Defrocked

“Typical of a man-woman - any guy would know exactly what their car is. Only women don't.” said in a slightly dropped voice as an aside to the other bloke in the room: a shared confidence of a knowing between real men. So it starts, the separating off, the marking you out. The labelling. You’re different, and that difference is now flagged up between the reals. You feel the undertow of condescension. Your right to be fully human — a member of the man-club — is no longer there.

A chance to reprieve yourself is proffered. OK. You have replaced your car. So how many miles had the old one done? The question is asked.

“I don’t know” I reply, honestly, falling straight into the elephant trap.

Another aside - audible, but only just, and knowing looks exchanged between real men:

“Just what you would expect from a man-woman; men always know how many miles their cars have done!”

I am caught out. Defrocked. A sinking feeling of disappointment — I had hoped for more — some tolerance, if not acceptance — and now I have that feeling of a yawning gap opening — a knowing inside that my difference has been spotlighted — that it matters, that it can’t simply be accepted — that it cannot be left uncommented on. It needs to be drawn to attention: the real men closing ranks.

I can’t help being me, and I know that my difference is always likely to be on the radar, but I hope on hope that it does not matter, that it will pass unremarked, just accepted, like differences in height, or the pitch of voices, or signs of ageing, or the colour of eyes. I would love people to think “That’s how you are — OK — fine — no problem, after all we are all different.”

But then something confuses, something is not acceptable, something cannot be left to pass. It discomforts. I can hear the thinking: “This seeming man — are you really a man? Or do we switch into reacting to a woman mode? Definitely not — you seem to be mostly a man — so maybe your a gay? Or perhaps your a trans? Your not giving out gay man signals, so perhaps you a mix up - a man-woman – a transsexual – or whatever the freaks call themselves. So how do we react to you? Your not a woman so we can't react that way. You do not seem to be gay, so we don't need to fear you coming on to us, and we don't need to give you big put-downs, or think of beating you up. So what do we do? – because you are not completely a bloke, whatever you are.”

It would be so much simpler if I were clearly a woman. They’re different in men’s minds. They are the other. They do not function the same. They are the ones you ogle, the ones you pass comment on as to their ‘fitness’ — that is, their shaggability; or comment on the strangeness of their minds — so utterly unfathomable — that inability to even understand what seems so self-evident, so simple and so important — like how the wires go in a plug, or how to change the oil in a car. No one needs telling those things, no one needs to be shown, not once they are a bloke. It is just understood that you know. You learned as you grew up - just absorbed it. You watched other guys and that’s that. From then on you know. But women, you tell them, you show them, and then you have to tell them again! Yes again! Unbelievable! It like they don’t want to remember - or can’t remember — even simple things, like what is the right order for turning on the heating, or for setting the security alarm. And they stick together, think in harmony, gang up on you with glances and looks to each other; and then on goes the disapproval. And they are emotional time bombs. You are never quite sure what is going to freak one out — and then an utter torrent of accusation and blame — and whatever you say is simply shredded. No, women you handle with safety gloves. You make forays with sexual teasing – just in case they are game – will she, wont she flirt? – is she up for it? That is if she is not a minger, or a moose – but who would with one of those? Or at least who would admit to with one of those? Well you have to sometimes – but never let the boys know. As for the old trouts – the wrinklies and crinklies – humour them or patronise them – but keep well clear. And then when you are safely with the other guys, disparage and belittle the whole tribe with a few shared demeaning remarks and shrugs of agreement as to their incomprehensibility: a shared distain. Its OK, women are not actually fully human, not like men; they are not lords of the earth – they are not part of the man-army. They cannot march with the guys. They have to be set apart, set aside, confined.

But I am not a woman — but then neither am I totally a man. I’m a blend, a cut-and-shut job - dropped by nature to be somewhere between in that no-man’s-land that is neither fully the one nor the other. I don’t trigger that “react to a woman mode” that blokes fall into, somewhere between condescension and allure. Neither do I trigger the “it’s OK, he’s one of us and he is not gay” which lets you into the club. No. First the tacit acceptance, then, slowly, some puzzlement. Something doesn’t fit, something discomforts. The reactions are just wrong. The movements not wholly manly. Then it’s the reaching for another label - the man-woman sticker - the she-male; and you can feel the caution and the distance, and, most obviously, the contempt and the pity. It oozes, unspoken.

The Rape of a Girl

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.