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At her mother's birthday celebration, a feast that began at noon and lasted well into the night, surrounded by family and friends, Amaranta Gómez Regalado appeared in women's clothing for the first time. She was 13 years old and had put on her cousin Edith's dress. Since she didn't have any shoes that fit, an uncle had given her money so she could run out and buy a pair. Before anyone could say anything, her father hugged her, called over his male friends, and proudly told them, "This is my child, and always will be." It was a way of protecting Amaranta and a sort of debut into society. Some murmured and looked away, others hugged her and offered their blessings to her family. But someone left the room. It was her father's brother, a far-right Mexican politician who, a decade later, would publicly oppose Amaranta Gómez Regalado's candidacy for Congress—Mexico's first transgender candidate.

As the party was winding down, her father, a professor at the Polytechnic Institute of Juchitán, Oaxaca, and a journalist, sat her on his lap and said, “Do whatever you want, however you want. But don’t come telling me you’ve become an alcoholic and that they saw you under a bar table.” And with that, he ended the conversation. A conversation that had been simmering for years, because although one isn’t born muxe, one becomes one from a very young age. Amaranta knew she was muxe, like most, from the time she was old enough to understand, and it was in her teens that she demanded to be accepted as such. And she took the name Amaranta, after Amaranta Buendía, from One Hundred Years of Solitude. Dressed in a petticoat and huipil, with jet-black hair and a luminous gaze, this activist and researcher speaks enthusiastically while admirably managing to eat with her one arm in a bar in the San Telmo neighborhood of Buenos Aires. Her name, her identity, was almost a premonition. As an adult, Amaranta lost her arm in an accident, just like Buendía. “Although losing the elections hurt me more,” says this 38-year-old social anthropologist, laughing, who began her activism more than a decade ago.

 —What is a muxe?

—We muxes are people from the community of Juchitán, in the Isthmus region of Oaxaca, who are born with male biology but identify as female. That's how we integrate into our community and assume that role. Although—and here I'm being critical—gender identification is still very heteronormative, very patriarchal. Muxes have taken on very traditionally feminine roles, even initiating men sexually, because women traditionally had to protect their virginity. This isn't something that's usually discussed openly, but it's still very common.

—Are muxes fully accepted in the community?

 —Look, yes and no. From the outside, it might seem like yes because they've coexisted for many years. They've always existed. But the responses from within can be diverse. I've always said that the only difference between accepting a gay or transgender person in Buenos Aires or Mexico City and accepting a muxe person in the Isthmus lies in the process of acceptance, which isn't an individual matter—or one of family or close circle—but a collective one. The woman who sells cheese walks by and says to the parents, "Oh, what a beautiful muxe you have!" Or, "Oh, how wonderful, you have a muxe who will take care of you." I think this shows that our Juchitecan culture, or Indigenous culture in general, has a mechanism for collectively discussing sensitive issues, a support structure. In any case, there are also several myths. Even my mother, who always supported me, got very nervous when I told her I wanted to dress as a woman. Her main fear was that I would be hurt. Because she knew my life was going to be more difficult.

"It's difficult to instill eroticism in indigenous populations"

—What's this about myths?

—I've seen academic articles that say, for example, that muxes are considered good luck for the community. That's part of the myths that come from outsider perspectives. Because what's always difficult is attributing eroticism to Indigenous populations. As if we didn't have sex. Or as if we didn't have our own erotic practices. That's why, for example, the HIV epidemic in our communities has been so ignored. For years, we've been working from muxe organizations on public health policies to make visible and address the needs and diversity of sexuality.

—Did muxes always adopt cross-dressing?

 —In Juchitán, you can see muxes dressed as women at all hours, and muxes who don't adopt feminine clothing. It's relatively new, actually. Talking to people over 50, they told me that in their day it wasn't done because it was too dangerous. The first signs of cross-dressing, in the 60s and 70s, were that muxes began to wear very colorful clothes, with wide blouses and floral adornments when they went out. This initiated a dual process of acceptance: on the one hand, sexual orientation, and on the other, the inclusion of clothing. By the 80s and 90s, cross-dressing was expressed freely. That also had to do with the visibility of gay culture in the media, on television. Drag shows appeared, and muxes also began to work there. My first job, in fact, was in a show.

—When did you start being an activist?

—I come from a tradition of resistance, typical of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Oaxaca is one of the states with the highest percentage of Indigenous population. There's a high degree of cultural expression in ethnic terms and around 16 dialectal forms. And one of the struggles has been to prevent the language from disappearing. I've spoken Zapotec for as long as I can remember. My mother and father scolded me and loved me in Zapotec, and my siblings and I speak that language. My nephews and I are working on helping them understand it. For them, it's not cool. The pressure of modernity among young people is very strong; it's like they're not allowed to. That's just for starters. Because it's part of everything. Language is the foundation of a culture.

"A new generation of leaders emerged in the early 1990s."

– How have they adapted to the changing times?

– In Juchitán, we have managed to survive by adapting modernity to our customs, not the other way around. You see me dressed in fabrics that come from elsewhere, but I embroider them, I put the mark of my community on them. In that respect, we have been quite adaptable. In the early 1990s, a new generation of leaders emerged who put women's rights, environmental protection, the defense of our music and literature, and support for sexual rights, diversity, and the fight against HIV on the agenda. In 1997, we created the Binni Laanu Collective and the group Las Intrépidas contra el Sida (The Intrepid Women Against AIDS) in our community, both muxe organizations with an emphasis on promoting sexual rights and HIV prevention.

—Was that where the famous muxes candles originated?

Seven years after her mother's birthday, Amaranta traveled to South Africa for her second international forum as an activist for the sexual rights of indigenous populations. Her father, who was already suffering from diabetes, told her, “You're going very far. I hope I'll be here when you return. I hope you all do things better than we did.” And he asked her to bring back coffee and a mug that said South Africa. Homero Gómez got to drink his African coffee, but he didn't meet her as Mexico's first transgender presidential candidate. “At least he knew I didn't hide under a bar table,” Amaranta says. And she laughs again.

—The velas are patron saint festivals that have always existed. They are celebrations of reciprocity. In Juchitán, these festivals are deeply intertwined with the way of life and also provide a space for cohesion between different groups within the community. In May, there are around 20 velas, each one drawing 7,000 people. A vela revolves around pre-Hispanic totemism: there's the vela of the fishermen, the vela of the goldsmiths, the vela of the candy makers. When the conquest began, syncretism transformed them into the vela of the Holy Cross of the fishermen, the holy cross of the goldsmiths, and so on. They are celebrations with music, dancing, food, and drink that last all night. And the velas of the muxes began thanks to the Auténticas Intrépidas Buscadoras del Peligro (Authentic Intrepid Danger Seekers). This activist group started organizing intimate gatherings in 1975. Now thousands of people attend, and they are also held in Mexico City.