*

‘So, when did you know, uh …?’ asks the donor of a very popular LGBT+ charity in the UK, at a private dinner celebrating volunteers. The ‘uh’ is followed by a grand gesture of her hand, pointing up and down to my outfit and make-up.

I take a sharp breath to prepare my answer.

‘Well, when I was around three years old my mother took me to the doctor, because I had not spoken my first word yet. She was worried. I was her second child and my older brother couldn’t shut up, making full sentences by the age of three …’

The rich, white donor lady leans in. A parasite to blood, my sob story is her vitamin, supplementing the four-course meal she has not touched. She nods, as if to say, Go on, don’t stop, tell me, how exactly you know.

Seeing that this story is working, I continue.

‘So, my mother took me to the doctor. The doctor inspected me, and did hearing tests and more, to check if there was a problem with any of my senses. He realised I was not deaf, so then he started to look inside my throat, to check if it was anything to do with my vocal cords …’

She is nodding ferociously at this point. I can tell she is waiting for the meat of this story to be served, enjoying the picture I am painting, but mostly eagerly awaiting the reveal that she came for.

‘And then, just as the doctor had given up on finding why I could not speak, as he was packing up his bag, I turned around and I opened my mouth and said my very first words. And do you know what they were?’

She shakes her head. Saliva building around her mouth as she awaits the fruits of her inquiry.

‘I opened my mouth, aged three, and said my first words: “Doctor, I am actually a cross-dressing, gender- non-conforming deviant.” And that is how we all knew something was different about me.’

It takes a moment for the rich, white donor of an LGBT+ charity, who has not even asked how I am before asking how I knew, to realise that of course that story is false. She lets out a high-pitched, staccato laugh, clearly frustrated by the long set-up for my story, and that it did not give her what she wanted. I smile quietly, as if I have just told a truly harrowing and revealing tale. I then ask if she can pass the gravy and wonder for a moment if she will later process why her question provoked such a response from me.

Because of the frequency with which I am asked when I knew, I try to have a quick response ready in my armoury.

I am not always at a fancy dinner or have that amount of time and energy to string a delicate story together for my own amusement. Sometimes, I cannot find the humour in such an affronting question from a stranger. Sometimes, I need a punchier line to diffuse the affront, something along the lines of being raised by a pack of wolves who only spoke to me in quotes from Judith Butler books, or that I was adopted by a wholesome group of trans feminist lesbians who slowly but thoroughly converted me to my gender deviation. Most of the time, however, the interro- gator is too engrossed in their own kneejerk questioning to notice any hint of sarcasm on my part. Or they believe that in my transitioning I also lost all ability to have a sense of humour.

None of the Above: Reflections on Life Beyond the Binary by Travis Alabanza (Canongate, £16.99) is out now.

Book of the week: read an extract of None of the Above by Travis Alabanza