First Lady: From Boyhood to Womanhood: The incredible story of New Zealand's sex-change pioneer Liz Roberts

By Alison Mau

Liz Roberts is a Kiwi pioneer; the first person to undergo a full surgical sex change in New Zealand. This inspirational memoir tells the story of how, with the help of medical specialists working in previously uncharted territory, she changed her name, her sex and her legal status in the 1970s, freeing her to live a new life as a woman. The little boy born Gary Roberts in 1950s Christchurch knew from his earliest years that he was different to the other boys. Gary overcame a violent childhood to train first as a florist, then a hairdresser. He moved to England and his talent as a couture clothing designer was spotted and encouraged. He released his own collection, which made headlines back in New Zealand. He also became sure that a permanent change of sexual identity was a real possibility and began treatment. It was Liz Roberts who returned to New Zealand. Ground-breaking surgery, two marriages, and much heartbreak punctuated Liz's official transition from man to woman. Today, she still works as a designer and bespoke dressmaker. Her choices have made her enemies and admirers across the country, but few would doubt her strength and grace in tackling one of the most taboo life changes of all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Upstart
• Release date: Sep 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781927262498

Alison Mau

Journalist, broadcaster, writer and speaker, Ali (Alison) Mau is one of New Zealand’s most experienced media names. After a 20 year career as a top-level television host on shows such as ‘One News’, ‘Fair Go’, ‘Newsnight’ and ‘Breakfast’, Ali’s now paired with Willie Jackson for afternoon news, current affairs and talkback on 100.6 ‘Radio Live’.

Book preview

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand

ISBN 978-1-927262-49-8

An Upstart Press Book

Published in 2015 by Upstart Press Ltd

B3, 72 Apollo Drive, Rosedale

Auckland, New Zealand

Text © Alison Mau and Elizabeth Roberts 2015

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted

Design and format © Upstart Press Ltd 2015

www.upstartpress.co.nz

First Lady is a true story, however for legal reasons, some names and places have been changed.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form.

E-book produced by CVD Limited

Dedicated to those contemplating my choice of life.

Contents

Imprint

Dedication

Contents

Writer’s Note

Foreword

Prologue

1. Childhood: being different

2. Boys’ home

3. Hairdressing

4. Lyttelton: hairdressing and dressmaking

Picture Section 1

5. Working on the ferries

6. Importuning leads to prison

7. Slow boat to London

8. London drag scene

9. The whirl of the fashion world

10. Leaving London

11. Tim, Round ONe

12. Tim, Round Two

13. Backstage in broadcasting

Picture Section 2

14. Surgery, 1969: the operation

15. Women’s prison

16. Further surgery, 1970s–90s

17. The lies people tell

18. Working in theatre

Picture Section 3

19. Weight and its problems

20. The legal battle

21. A medicated life

22. Friends, I’ve had a few

23. The traitor

24. My dogs

25. Mum and Dad

Epilogue

About the Writer

WRITER’S NOTE

On 6 June 2012, I appeared on TVNZ’s Close Up in a debate with Baptist theologian Laurie Guy, on the subject of same-sex marriage. It had been barely a month since US president Barack Obama had endorsed the idea, and New Zealand’s John Key had quickly followed by saying he was not personally opposed to marriage between partners of the same gender. I told host Mark Sainsbury that with 63 per cent of New Zealanders now in favour of a law change, it appeared the tide was turning and the Church would lose the battle. Laurie Guy agreed.

A day later, at my desk in the Fair Go office, I took a call from a stranger. ‘I’m Elizabeth Roberts,’ she said, ‘and I wanted to congratulate you on the way you made your point without losing your cool last night.’ My first impression was of a beautifully spoken woman, a little ‘old school’, and very ladylike. She told me a bit about her life, and after half an hour or so of chat I had to stop her: ‘Elizabeth. Has anyone ever written your book? I’ll write it!’ (Apparently someone had once attempted to do so, but the result was such a sanitised version of events that Liz had thrown it in the bin.)

Although I began my journalism career writing for newspapers 30 years ago and continue to write occasionally for print to this day, I had never had a book published or even attempted to write one. It was a very rash promise to make. The fact that it has taken three years from our first conversation to this point is proof of what a novice I was when we began.

However, Liz’s story had to be told. Although she had no way of knowing it at the time, Liz was breaking legal and ethical ground in an era when just wearing a woman’s dress could get a man thrown in jail. And not just in New Zealand; Liz was the first in the Commonwealth to be issued a change of gender on her birth certificate. She had to convince GPs, surgeons, psychiatrists and bureaucrats to do things they’d never attempted or considered; and she succeeded through sheer force of will.

When Liz and I began this book, the human rights discourse was focused on same-sex marriage; in the years since it has shifted and transgender issues are somewhat of a hot topic. I hope this book will add a vital personal perspective to the conversation.

Although Liz’s life story is an important one legally and historically, it is really, at its heart, simply a bloody good yarn. And Liz is a good woman. I’m honoured to have been able to bring my friend’s story to you.

