There is a girl, except when she was born her
parents were told that she was a boy, which is a bit of a shame
because that is the one thing she cannot be. You see, she is AIS -
that is she is genetically incapable of responding to testosterone.
Does not matter how much she is given, not a chance, not even
slightly. She is, and must always be, female. It is the only
biochemical option that her body will allow, no matter how hard
anyone tries to fill her with male hormones.
But, in spite of this simple unalterable
biological fact, for the first twelve years of her life she was
brought up as a boy. The word “male” on her birth certificate. A
boy's name. Boys' cloths. Boys' toys. Boys' schools. The whole works.
Her parents were determined that she was going to be a boy – only
it was a lie, an impossibility, a torture. Like many intersexuals she
had ambiguous genitals at birth. The doctor pronounced “bring it up
as a boy – we can make any adjustments that are needed when it is
older” and that was that.
Illusion, delusion, deception, misconception.
Who knows, but the little girl knew she was a
girl, knew it through and through. She liked girls' things and
thought girl thoughts. When she could get away with it she played
girl games and wore girls' clothes. She liked girl friends and she
liked girl giggles. And when she was twelve the explosion came.
Breasts. Whoops. Boys do not have breasts, but there they were
growing there on her chest, quite naturally. And her body was getting
curvy and round. Oh dear, she was becoming quite obviously not a boy.
The crisis lead to her being taken away from her
boys' school, from her friends, from her home and all that she knew.
The crisis took her to London and to a clinic where they poked and
prodded and hummed and hawed and said “you are not a boy – you
are a girl”. Which was fine by her, but not so fine by her parents,
who did not want tell all of the people that they knew that their boy
and turned into a girl; or even worse, to have to use unspeakable
words like “she is a freak – a hermaphrodite – an intersexual”.
They could not face the shame.
And did they make her know that she was their
shame! Their unmentionable! Something never to be even hinted at in
conversation. Something to be hidden and denied. When she grew up
they spurned her. Did not want to know or acknowledge her. Distanced
themselves from her and from any mention of what she was, or where
she was, or what she was doing. Her shaming and shunning was
complete.
The little girl was now a woman, but one who was
ashamed. Very ashamed of her biology. Very ashamed of being
different. Very ashamed that although she looked like a woman, walked
and talked like a woman, made love like a woman, she was not quite
like a woman, not in every last respect. She was a woman without a
womb. No periods. No ghastly PMT. No cramps and pains, and definitely
no babies or chance of babies. And male chromosomes. A tiny little
difference that haunted her, that tainted her, that made her feel
unclean.
Like most women she fell in love. Got close to
someone. Began to trust them. Began to feel that she wanted more than
just being “friends with benefits”. She would steel herself for
the moment of revelation. Would they reject her like her parents had?
She told. They rejected. Sometimes they threw in
insults to boot. And sometimes they beat her up. Some beatings were
only mild – if any beating can be mild. Others were worse, blue
light and hospital jobs when she was found. Then stum. Not a word.
Not a mention of the cause. Do not let on, whatever you do, whatever
questions are asked, do not let on.
And never lay a complaint, especially not a formal
one. Not one that will lead to questions, that might lead to
revealing the horrid truth. Not one that would unmask, would disclose
and expose the shame of what she was.
Then came the rape. And after the rape, the
taunting exposure by trolling on the internet. But she dare not
report the abuse. That would mean going public about her intersex;
something so utterly shameful that even being raped is better.
But the taunting and trolling continued. She was
being outed. Vilely outed. She was being called “freak” and being
call “unnatural” and being called “sick” and being called
“mutant” and being called “perverted” and being call
“disgusting” and “revolting” and made to feel the shame,
every last drop of the shame.
She thought of suicide. She thought of ending it.
She thought of punishing the freak that she was by death, by
extinguishing that which had revolted her parents, by erasing the
error that she was.
She told the police of the rape. They said they
would not be able to keep her intersex a secret. That if it went to
court they would have to out her big time, very very big time. Big
time in the press. Big time in the media.
And then there was the question - can someone who
is intersex really be raped? Would it count as rape? Would it be seen
as the same? After all, not a real vagina, not a real rape. The media
would have a wonderful time with that one.
And the discussions in court about anatomy and
medical alteration, and about genetics and sexual identity. Diagrams
and intimate questions and doubtful jurors. Cross questioning lawyers
pulling your being to pieces, dissecting your physical identity and
dismantling your intentions.
The fear made her know: she could not, would not,
must not go to court. No matter what, she could not look for relief
or protection there; that is only for those that are normal.
So it is simple: if you are intersex you can be
raped with impunity.
