Just as there are three little words that can brighten somebody’s world, there are three little words that can be the harshest thing you could ever say to anyone: “I don’t care”. Without any sense of context, “I don’t care” is terribly dismissive of a person, or something close to that person’s cause for living. It’s an extremely hurtful set of words to hurl at anybody in any situation. Or I suppose at least most situations.
I recently said those three little words (the harsh ones, not the lovely ones) to someone I regard as quite close to me. How could I? What kind of horrible monster would tell someone right to their face that they simply don’t care? Perhaps I need to give you some context to dig myself out of the squalid depths of your utter contempt I find myself in, so allow me to elaborate.
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I can’t begin to pretend to understand the plight of anyone struggling with gender identity.
As for “I don’t care”, I recently noted to a transgender person that it’s the person, the personality inside which I feel matters most. As long as someone can feel happy and confident in simply being themselves, that’s the most important thing. There was more of a story behind this. I’m respectfully swapping it out for this cut-down version. It’s difficult to elaborate, but hey, you’re clever, you get it.
I write shit. I play with my writing, and I play with reader expectations. Subversion of expectations. This thing starts off horrible. The overall message is positive. Ooh, plot twist, et cetera.
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<!– For some time now, this girl's been dressing radically differently and acting completely out of character compared to how she used to, all the while I presume secretly hoping that people would suddenly show her unanimous praise; to love her, admire her, respect her unconditionally. This isn't all a bad thing, mind. And to be fair to her, I've always felt more than happy to do all of that, and even would've done in all the previous years I knew before her recent public declaration of being transgender. Oh by the way, she was born physically male. I know, plot twist, right?
Following a mutual friends' wedding reception, several ciders, more shots of sambucca than is acceptable for human wellbeing and even some ill-advised karaoke, I found myself outdoors in the dead of night, shouting my half of a quiet heart-to-heart conversation to her face. She responded in equally loud and incoherent drunken slurring in that somewhat deep and (for want of a better word) "masculine" voice Mother Nature afflicted her with for all these years. The crux of the conversation resulted in those three usually abrasive (but in this situation, wonderfully well meaning) words.
‘I don’t care,’ said I. ‘As long as you’re you, and as long as you’re happy. I don’t care. That’s not to say I don’t care about you or whatever plight you’ve been through on your journey to discovering your identity. I don’t care about labels, or stereotypical gender roles, or any of that. I care about you being comfortable with who you are. And as long as you’re completely honest with not just those around you, but yourself in particular, it matters not about anything else. I simply don’t care.’
In my brain, that’s my recollection of events. In reality, however, it may not have been as eloquent. Probably more along the lines of:
‘I… *hic* …itS aLL goOd! Lis-listen. YoU lis-LIstEn. Yoo listnin? …….I don’t… *hic* I dun care aBout all tHaT shiTE aboUT gEndeRs an’ LabelS n ThaT. Yor yoo. ThaSS all yOO nEed! BE yoo! I DoN’t caRE!!!… I fu’in *hic* luv yoo…’
I recall her response being just as eloquent, full of gratitude and possibly resulting in the need to either burp or vomit, but the pickled nature of my memory refuses me to explore any further. We still talk, anyway, so I’m assuming everything went smoothly.
I’ll admit, the transgender community isn’t one which I’ve had much experience dealing with before, other than seeing the near-constant stream of shared posts from the more LGBT-aligned band of Facebook revellers. An old university classmate I’ve (regretfully) barely communicated with over the last couple of years actually paved the way for the list of people-who-I-know-who-are-transgender earlier this year. As if knowingly keeping my universe in perfect balance, he’s made the transition from female to male, thus evening the score.
Despite the lack of experience in this sector, I’ve surprised myself at how easy it’s been to recalibrate my brain-thoughts to swap one set of gender pronouns for another, and to honour the recently chosen name of each person rather than the old given name I’ve been used to. Naturally, though the force-of-habit portion of my mindspace occasionally trips over and reverts to calling the girl her old “boy name” (and vice versa with the guy’s old “girl name”), but like a decent citizen, I notice my mistake and rectify it by coming clean and apologising. It’s much better than taking my hate-filled rage to a gay bar in Florida and indiscriminately opening fire. –>
It’s difficult to imagine how much anybody on the LGBT spectrum (is it a spectrum? Maybe it’s a banner? Collective? Party! I’ll go with party, it’s sounds like a fun collective)… It’s difficult to imagine how much anybody attending the LGBT party (nailed it!) has had to deal with already. I’d assume there’s some element of mental turmoil, not necessarily one of denial, but more one of simply trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. There’s probably an element of feeling disconnected from the “straight world” and working out how one comfortably identifies with themselves, and what kind of effect that may have on their place in the world.
After that’s sorted, then comes the act of revealing one’s own true identity to a potentially cruel and unforgiving society. For the lucky ones, they’re met with support and admiration. But sadly not everyone may get such a warm reaction. Some may end up persecuted, chastised or disowned, simply for finally having the courage to be true to themselves. The LGBT party-goers deserve far more credit and adoration for simply being themselves, rather than not actually making it home from the party alive.
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I also referenced the Florida gay bar massacre in there somewhere.
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It’s at this point I’d like to sum up my own sentiments towards the party. I’d like to think I’m a strong supporter of the gang. While I may not play professionally, I’d happily get the season ticket and take my place in the stands, perhaps waving around a rainbow scarf. And from my place in the crowd, I’d combine three of the cruelest words with three of the greatest to shout across a wonderful string of seven: ‘I love you and I don’t care.’
It was only towards the tail end of last year I became savvy to the stylings of North West / North Wales collective Catfish and the Bottlemen. Pretty much residing in such an area where I could, in a roundabout way, refer to them as “local”. Alas, the lads have spread their wings since their 2014 debut and, even though it took me more than a year to hear the first album, it’s not difficult to see why.
Second album The Ride has just landed in the ear holes of the masses and opens with this snazzy little jump-along track about (I gather) being somewhere in America instead of Llandudno. Towards the end of this, I’m unsure if it’s necessary to wave a lighter in the air as well, which could actually cause a bit of a safety risk if we’re already jumping along in the first place.
Catfish and the Bottlemen – 7
Jamie Walsh 
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