Alison Mau

Auckland 2015

FOREWORD

On a warm Auckland Sunday in January 2013, I sat in the lounge of a 1930s style state house with two extraordinary women. One was dressed in a house frock with curlers in her hair, the other in jeans and blouse with the confident air of a professional journalist. We sat together and watched an old VHS recording of Paul Holmes and the story of a transsexual woman who wanted to get married but who was refused permission to have a change of gender on her birth certificate. As the television story unfolded, Ali Mau leaned over to Liz Roberts and whispered, ‘You are so beautiful.’

Ali was there on one of her many visits in preparing for the creation of this book. I was there to gather research for my master’s thesis, which considered transgender representation in theatre.

I never knew Garry, but Liz is an old friend. Over the years she has designed and created hundreds of costumes for me from every imaginable period, and for uncountable themes, treatments and concepts. Every single costume was a visual treat, usually with some clever and surprising element, and often with a witty self-reference or a tongue-in-cheek in-joke. There was the piupiu made from beads and drinking straws for Oberon, King of the Fairies, in a Maori interpretation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream; the leather-kilted Macbeth who rode a Harley and sold drugs; or the bejewelled codpiece for shocking-pink Horatio in Jean Bett’s Ophelia Thinks Harder.

Liz’s wicked sense of humour has been captured beautifully in this book. Despite the hurts, the letdowns, the nastiness that has sometimes followed her, she has always managed to brush it off with an infectious wisecrack or stinging riposte, followed by gales of laughter.

Ali Mau’s keen journalist’s voice is strong here. Her sensitivity, and ability to ask the right questions, provides a framework for an honest yet gripping yarn about one of our modern-day pioneers. This is, I think, an important book: one that records the very human story of someone who had the temerity to simply be themself. I love this book, as I love Liz, and Ali for her tenacity and talent.

Robert Gilbert

Christchurch, May 2015

Robert Gilbert has a Master of Arts degree with First Class Honours from Massey University. He is the author of a new play about transgenderism, called Trans Tasmin, and he is the Director of Theatre Arts at Rangi Ruru Girl’s School.

PROLOGUE

Dear Reader,

Just before you venture into the story of my life, I want you to know one thing.

This story, my excursion through life, has not been written with the intention of venting any anger I might hold towards my father. Sadly, ours was a fraught father–son/daughter relationship, which included many very difficult times and a mixture of emotions for us both.

I had to do what was right for me — what felt right for me, from the time I was very small — in order to survive. My father had his demons, and his own views on my choices, but I certainly have no regrets about the way I’ve chosen to live.

Close to the time my dad passed away he shared with me many things about his life, and he had softened there, at the end. This resulted in a much deeper understanding of each other; it would have made my dear mother very happy had she lived to see it.

And perhaps if this story had taken place now, in a world so changed from the one in which I grew up, our story could have been a very different one.

Liz Roberts

1

CHILDHOOD: BEING DIFFERENT

June 1947, a Christchurch suburb on a very special occasion; my kindergarten fancy-dress party. I was four years old.

Picture the scene: Grandma dabbing at her eyes with a lacework handkerchief, Granddad and my father Alex fussing with the complexities of the camera, Mum doing her best to coax me into the frame for the picture that would capture a treasured childhood moment. Or so they thought.

The little girl who lived next door, Carol, and I were to go to the party as Cinderella and Prince Charming. I knew what a fairytale couple was supposed to look like even at the age of four, but this one, on this day, was making me angry.

Grandma had made both costumes herself, silver stars and lace and a gorgeous blue for Cinderella’s dress, a crown, all the bits. They were absolutely beautiful creations, but I don’t remember what Prince Charming’s outfit looked like. Who cared about him? I wanted to go as Cinderella.

The adults soon twigged that something was amiss, as they tried to take the photo and I slid down the wall out of shot again and again. I couldn’t explain it, the grown-ups were furious, but I didn’t want to be Prince Charming. I wanted to be wearing that bloody blue dress!

I recall Grandma looked at Mum: ‘Don’t worry Eileen, he’s alright, Garry’s just different.’

It’s the first time I remember being called that. Different. I never thought of it that way, never thought I was unusual. It was just the way I’d always been. I never saw anyone like me, though.

There’s a photo of me from my early childhood that sums things up nicely. It shows a leafy Christchurch street and well-dressed family walking together, obviously off to some special occasion. The group has yet to notice that one of them is not playing along; the smartly suited little boy (me) has turned his back and is about to head off in the other direction. I remember the moment and the reason I’d decided to throw a paddy: we were going to my Auntie Barb’s wedding, and I had noticed that all the ladies were carrying handbags. I wanted one, too. Mother refused to hand hers over; I refused to go on without it.

Nana was onto me. I think they might all have been. I think mothers just know, don’t they? Whether it was dressing up, playing with ‘girls’ toys or making pretty things from scraps, she would say, ‘Don’t let your father see you doing that.’

She didn’t exactly encourage it, whatever the ‘different’ behaviour was on any particular day, but she protected me in the way she felt she could. When I think back with wiser eyes, I realise she was always covering for me.

