‘Ubering While Trans’ is something I try to avoid as much as I can. It’s not that I don’t like being chauffeured about – actually, I wish I could be driven everywhere – but for many reasons, unrelated to being a trans woman, I can’t. First off, there’s the cost. I don’t have anywhere close to the sort of money needed to get regular cabs or Ubers, and the irony is – if I was working enough to afford them, I’d probably be having those journeys paid for. Second, there’s the carsickness. It used to be, when I was a weird, quiet little dork of a child, that I couldn’t get from side of town to the other in a car without my dad having to stop off on a precarious side road so I could vomit up a tree. I thought this would go away with age, and for a while – it seemed to have gone. But as of recently, I’ve found myself nearly ralphing hard all over the leather seats in the back of multiple Uber cars. Maybe there’s just more to feel sick about now?
Sometimes though, you have to get an Uber. An unexpected family emergency. A train strike. A sale at Urban Outfitters. You take a deep breath, wait for the estimated price to come through, and then roll those dice.
I’m a sociable sort of person, generally. I enjoy talking to people – especially strangers. If there is a weird old man in a café, and he starts up a conversation with me, I won’t humour him – I’ll engage and actually take an interest in his ramblings. It’s not because I’m a better person that you (even though I probably am) it’s because I know I’ll get something good out of it that I might be able to use later – in a journal, or stand-up routine, or just an anecdote for friends (of which I have many!) I’m always thinking about how I can turn my real life into bad art. I’m not well. But, for the most part, I don’t much value the conversations I have with Uber drivers. Don’t get me wrong, I have had interesting chats with some in the past, but nine times out of ten, I leave an Uber feeling as if I’ve had a complimentary lobotomy.
One of the biggest problems I have with conversing with Uber drivers, is Uber drivers are all men who listen to LBC radio. It’s not that they’re all men that is the problem – I talk to men sometimes. Hell, my boyfriend is a man! (manfriend?) but it’s the combination of being a man who listens to LBC that really complicates things. I did one single time have an Uber driver who was a woman, and it was really interesting talking to her – because she had fascinating insights into the disparity, struggle and safety concerns experienced by women in a male dominated field. My last male Uber driver, for comparison, asked me if I believed that the Nazis had access to UFO technology.
If you don’t know, LBC is a commercial talk radio station in the UK with a definite right-wing / centrist leaning. It’s the pits, basically – and consists mainly of discussions about ‘culture war’ subjects by goofy old blowhards and poshos. And for some reason, that I’ll honestly never comprehend – it’s every single Uber driver’s favourite radio station. It’s so sure to be playing when I climb into an Uber, I’ve wondered if LBC has some sort of back-door arrangement with the Uber company. Can somebody please tell Uber drivers that podcasts exist? They’ve got so many to catch up on – This American Life, My Dad Wrote a Porno…
And most times LBC is playing in my Uber, they’re talking about some sort of ‘gender debate’. Are clowning schools pushing gender ideology? Should trans women be allowed to play professional Shuffleboard? The problem with this is, I’m not instantly read as being trans by most strangers (I think) and so, Uber drivers will often want to talk about it with me – and spoiler warning: they’re often not on the side of the transgenders.
It's a bizarre feeling, that’s sort of difficult to accurately explain – when someone is railing against, or mocking, or wishing the death penalty on trans people, with the assumption that you yourself must not be trans, and also must be in agreement with their dumb ass. First, there’s smugness: Hey, I pass! Boy-howdy, the pills are working. Then, of course, there’s frustration and anger: What da fuck you sayin’ about my crew? And then, there’s fear: Oh gosh, if he hates transgender people so much – I sure hope he doesn’t realise I’m one. Then – shame: I’m such a coward. I should make a stink about this – fess up. Tell him he's been driving a nasty old tranny around this whole time.
The only time an Uber driver correctly classified me as transgender, he proceeded to hit on me - saying that I had ‘good - you know whats’ - gesturing at my tits, and complimented me on being ‘really convincing’. He proceeded to ask what my favourite sexual positions were and wanted to know if I found him attractive. He asked me for my number, which I dutifully made up and gave to him - only unlocking the car doors when I had agreed that I’d call. It’s a bad and scary situation, but it’s better that if he hit on me before knowing I was trans, and then got angry about being ‘tricked’ - which is a common occurance for a lot of us. I guess what I’m trying to say is - don’t drink the complimentary Evian in the side door.
Ultimately though, what I’ve learned is the best thing to do in a situation like that, is to just apologise and offer to pay for the damage incurred by the vomit.
07/05/24
Thank you for reading TRANSGHOUL. This blog aims to publish daily, and is written and managed by the London based writer / stand up comedian Jen Ives. You can read my more casual secret diary HERE or listen to my podcast Schadenfreudepod HERE. Website HERE, Insta HERE. Youtube HERE and Patreon HERE. Sorry, I know it’s a lot. I’m a lot.
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