Stevie Nicks: A personal history
1981:
At grandmother's mirror,
In
the visitor’s bedroom,
playing
with earrings, her old box of buttons
and
things discarded but now finding new life.
Lost
in the mirror, seeing an 'other'
someone
who's not me, but someone I covet,
Farrah
Fawcett or Olivia Newton-John
Or,
Stevie Nicks – I knew them by sight,
From
TV and posters, that blonde trinity.
I
want what they're wearing
wanna
do what they're doing
the
fun that they're having
the
looks and the hair and the - that -
thing - they're expressing
(‘glamour’,
I think, is what my parents would say).
I
lose myself in the TV, staring and wondering
hearing
pop music, I want to move
but
don’t really know how,
so,
copy the dancers, the women and girls
but
doing it my way, my own cover version
at
bedtime, at night-time, when there’s no-one around.
Being
a girl, on my terms alone,
distilling
the essence of what it all means
to
me, at least, as a tiny young person.
That
something inside me had always been there,
needed
only a catalyst, a touch paper, spark
to
fuel that intention, that need to be me -
the
TV, the newspapers, the magazines
showed
me what I really was,
and
wanted, or needed, to be, all my life.
But
making sense of it all was never an option,
I
knew how I felt, how sad I would be
when
I heard David Bowie or Human League play,
and
couldn't express what I felt to those sounds -
to
perform, to become, to embody, be me -
10
years before Judith Butler suggested
that
gender itself is a performative act.
The
1990s: Dancing with friends, and girlfriends of friends
admiring
their style, their dresses and boots,
their
corsets and hats and Stevie Nicks trappings,
transforming
Foreigners’ dancefloor each week
into
teasing wee hints of a climax to come,
floating
and flitting with black lacy hemlines
at
ankle length, channelling old Top of the Pops
from
the 80s, the days of old earrings and buttons
but
not quite so innocent now, and much more confused.
And
that's how I coped, living vicariously,
to
fend off the ghosts of the 80s synth goddesses
who
still sing and dance in my quieter moments.
How
long was I scared, and what was I scared of?
Scared
of being the person I am?
Being
the kind of being I needed to be?
21st
March 2014: Morgan steps out into the world, a transgender social
in
Glasgow city centre, a born-again baptism -
skidding
in heels down a cobblestone hill
in
rush hour rain, crashing through puddles
one
hand on my hat, expecting to slip,
go
sledging, tobogganing,
flat
on my back, for the city's amusement -
but
keeping my poise, my balance, my dignity,
growing
into the moment, the rush of it all
and
suddenly finding my inner Gene Kelly.
For
no-one was watching, nobody cared.
No-one
threw verbals, or hammers, or fists.
A
new life was born. I was where I belonged.
I
slowed down and strolled, ignoring the rain,
long
black satin swishing behind me
like
the tail of some smugly, old self-aware cat
who's
strutting her territory, smiling at others
rushing
before her, pitying their frowns,
their
pre-occupied postures, their knees-bent submission
to
all of their problems, oppressed by the weather,
a
huddle of bodies, all rushing for home.
I'd
no need to rush. I was already there.
It
wasn't so scary, being out in their world.
Through
the black sky brooding above George Square
only
I saw the sunlight, only I saw the dawn.
Springtime
2019: a time of rebirth, a time of growth.
After
a photo shoot at the art school,
in
black lace and velvet, black rose and feathers,
ankle-length
hemline, floating and flitting,
Stevie
Nicks turns up on my parents’ doorstep.
They
bring her in.
They
photograph her.
They
hug her.
They
love her.
It's
cool.
It's
over.
x
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