When I was about fourteen and at the Boys’ Training Centre, I got a letter from her. It said I had to stop making the paper marionette puppets I loved to create, because my father wouldn’t approve. I had to grow up and be a man.

At primary school I wasn’t shunned or bullied, but I certainly wasn’t ‘one of the boys’ in the usual sense. I had friends for sure, and they accepted me as one of their mates. But while they were racing around my parents’ backyard playing Cowboys and Indians, I’d be busy preparing them a play ‘picnic’, laying down the blanket on the grass and plumping up the cushions, making sure the Cowboys had a comfy place to sit and a meal when they’d come home from the range. I was very happy with that role; it felt nice to have been able to find my useful place among the boys.

Nobody ever said a thing.

When I was seven my father took me to the theatre in Christchurch, to see The Tommy Trinder Show. This was a big occasion and a bit of a departure, as although my father enjoyed the arts, he was dead against encouraging any interest in the theatre, or anything ‘arty’ in me.

Trinder was a performer from England and although his was more a comedy show than a glamour drag act, he did several musical numbers and at one stage came on stage dressed as Carmen Miranda, with a huge fruit headdress. Later in the show it was as another famous temptress, Mae West. I sat, completely fascinated, but I don’t think I realised he was in drag. In fact, I wouldn’t have known then what it was. Dad seemed a bit dark after we left the theatre and when we got home, I said to Mum, ‘Why didn’t that man have any hair on his legs?’ She seemed flustered, and said, ‘Forget about that, it’s just powder, he puts powder on them.’

And I thought, ‘Ooooh, there’s an idea.’

At that point, just seven years old, I was curious. But perhaps something was taking shape in my mind, without me even realising it.

There were other signs.

My little sister Faye loved fudge, but she wasn’t allowed to eat it, so when our parents were out we’d shake hands on a secret deal. Into the kitchen Faye would go, collecting ingredients to make a glorious mess with the fudge recipe, and I’d do the same at the dressing table with Mum’s make-up. We swore each other to secrecy; both doing something we were absolutely forbidden to do.

I got caught a few times, of course, as a little boy couldn’t push at the boundaries of ‘normal’ behaviour without ever being sprung. When I was about eight I had a pair of school sandals, standard issue black leather, that I thought sorely needed an upgrade. I cut the straps off and painted them white, and was very pleased with the improvement. That morning I got as far as the gate before my father saw me and flew into a rage.

‘Look at that f***ing boy out there with those white shoes on.’

This wasn’t unusual, and it wasn’t the first occasion by a long shot. Around the same time I enraged him by wearing my winter coat cinched tightly at the waist with a belt, as I had seen the glamorous Hollywood stars (female, of course) do in the movies. I remember dancing down the street, pretending to be in one of those fabulous musical films. Once again, there was trouble.

By the time I was able to calculate, I knew my father had hated me from the moment I was born. It wasn’t at all hard to work out — I was always covered in bruises, always copped the blame, got very good at ducking out of the reach of his fists. The ‘why’ of it was always a puzzle for me, though. He certainly didn’t seem to feel the same way about the rest of the family. He did not hit my mother. My sister rarely had to see his rage.

It was only decades later I found out why he might have felt that way. He and my mother had lived within a street of each other growing up in quiet, Depression-era Christchurch; they met at school, and were the only partners each had ever had.

During the war he’d been in the air force and served in the Pacific. Family legend was that he’d been evac’ed out and sent back to New Zealand, injured, after a bomb fell on his foot. The truth — which wouldn’t come out for many, many years — was that on a visit home he’d got my mother pregnant. Any airman who found himself in that position had precious few choices — they were forced to marry the girl. He didn’t want to, but he did it. That baby was the reason his life had suddenly been yanked in a completely unexpected direction. You can imagine how that might affect an angry young man. For the rest of his life, if anything went wrong, it was my fault.

The circumstances of the marriage were always kept secret from Faye and me, even when we were older. Year after year we’d ask to put on a party, or a dinner, to celebrate their wedding anniversary, but we were always waved away. Mum would just say, ‘Oh, I can’t remember when it was.’ The truth came out just before my father died, when a cousin told us Mum had been pregnant with me at the time the wedding took place. By that time we were adults in our forties, and it was too late to have made any difference at all. Faye and I kept our mouths shut, and both Mum and Dad died with their secret intact.

It may not have changed anything, but it answered a lot of questions for me. I thought, well, now I know why.

Dad was brutal — there’s no other word for it. Never to Mum, just to me. He’d call me ‘the Bastard’ and no matter how many times my mum and my grandparents objected, I was a bastard to him, and I paid the price.

For the first few years of my life we lived with my maternal grandparents at their house in Glasgow Street, Linwood, and while we were there it wasn’t too bad — I don’t think he’d have laid a hand on me there. Perhaps he was too afraid.

My grandparents were lovely, lovely people. My grandma, mum’s mother, was a ‘court dressmaker’, that’s what they called couture seamstresses, and created high fashion for wealthy Christchurch ladies. She was hugely talented and much in demand. She’d been born with a deformity