Share

Share this

Share on Facebook Share on Facebook Tweet Share on Twitter Share on WhatsApp Share on WhatsApp

SUBSCRIBE TO THE NEWSLETTER

I was born in the 1980s in a private hospital in Mexico City. At birth, the doctor announced that I was a healthy baby girl, but a few moments later, to my parents' surprise, they informed me that they weren't actually sure if I was a boy or a girl. I had genital differences, or "ambiguous genitalia."

The doctors told my parents they would need to perform a blood test to determine my chromosomes and assign me a sex. The result was XX, I was assigned a girl, and after several tests, I was diagnosed with non-salt-losing congenital adrenal hyperplasia (CAH).

In my case, I was born with a clitoris that was larger than what is considered “normal” for a woman and with a urogenital canal, meaning my urethra and vagina open into the same place.

To this day, I am grateful that doctors back then did not offer my parents the option of “feminizing” genital surgery. This is a medically unnecessary procedure commonly performed on babies and young girls who, like me, are born with genital differences or “ambiguous ” genitals. During the surgery, the clitoris is cut to reduce its size and a vaginal canal is created that can allow for penetration. People who have undergone these procedures have reported them as violations of bodily integrity and self-determination, and as Intersex Genital Mutilation, to human rights organizations around the world.

The doctor spoke of my body as a disease

From the moment I was diagnosed, I had to undergo blood tests twice a year, and I was taken to an endocrinologist, who performed a physical exam in which he touched my genitals and checked how I was developing. These genital exams are performed on everyone with bodies similar to mine, and all over the world, it's been denounced as unnecessary. In my case, I had to go through them from when I was a baby until I was approximately 12 years old, twice a year. Those kinds of experiences were very complicated. It was very difficult for me to be there, undress in front of the doctor, and have him touch my body and genitals, while I had to answer strange questions: "Do you feel anything?" or "Does it hurt if I do this?" What is a 5- or 6-year-old girl supposed to answer to those questions?

During these consultations, my mother was usually present. This gave me security, but it also caused me great conflict since her presence endorsed these examinations that made me so uncomfortable.

I always felt like something wasn't right. They scared me, made me feel helpless, and vulnerable. The doctor talked about my body using words like: disease, hypertrophy, strange, unusual, correction, abnormality, virilization, all while touching me. At the time, I was too young to understand it all, but over time, the frequency of the checkups and the words used hurt me. I became increasingly reserved, and a feeling of sadness set in, as if something was "wrong" with me, only I wasn't sure exactly what it was.

A surgery “to be able to have sexual relations”

When I was 8 years old, I was taken to another doctor at a public specialty or tertiary hospital in Mexico City. The visit was to assess the possibility of genital surgery. We went to that hospital, and all my mom told me was that they would examine me "like the other doctor did"—that is, a genital exam.

I was really angry. I didn't want anyone else to see me. I told them I didn't want to go, but they forced me to go and forced me to have my genitals examined and touched by three doctors at the same time. It was a very traumatic and frustrating experience. Finally, the doctors told my mom that I would need genital surgery so that I "could have sex," but that it was best to do it when I was older, and that it should be done "three months before I married my husband." I was 8 years old! What husband were they talking about? Why did they think that sex only happens within marriage? I have never shared the idea that the only way to enjoy a body like mine is to fit into the heterosexual mold of marriage and vaginal penetration.

I discovered exactly what the reason for those horrible genital examinations was when in high school they showed two illustrations, one of male genitals and the other of female genitals. Upon seeing them, I immediately noticed that my genitals did not resemble either of the illustrations: "I'm deformed!" I thought in anguish. I was in shock; no one had ever told me about this.

One day, while my mom was at work, I started searching my entire house for any medical records that might shed some light on what was happening to me, on why I was so different from other people. I finally found a folder full of medical records, and in them, I read for the first time "female pseudohermaphroditism" and "congenital adrenal hyperplasia." I wasn't entirely surprised to find those words; somehow, they made sense to me, and I finally felt I was close to answering those questions that had haunted me for much of my life.

The path to activism

I began researching this new term "intersex" and devouring everything I could find on the subject, and over time, I began to value my body and its characteristics more. I also found a video featuring a Mexican intersex girl with a condition similar to mine. I was able to contact her and chat with her. She was someone who helped me greatly redefine my body, and therefore, my life. Thanks to all this information, I gradually healed the negative feelings I had toward my body and its characteristics.

Over time, I founded a project to help others born with bodies like mine, and finally, on October 27, 2013—the day after Intersex Awareness Day—the story of the Intersex Compass . First, it was a Facebook page where I shared the information that had helped me heal and some Spanish translations of important English-language articles written by intersex activists and people.

Then it started happening: people who identified with the experiences and information I shared began to reach out. I talked to them and offered information and emotional support. I met many people like me, with very difficult stories as well, who had experienced equally complex or even more difficult situations. I talked with them and supported them however I could. Over time, I opened a website, where I shared the Spanish translations I had made, videos, and my own personal story. I encouraged others to share their stories as well, and the project grew with the support of many people who joined.

My life now has a purpose, and that is to help other intersex people and their families not feel as alone as I once did , and to prevent the most basic human rights of intersex babies and children from continuing to be violated. So I have created and maintained the Intersex Compass that showed me the path to a more fulfilling life, so that it may also serve every person who feels lost and alone, so that they may find us, and thus find the strength to move forward and overcome adversity.

I know I can't change THE world, but I can make an effort to guide some people to change THEIR world , because change doesn't come from the outside in, but from the inside out. And I believe that the greatest well-being in life comes from what we as people contribute to the world, not from what we take from it. And that's what I try to do. I want to leave this world knowing that I did what I could to contribute my bit. Possibly if I hadn't lived through all this, I would lead a quite different life, a much more ordinary one, but ordinary isn't always better.

*Mexican intersex activist. Founder of the Brújula Intersex project. This is an adaptation of a text that earned her the inaugural Raquel Berman Prize for Women's Resilience in the Face of Adversity in 2019.