around her.
‘Excuse me!’ a shrill voice came from the other side of the garden gate, ‘excuse me, but I really really must be on… you know things to do, places to go, people to see.’
Just then Princess saw what appeared to be a hat just over the top of the low gate – it swung open and there dressed in rags (although she did not appear to be a bum) was a woman. At about 5 foot tall she wasn’t much to look at really, except she was wearing layers and layers of clothing as if there was no heat in the world - she was a virtual bundle of fabric. But she didn’t appear hot, as a matter of fact, the more agitated she became the more she bundled. She stopped with surprise when she caught sight of Princess.
“What are you doing here???’
She questioned with indignation as if Princess was supposed to be somewhere else.
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“You better get a move on Lolita is going to be through soon and you know how she feels about lally gagging! “
The strange woman took a breath, then with a start, “my goodness, I’m late, I’m late!”
And with that she flew out the other gate.
Princess sat there in shock.
What just happened?
And where was she supposed to be?
No sooner had she had time to contemplate these issues then a buzzing sound came from the back gate.
Princess sat in stuptification as a beach buggy reared up through her father’s petunias. And on the buggy was a woman wearing great big goggles and a Santa Suit and clinging to her was a small child. The child was about five and had huge haunting eyes that stared right through her. She felt them burning even beyond the heat, beyond the drought. But she didn’t have time to question it because they didn’t stop. Just motored over her father’s flowerbeds and were gone.
Princess looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
‘EXCUSE ME’
She shouted, standing up
‘DID ANYONE JUST SEE THAT????’
Her question yielded no response – people couldn’t hear her above the din of the air conditioning and rarely did they look beyond their glass walls anyway. There was her father cleaning under the dust mats, her mother paying the bills, the neighbor grandmothers playing computer games.
She plopped down in the plastic chair. She looked
this way and
that,
now not exactly sure that it had actually happened.
The heat was doing her head in.
Just as soon as she had convinced herself that she indeed was going mad and that the aforementioned incidents were figments of her imagination she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. It was a purple hat – huge – the one the Rag Lady had been wearing. She cautiously rose from her chair to look. It appeared to be much
larger,
much more
purple
than she recalled.
In that instant, she remembered something.
It wasn’t so much a thing, as a feeling. Something ancient placed in her from her ancestors or something insane like that. But whatever it was, it filled her with dread and she knew she should exit that garden before the gate had time to open once again.
She heard the key turning in the lock,
the gate opening ever so slowly,
Princess Fairchild didn’t wait another instant
she headed for the front gate and she didn’t turn around.
CHAPTER 2
Princess found a taxi waiting for her.
At the time, she didn’t think it strange that a black taxi would be waiting outside her parent’s home in Mainline.
All she knew in that moment was that she needed to get away and fast, from the stones, from the heat, from that hat.
“Um. Just drive.”
She directed the cab driver.
He grunted and put the car into drive.
Princess Fairchild did not look back and so her fate was decided.
As the car ambled through the suburban streets and on the road out of Mainline Princess realized she actually had never been beyond her kingdoms walls. The area beyond the river was forbidden, spoken of in whispers like a disease and never, ever visited.
Actually that was wrong.
Individuals did enter.
Documentary filmmakers frequented the Concrete Jungle.
And humanitarian relief organizations provided assistance and food baskets.
It was the forbidden place, scary and dark, where the dark people lived who could do no better, who could not make it to the Mainline.
And here was Princess Fairchild,
Princess of her land,
heading
straight
into
the
midst
of
it
all.
Princess peered out the cab window into the street and onto the glass houses, for what she believed would be the last time.
One would think there would be something momentous to mark such an occasion.
Nothing.
It was an ordinary Saturday, like every other Saturday she had ever known.
People in their houses, avoiding the heat, gardeners doing their gardening, kids bothering their pets.
And Princess had nothing. No wallet. No umbrella. No lipstick.
And yet she had a strange sense of sense-ness.
She heard a strange buzzing and turned around.
Could it be?
Passing on the left was the strange woman in the Santa Suit with the child on the beach buggy.
They must have been doing around 100 and passed the cab easily.
Princess looked forward into the distance and could see the toll bridge - one side sunny the other dark. The bridge was just opening for traffic.
