Photography courtesy of Jen Endom.
As far as national identities go, being British is somewhat of a joke in mainland Europe right now. At least that’s my experience. I’m one of many Brits who jumped ship shortly after the Brexit referendum in a bid to experience European culture while borders were still open. And like many more who’ve followed, I’ve made Berlin my new home.
Recently, when introducing myself to someone new, I was faced with a sarcastic retort following my revelation that I was a UK citizen. Of course, you can’t not talk about Brexit and the political knife-edge that many British expats living in Europe are balancing on this month. For the record, I can’t tolerate labelling myself as an ‘expat’, particularly when my native country has made such a shambles over a situation that I believe to be unnecessary and unjust. The last time I can honestly say I felt proud to be British was during the mid ‘90s when Britpop and new Labour reflected a sense of optimism throughout the country. What little national pride I did once have has since dissolved. In many ways though, I’m thankful for Brexit. It was the catalyst I needed to finally make the bold and defiant decision to switch up my living situation.
Moving countries and establishing roots in a foreign city isn’t a decision to make on a whim. Prior to this, I’d been living in London for over a decade, establishing myself on the East-London performance scene before transitioning from male to female and writing a memoir called The New Girl: A Trans Girl Tells It Like It Is, accompanied by a successful column for ELLE magazine. Don’t get me wrong, I love London, and a small corner of Hackney will always feel like home. But the odds of staying put and pursuing my creative dreams could never be met. Politics aside, the cost of living, combined with the energy required to maintain the lifestyle I desired was tipping me over the edge, and I didn’t want to live in zone 5 or move to the seaside, like many of my creative contemporaries, to find myself all over again.
You see, I’d been toying with the idea of moving to Berlin since the mid noughties, when return Ryanair flights from London never cost more than five pounds. Back then, I had little in the way of a plan or infrastructure to support my decision. I was making a living as a performance artist, with regular stints in the German capital: throwing confetti around, rolling on and off stages at the now-defunct White Trash Fast Food club and Barbie Dienhoff’s, using MySpace to secure my next gig and taking copious amounts of narcotics to endure it. My memories from those weekend jaunts are sparse — it was an absolute blast, but not one I’d care to repeat. Nevertheless, because of these flamboyant cabaret spaces, where performance art was celebrated, I could begin to imagine Berlin as my home.
It’s no secret that Berlin has a reputation as being somewhat of a queer-topia, a sanctuary for artists and those seeking to explore their sexuality or gender identities. In part because it’s an affordable alternative to most European cities, where speaking English is widely tolerated. And secondly because the city’s slower pace provides people the time to contemplate. For me, the odds swung in its favour, and 14 years later, without the confetti or the narcotics, Berlin’s seductive charms lured me back.
Photography courtesy of Jen Endom
Settling in Berlin in my mid-30s has afforded me the opportunity to reflect on my identity as a British trans woman, but also as an artist and a writer. Upon arrival, I soon noticed that my trans identity was the second or third characteristic that people noticed about me, if at all. I easily passed as another bumbling English woman who can’t speak Deutsch very well, and I became less self-conscious about that as a sticking point in social interactions. I realised that for the first time in my life, I’d become a foreigner. That was my primary identity now.
In London, my trans-identity was policed everywhere from high street changing rooms to Chinese takeaways. In Berlin, I’ve had little experience of this happening. It feels very liberating to step off a plane and into a different identity. In many respects, the notion of my transition has moved beyond the confines of gender and taken on a global dimension, a process that I didn’t anticipate happening at this point in my life. I’m very aware of my privilege as a white trans woman who can navigate this city with little in the way of transphobic interference, while living within the English speaking bubble. And I work towards changing this status quo, within the writing and artistic work which the city allows me to create.
In the time it’s taken to affirm myself as a trans woman, so too has the desire to once again develop my performing arts practice. It came as no surprise that once I’d repositioned myself in Berlin, I’d need a structure within my life to assist the transition process and keep myself grounded. That’s why I went back to school to study dance at the Universität der Künste, and initiated the performance collective MineralWasser. It’s refreshing to be able to submerge yourself in the artistic spaces of a new city, and in turn discover more about yourself. I’ve been confronted with challenging new ideas and ways of thinking, particularly from conversations with other artists, which allows a richer input into my practice. In a sense, I’m developing a wider scope of creativity on the continent than I was able to in the UK.
I look back at Blighty, amid the mess of Brexit, and it feels like the ending of a toxic relationship. I’m uncertain how long I’ll be able to stay in Berlin, or what the conditions will be, but I’m definitely not going back. Auf Wiedersehen.