Keili González is a trans activist from Entre Ríos. A month ago, she underwent breast implant surgery after much thought. In this column, she tells her story and reflects on a process where body and identity merge but also diverge. Do we have to pay for our identity with our bodies? she asks. “I can't summarize all my transvestism in one surgery. But in my life, I've learned to redefine pain and everything I've been through.”

By Keili González 

The idea of ​​having boobs started around 2009, during those "crazy" outings with my fellow queer, femme, cis, trans, and transgender friends. Having escaped from my mother and father—I say that because I wasn't yet of legal age—I would end up at the house of a friend who, at the time, was one of the few who was financially independent, lived alone, and managed her own time. There, I could do my thing without having to explain myself. Production was the most beautiful collective moment, where we recommended clothes to each other, applied makeup, stuffed every bra that fit our bodies, and measured our plunging necklines. The "trago," the drink, was the intermediary for hugs, jokes, laughter, and advice on how to handle ourselves if we came across a violent man: these were always a common occurrence in the spaces where we hung out. These were also tense encounters, because there were plenty of obvious moments of monogamy as a synonym for love. We were known for "hopscotch," jealousy, and what a mess it would cause if one of us went too far.

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On one of those outings, attentive to how men looked at my companions, I began to feel ashamed of my body, of what I understood as the standard for being a woman. Ah yes, woman! It was far from my control to think of myself within the transvestite identity. I had never asked myself what kind of woman I was talking about. Back then, I only analyzed what I understood as the construction of that category. I was 16, had never been in a relationship, and needed to find an explanation: maybe it was the boobs that were the problem.

“I was one of the privileged ones”

My activism at that time was territorial but not academic. I lacked the tools to think about myself theoretically, or perhaps I found it complex. A desire was at stake, and I had to find the cause of my discomfort. First, I could rule out the possibility that it wasn't due to a need forced to comply with stereotypes. I wasn't in the brothel system. I wasn't forced to undergo a bodily change in order to earn a few filthy pesos, pay a pension, have clean sheets, and a hot plate of food. I was one of the privileged few who hadn't been kicked out of her home. There were two possible answers to why I wanted breasts. The first was because I still thought of myself in a binary way. And the second was a sexual and emotional need. In the midst of the debate over the Gender Identity Law, there was still no comprehensive access to healthcare, and I didn't have the financial means to undergo surgery in the private sector.

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In early 2011, I began to campaign and debate among friends and activists. It was generally argued that we had to pay for our name change with our bodies. This led me to wonder: Where was our freedom? Where was our power to decide? That was the prevailing discourse in my context; but I wanted to be on my own terms, not what they intended. Two years later, under a different legal framework, with the passing of Gender Identity Law 26.743, I met Gustavo Terra at the only hospital in Nogoyá, the city where I live. There, after many battles, people in prostitution were able to consult and receive care from a gynecologist, now a dear friend, named Gustavo Terra.

Questions and contradictions

When I read the note from the trans activist Violeta Alegre, where she reflects on the expressions “Se te nota” or “No se te nota,” I began to think about the surgical, hormonal, and aesthetic practices that we transvestites, transgender, and transsexual people undergo and are subjected to. First of all, I felt the need to ask myself why I had breast surgery, knowing that it wasn't a necessity and considering that there shouldn't be a cause for it beyond my desires. Secondly, I encountered the contradiction, when undergoing surgery, of not reproducing hegemonic models or stereotypes, understanding that the trans-woman category is not unitary, exclusive, or uncomplicated, since there is no single way to be one. Third and finally, I considered reviewing my privileges gained through militancy and activism, which, to a certain extent, made it possible for me to have greater integration, reach, and economic sustainability to undergo the intervention.

Hormonal treatment

At my first appointment, I discussed the idea of ​​starting hormone therapy to gradually develop breasts. I told her I'd already tried it with another healthcare professional, but this time I wanted ongoing follow-up. The treatment consisted of breast enlargement, as well as a reduction in facial hair growth, fat accumulation in the hips, improved skin and hair, and more. But there were also adverse effects: decreased sex drive, impotence, possible heart problems, infertility, and mood instability. These were situations I had to reconsider before continuing.

Biology is not destiny

My time at the university, combined with my activism and feminism as a way of life, allowed me to critically analyze hormonal therapy and medicine as a discipline that normalizes bodies. The concept of freedom reappeared there. I began to struggle with the postulates of biology and its alignment of sex, gender, and sexuality. I needed to face an identity within my own standards, which meant confronting the biological discourse and moving away from what society expected of my body, my anatomy, and physiology, because I defend the position that biology is not a destiny.

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But I couldn't stop thinking about the freedom, the power, and the decision-making power of my colleagues to opt for hormonal treatments that involve physiological and anatomical changes.  

A memory

When I was a child, there was no comprehensive sexuality education for everyone. The settings and spaces I participated in, which were admittedly very few, were characterized by exclusion and generally sought to confine me to heterosexual norms. This has not been completely reversed today, despite the progress made. I wonder if there was anything in my childhood that had to do with my fear of showing my torso, my tiny breasts, and I remember that there was. It was a summer afternoon with my family. During the humid summers, when the heat was at its peak, my mother, father, and siblings would "shoot" in the stream. There were no public pools, and if there were, we couldn't afford to go. My father, who used to go hunting and fishing in the countryside, knew some places where we could spend those hot days and share a picnic.

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Behind the cemetery, on the way to the Montoya district, in a field a little over two kilometers from the "Petizo" Mill, known in the city, the stream runs. There's a culvert there; it was one of the two or three places we used to go. I reminisce about that day that marked me, because it reflects the freedom that came with my breasts. I struggled to take off my shirt, a sign that there was already some "history" with my boobs. At home, I did it under pressure because I was sure to get challenged or teased. That day was different. I remember wandering away from my family to a place where the stream wasn't deep. I shamelessly took off my shirt and entered the water, diving in and smiling. For almost half an hour, I was there, enjoying that moment where I felt like nothing I'd ever felt before. It doesn't seem like a momentous event, but for me it was. Happiness, that freedom that lasted an instant. I was me without fear, without my body subjected to my own opinions.

The surgery

The surgery was performed on April 20th at the San Martín Hospital in Paraná, after several months of paperwork. The government guaranteed the surgery and hospitalization, but not the supplies such as prosthetics and medications. Despite the laws, I am aware that we are living in a very harsh social, economic, and political context. The policies of Mauricio Macri at the national level and Gustavo Bordet at the provincial level have exacerbated violence. There is a lack of access to justice and the healthcare system. Transvestites are among the most affected. Today, more than a month and a half after that day, what do I think and how do I feel? It's a process, not a contradiction; it has to do with my future, which was collective and consequently reflects the "proudly transgender me." Because I was once a child, I deconstructed it, abandoned it, and went through other processes of identity construction.

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It was my first surgery and a way of breaking a structure. The aftermath was complicated. Not only because of the physical pain but because I felt a kind of melancholy. I wondered: Did I do this to myself? But now I'm happy, and this is just the beginning. I can't summarize all my cross-dressing in one surgery. But in my life, I've learned to redefine the pain and everything I've been through, what has built me ​​up, and what I want to do. And I embrace it because it speaks to my empowerment and the courage to make myself. I should clarify that it has to do with another characteristic of that construction that reflects the freedom in who I am and, why not, in what I will be, because I don't know what fate will hold.]]>