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At her mother's birthday party, a celebration that began at noon and ended late at night, surrounded by several family members and friends, Amaranta Gómez Regalado appeared in women's clothing for the first time. She was 13 years old and had worn her cousin Edith's dress. Since she didn't have any shoes that fit, an uncle had given her the money to run and buy a pair. Before anyone could say anything, her father hugged her, called over his male friends, and proudly declared, "This is my son and always will be." It was a way of protecting Amaranta and a sort of coming-out. Some murmured and looked away, others hugged her and blessed her family. But one person left the room. It was her father's brother, a far-right politician from Mexico who, a decade later, would publicly oppose Amaranta Gómez Regalado's candidacy for congress, the first transgender candidate in Mexico.

As the party was ending, her father, a professor at the Polytechnic Institute of Juchitán, Oaxaca, and a journalist, sat her on his lap and said: "Whatever you want, however you want. But don't come telling me you've become an alcoholic and that they saw you under the table in a bar." And with that, he ended the conversation. A conversation that had been simmering for years, because even though you're not born a muxe, you become one very early on. Amaranta knew she was a muxe, like most people, from the time she could remember, and it was in her adolescence that she demanded to be accepted as such. And she named herself Amaranta, after Amaranta Buendía, from One Hundred Years of Solitude. Wearing a petticoat and huipil, with jet-black hair and a luminous gaze, this activist and researcher chats enthusiastically while admirably managing to eat with her one arm in a bar in the Buenos Aires neighborhood of San Telmo. Her name, her identity, was almost a premonition. As an adult, Amaranta lost her arm in an accident, like Buendía. “Although losing the election hurt me more,” laughs this 38-year-old social anthropologist, who became an activist more than a decade ago.

 —What is a muxe?

—We muxes are people from the community of Juchitán, the region of the Oaxacan isthmus, who are born with a male biology but identify with the female gender. This is how we integrate into our community and assume that place. Although—and I'm critical of this—gender identification is still very hetero, very patriarchal. Muxes have assumed very classically feminine roles, including initiating men sexually, because women traditionally had to protect their virginity. This isn't something that's usually talked about, but it's still very common.

—Are muxes fully accepted in the community?

 —Look, yes and no. From an outside perspective, it may seem so 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 on the isthmus lies in the acceptance process, which isn't an individual matter—or one of the family or close circle—but a collective one. The lady who sells cheese comes by and says to the parents: "Oh, what a beautiful muxe you have!" Or: "Oh, how nice, you have a muxe who will take care of you." I think this shows that our Juchiteca culture, or indigenous culture in general, has a mechanism for collective discussion of sensitive issues, a support structure. Still, there are 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 get hurt. Because she knew my life was going to be more difficult.

"It is difficult to provide eroticism to 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 foreignizing perspectives. Because what's always difficult is imbuing indigenous populations with eroticism. As if we don't have sex. Or as if we don't have erotic practices that are our own, our own. That's why, for example, the HIV epidemic in our communities has been so ignored. For years, we've been working as muxe organizations on public health policies to raise awareness and address sexual diversity and needs.

—Have muxes always adopted transvestism?

 —In Juchitán, you can see muxes dressed as women all the time, and muxes who don't adopt feminine attire. It's relatively new, actually. Speaking with people over 50, they told me that in their time, it wasn't done because it was too dangerous. The first signs of transvestism, in the 60s and 70s, were that muxes began to wear very colorful clothing, with loose blouses and floral decorations when they went out. This initiated a double process of acceptance. On the one hand, sexual orientation, and on the other, the inclusion of clothing. Already in the 80s and 90s, transvestism was freely expressed. This also had to do with the visibility of gay culture in the media, on television. Transvestite shows appeared, and muxes also began to work there. My first job, in fact, was in a show.

—When did you start being a soldier?

—I come from a tradition of resistance culture, typical of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Oaxaca is one of the states with the highest 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 mom and dad scolded and loved me in Zapotec; my siblings and I speak it. My nephews and I are working to try to get them to understand it. It's not cool for them. The pressure of modernity on youth is very strong; it's as if it's not allowed. That's for starters. Because it's part of everything. Language is the pillar of a culture.

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

– How have you adapted to the new times?

– In Juchitán, we've managed to survive by adapting modernity to our customs, not the other way around. You see me dressed in fabrics that come from abroad, but I embroider them, putting the mark of my community on them. We've been quite chameleon-like in this regard. 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 Las Intrépidas contra el Sida group in our community, both muxe organizations with an emphasis on promoting sexual rights and HIV prevention.

—Was that where the famous velas muxes were born?

Seven years after her mother's birthday, Amaranta traveled to South Africa, to her second international forum as an activist for the sexual rights of indigenous peoples. Her father, who already suffered from diabetes, told her: "You're going to go very far, I hope I'm there when you return. I hope you do things better than we did." And he asked her to bring coffee and a mug that said South Africa. Homero Gómez was able to drink his African coffee, but he didn't meet her, Mexico's first transgender candidate. "At least he knew I wasn't hiding under a table in a bar," Amaranta says. And she laughs again.

—Velas are patron saint festivals that have always existed. They're celebrations of reciprocity. In Juchitán, patron saint festivals are about lifestyle and are also a space that allows for the cohesion of groups in relation to other groups in the community. In May, there are around 20 veladas, and 7,000 people attend each festival. A vela revolves around pre-Hispanic totemism: there's the vela of the fishermen, the goldsmiths, and those who make sweets. When the conquest began, with syncretism, they transformed into the vela of the fishermen's holy cross, the goldsmiths' holy cross, and so on. These are festivals with music, dancing, food, and drinks that last all night. And the velas de las muxes (the muxes' candles) began thanks to the Auténticas Intrépidas Buscadoras del Peligro (Authentic Intrepid Seekers of Danger). This group of activists began organizing intimate gatherings in 1975. Now, thousands of people attend, and they're also held in Mexico City.