Princess caught her breath.
They weren’t were they?
The Santa woman seemed to speed up even faster not heeding the red lights.
Up,
up,
up
they went and seemed to fly through the air
and cleared the opening bridge
easily.
The gray towers were looming in the distance quite clearly now.
There must have been about
1000
of them and contrasted
quite starkly with
the shiny newness of the glass houses of Mainline.
All the sudden the cab driver spoke
‘You say something Princess’ ?
‘Oh, no’ said Princess…’I was just… um… well…’
She did a double take.
‘How did you know my name?’
‘Oh, I call everyone Princess,
it seems polite,
even call me boy Princess.
I’m an equal opportunity Princess giver.
Everyone deserves to be a Princess, don’t you think?
Don’t think I ever actually met a Princess before though come to think of it…
that’s your name, is it? Rather strange one at that. Rather colonial, if you don’t mind me saying. ‘
He eyed her through the rear view mirror and continued his diatribe.
‘Though I suppose you pass for a Princess much more than me boy. He doesn’t suit the tiara and all that. His mum bought him one before she died, so she did…. Rest her soul… but he never took to it… was always placing it onto his hamster, she didn’t like it either, big girl though she was… ever see a South Appian Tree Hamster? Three feet high, bigger than me mates greyhound… they only eat candle wax. Lord knows how they survive on the stuff…’
He continued on and Princess tried to follow, but it all seemed rather convoluted really – I mean who ever heard of a three-foot wax-eating, tiara-wearing hamster? She was so taken by this thought she scarcely noticed they had made it over the bridge and were well into the Concrete Jungle.
‘…here we are’
Said Bud the cab driver – whose name Princess had discovered by this point – named Bud after a flower, not a beer, or a bud-dy as one would suppose. His father had been a dyslexic gardener and very attached to his work but could never remember the names of the flowers, hence referring to his progeny as ‘Bud’, ‘Yellow Bud’ for daffodils; ‘Red Bud’ for roses etc… Bud was ‘Son Bud’. The man loved his work, but was stupid, who could fault him on that. Son Bud seemed to have turned out okay.
The cab had stopped in front of a large gray tower.
‘Lilac Gardens’
read the sign above the entrance.
Bud took off his cap and turned around to address Princess.
Princess’ pupils dilated and for a brief moment she thought she was going to pee herself.
He was gorgeous.
Stunning actually.
With chisled features and sparkling blue eyes like the sea at sunset, his hair was messy in a ‘mountain man/artist’ kind of way and he had the most
amazing
strong
earlobes.
He wasn’t from Mainline that was certain. She couldn’t place him at all. His sense of dress, his accent (come to think of it), was unlike anything Princess had ever heard before.
‘Yo Princess’
Princess came out of her fantasy world and looked at Bud.
‘Yes Bud’
‘So I’ll take your things up for you?’
He said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. As if he had taken her here thousands of times before. And yet it wasn’t, she hadn’t, but she didn’t. She knew that was. So she agreed
“Yes, thank you Bud”
and opened the door to a desolate landscape. The heat hit her like a plank. Perspiration began to gather under her arms. Bud opened the trunk of the car and took out a Mary Poppins carpetbag. He handed her a shoebox. These weren’t her things. She didn’t think. But she didn’t question. She was but a passenger for now.
‘Thank you Bud’
He led the way.
Princess looked up- a wall of gray windows covered by sorry curtains and hidden to the rest of the world. What went on inside these walls? Bud stood at the door waiting for Princess. She walked over. When she arrived at his side he smiled reached forward towards her left breast and pulled a key out of her shirt pocket.
‘Can’t very well get in without the key, can we’?
He swiped the key in front of the pass and handed it back to her. They entered the building.
Thank you again for reading. Please consider supporting my work. You can ‘buy me a coffee’ here. Or become a paid subscriber for as little as £3.50 per month, £25 for the year, or £250 for a founding membership. Every penny makes a difference and allows me to keep speaking out about the failure in safeguarding for our children in schools and cultural institutions. We need to recognise, preserve and celebrate childhood. No one else is doing this in the arts in Scotland. And know that I will not be silenced. We must all live in truth. Thank you.