H. Clare Callow in character Photo: Luke Cadden
It’s March 2013 and I’m standing in the upstairs toilet at the Owl and the Pussycat, a theatre in Richmond. I’m a little bit hunched over because I am squeezing my breast in the general direction of a bottle I hold. Yes. I’m expressing milk in a theatre toilet.
It’s not performance art, although it’s close. I am just three months distant from having given birth, and I’m playing a man. A transman. For a piece set in the 1920s, which is really the only period I could ethically do it, being a cisgender woman. The role in Shadows of Angels by Melbourne playwright Fleur Murphy has brought up a lot of questions like this.
I started with the role in the summer of 2011-12. Shadows is a series of four monologues, presented by four criminal ‘femmes’ who challenge the stereotype of the Hollywood femme fatale. The character I play, Swifty, is part of Melbourne’s underground, the bodyguard and lover of a young prostitute. The role, based on Eugenia Falleni – also known as Harry Crawford, a 1920s’ transman and murderer – requires fastidiousness and respect.
It is for this reason that I first approached Mr C., in the summer of 2011. ‘You need to have a package,’ Mr C. said. ‘It makes all the difference.’
A package? I cringed. Something seemed inherently wrong about it: my female body flinched back. But Mr C. was in a position to know, having made the transition himself.
I did a little investigating. Investing in a decent package would set me back, but the a tutorial on a drag king site in the US provided me with an acceptable substitute. A quiet afternoon with hair gel, pantyhose and some condoms and I had what I needed. Careful safety-pinning to a pair of boxers creates a stand-in that is disturbingly close to the look and feel of the real thing.
A bigger issue was in the chest section. For someone really making the transition, chest strapping can get serious, but it’s not the best way to retain healthy breast tissue. Even if, at the time of the first season, I wasn’t yet a breastfeeding mother, I still didn’t want to do actual harm to myself.
Drag kings and the internet came to my aid again. Control-top pantyhose with the legs cut off and an extra hole create a sort of chest compressor that is surprisingly effective.
The suit that was my costume would cover up the worst of my female features. In 2012, it was hot in the Adelaide Fringe sun, handing out flyers in Rundle Mall. The question for me was always, ‘Am I passing?’ Sometimes there would be a questing look, an expression of puzzlement.
The main question for the 2013 season was ‘How the hell do I get through this?’ Breastfeeding and transmen are not two things that go well together. This time it was my female parts that were putting me in peril, with the danger of a leak always on the horizon. (It did happen. Once.)
Reprising the character for the fourth time in 2014 I was I’m more comfortable in the character’s skin. The halls and cells of the City Watch House, part of the Old Melbourne Gaol complex, gave an added depth to the stories being told. I found myself thinking more and more of Eugenia, who went through this in earnest.
My character, Swifty, didn’t exactly have Eugenia’s life, but both of them would face dire consequences if their sex was discovered. Eugenia’s consequence had been rape, when he was found out while working on a ship, and it had probably contributed to his being charged with murder. The physical changes I go through to create this character probably aren’t all noticed by the audience, but they’re essential all the same. Without them there’s no way of getting in Swifty’s skin.
Sitting in cell number 10, my head in my hands, it’s easy for me to imagine what Eugenia must have felt that first night in the cells. He had notified the police at arrest of his true sex, perhaps knowing what was in store if he did not. He was placed in the female section despite his gender. Eugenia’s mug shot shows a tired and somewhat bewildered man. The shot of her in prison dress is infinitely sadder. With the experiences Eugenia had as a woman, you can’t blame him for preferring to be a man.
This year I’ve had to re-make my package. It was a surprisingly emotional moment, saying goodbye to the old one.
