I’ve shared a lot of very personal things on this blog over the years, and today I’m going to share another personal piece of news: I’m intersex.
Most people think that there is a rigid binary between
people who are born with vaginas and people who are born with penises, but the
truth is that there are a lot of people who have genitals that just don’t fit
into this binary. There are also people who don’t have the expected corresponding
internal organs, hormones, and/or chromosomes that generally fit with their genitalia.
The truth is that I don’t know much about being intersex. I’m in my 30s, and I just now found out that I’m intersex. At the risk of
being TMI: my genitals aren’t that different than those of a dyadic (or non-intersex),
cisgender (or non-transgender) woman. At least, they never seemed like that to
me.
I was an early bloomer. I started having sex as a very young
teenager, when I was ignorant about what typical women’s bodies looked like,
and even about what my own body looked like. I spent as little time thinking
about my genitals as I possibly could. I had a cis, dyadic female partner for
four years as a teenager, and neither of us realized that my body was a little
different than hers.
After that, I only slept with dyadic people with penises
until recently. Now, I’m dating a trans man: a man who was assigned the gender
of female at birth. Immediately, I noticed how completely alien his genitals
seemed in comparison to mine.
“I was born prematurely, so I think my genitals never finished
developing,” I explained.
“Does that mean you’re intersex?” he asked.
I paused. I’d never once in my life entertained the notion
that I was intersex. Not even when I’d read the entire 500-something pages of the
novel Middlesex, which details the fictional life of an intersex person.
“I don’t know,” I said.
But I started researching, and quickly found out that yes,
my genital configuration is one that is typical of intersex people.
Why do I mention all this? Because I’m proud to be intersex.
Some intersex people want to distance themselves from the LGBT+ community,
while others feel that they fall squarely under the LGBTQIA+ umbrella. I fit into
the second category.
Even if I wasn’t intersex, I’m also a bisexual and genderfluid woman. I’ve known that I wasn’t straight since I was 12; I had
my first crush on a girl when I was in fourth grade. Being part of the LGBTQIA+
community is incredibly important to me, and an integral part of who I am.
So that’s why it stings so much when people tell me that I’m
not allowed to be part of the LGBTQIA+ community just because I’m also a minor-attracted
person. When I tell people that I belong in the community despite being a map,
I’m met with extreme vitriol, which doesn’t make sense to me.
Being attracted to minors doesn’t cancel out that I’m also
attracted to men, women, and non-binary adults. It doesn’t cancel out that I identify
with a gender different than the one I was assigned at birth. And it doesn’t cancel
out that I’m intersex, that I have different genitals -- and likely hormones
and/or chromosomes -- than the ones I was expected to have.
As a former anti-map, I understand where the sentiment that
maps can’t be part of the LGBTQIA+ community comes from, even if I now vividly
disagree. Maps are universally hated and assumed to be sexual predators; accepting
us as part of the LGBTQIA+ community makes the community look bad in some
people’s eyes.
But it’s hypocritical to say that someone who is
legitimately queer can’t be part of the LGBTQIA+ community just because they’re
widely seen as being a “bad person.” There are all kinds of queer people who
aren’t perfect queer representation -- including queer rapists and abusers, who
are far worse than anti-contact maps -- and they are all allowed to identify as
being part of the community. Let LGBTQIA+ maps be part of the community, too.
Stop telling queer maps that we can’t be part of the
LGBTQIA+ community just because we happen to be attracted to minors. We’re
here, we’re queer, and we’re not going away anytime soon.
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