None of the Above

by I. W. Gregorio

  “What, being gay?” I asked.

  Dr. Cheng blinked. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “That’s what I am, right? I’m a man. But I’ve always liked boys, so . . .”

  “No. Just having a Y chromosome doesn’t automatically make you a man.”

  “Am I trans, then? Like, a man trapped in a woman’s body?”

  She shook her head. “I know it’s really confusing, but chromosomal sex, gender identity, and sexual orientation are all separate concepts.”

  At my blank look, she took out a piece of paper and drew a quick sketch that looked like a gingerbread man. She put a circle around the groin area and wrote SEX. “Your biological sex is usually determined by your chromosomes, but in your case there’s a disconnect—even though you’re XY, externally you look female.”

  Next, she circled the gingerbread man’s brain and wrote GENDER IDENTITY, underlining this twice. “Gender identity is one’s internal sense of whether they’re male or female. It often correlates to one’s external sex, but not always; that’s what being transgender is.”

  Dr. Cheng looked down at my hands, still clutching the stupid intake form. She took it gently from me and spread it. “This box here? You should put female. Because that is how the vast majority of women with the complete form of AIS identify themselves.”

  It took a moment for what she said to sink in. I was supposed to be a girl. A straight girl, even. But what kind of boy could ever love a freak like me? I didn’t know if Sam was the kind—or if I was brave enough to see if he was.

  “Kristin, in a way, you’re very lucky,” Dr. Cheng said. “AIS is a relatively straightforward form of intersex. There are other syndromes where the anatomy is more . . . complex, and all these issues of gender identity aren’t as clear.”

  I didn’t feel lucky, but Dr. Cheng didn’t seem to notice.

  “The next time you come back,” she said, “I want to do a quick pelvic exam. I’ll give you some sedatives to take before, and we can talk about dilation—stretching the vagina naturally. Here’s a sample kit—you can take a look and read about it on your own.” She handed me a nondescript white cardboard box and another pamphlet with pictures of what looked like plastic dildos.

  “What do you mean, stretching myself down there?” I felt like I wanted to throw up.

  “Kristin, I know it all seems very awkward. But with all of this—the medications and the dilation—most women with AIS live perfectly normal lives.”

  Yeah, right.

  “So when can she schedule surgery? To get the . . . testicles removed that may have cancer?” My dad stumbled over the word.

  “Mr. Lattimer, please be reassured that this is just a potential for cancer, and there are risks involved. . . .”

  “I know there are risks,” I said. “But I want those things out of me yesterday.”

  Dr. Cheng sighed. “Why don’t I go print out some information on the procedure so you can review the risks and benefits and really ponder them. Ethically, I need to give you some time to make this decision. Okay?”

  I sagged into my father’s shoulder as Dr. Cheng left.

  “I want those things out.”

  “I know, Krissy. So do I.”

  When Dr. Cheng came back with some handouts, I stared at the hieroglyphics before stuffing them into my purse. I looked at the time on my cell phone. It was getting old, and the paint was starting to chip from its hot-pink case. I wanted to go home.

  “Are we done now?” I asked.

  “It depends,” Dr. Cheng said. “Do you have any more questions?”

  “No,” I lied. Of course I had questions.

  I just didn’t know what they were yet.

  Right after we got home, Aunt Carla showed up. My dad had called her.

  “Oh, Krissy,” she said, wrapping me in her stout hug. She looked like she had been crying, her mascara making large raccoon stains under her eyes. “This must be such a horrible nightmare. Poor, poor Krissy.”

  On the one hand I knew she was probably right, and that my world might never be the same. On the other hand, nothing had really changed about me. I stood stiffly in her arms, self-conscious about her over-the-top pity. “It’s okay. It’s not a disease; it’s not life threatening.”

  “But you’ll need surgery? And your poor father. I haven’t seen him this torn up inside since . . .”

  Since my mother. I felt like I was in the middle of an earthquake, only it wasn’t the ground that was splitting. It was my heart.

  Aunt Carla clutched at my arm. “But I know you’re strong, Krissy. And like your father said, no one needs to be the wiser. You know we’ll love you no matter what. Remember when you were little and your dad always said that he’d love you forever and ever, until the sun fades?”

  I nodded again. In the part of me that wasn’t numb, I did know.

  Though I wished she hadn’t felt the need to tell me.

  CHAPTER 8

  The next day, the world was the same. Nothing about me had changed, either. Yet everything was different.

  On the ride to school, I listened to Faith and Vee carefully. When Vee made fun of Larissa Jermain’s blouse because it looked “mannish,” I squirmed in the backseat. I felt a jolt go through me when Faith cooed over how she wanted to get the new MacBook Pro, the “girly” one. And when they mentioned Sam, going on and on about how many receptions he’d made in the last football game, my heart constricted in my chest.

  I knew I needed to tell Sam. I vowed to myself that I would, soon, when I knew how.

  But what would I say, I wondered, as he sat down next to me at lunch with his usual haul of two cheeseburgers, three Powerades, a salad, and a large basket of fries. He slid his tray over so I could share his fries.

  I gave him a weak smile hello and nibbled at my tuna-fish sandwich. Aunt Carla had made my lunch. She always put too much mayonnaise in it, though I didn’t have the heart to complain.

  “So, Andy is gonna throw another party Friday night,” Sam said, dipping three fries into his ketchup at the same time before shoving them into his mouth. “We should go, since we missed it last time. Remember to bring your bikini. The hot one? I think it was purple.”

  The purple one was a string bikini, and I’d worn it over the summer at the annual Spartan Car Wash. Had the thousands of drivers who passed me been able to see the faint bulge of my testes? I knew there was no way they could possibly know what was inside me, but my stomach did a somersault anyway.

  Sam dug into his cheeseburger and downed it in three bites. “Man, do I need to let loose this weekend. Coach has been kicking our ass in practice.”

  A couple seats away, Bruce glanced down. “Stop whining like a pansy, Wilmington, and remember to bring your balls next week.”

  I blanched, and put my barely eaten sandwich back into my paper bag. I lurched to my feet.

  Sam looked up at me. “You feeling okay?” He had just picked up his second cheeseburger.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just feel like I might be getting a stomach bug, that’s all.”

  “Want one of my Powerades?” he asked, holding up the still-wrapped bottle.

  “That’s okay. I’m going to run to the nurse’s office and see if I can get Tums or something.”

  “’Kay. Later.”

  I never made it to the nurse’s office. Instead, I went to the second-floor girls’ room and sat in a stall until my stomach settled, listening to the rhythm of doors opening and shutting, of water running and the hand dryer blowing. I read the graffiti on the wall from top to bottom. I wasn’t too surprised to see a big BRUCE TORINO = ASSHOLE in red Sharpie, but I was a little peeved to see that someone had written AND VR IS A BITCH underneath it in ballpoint pen. I tried to scratch it out, but the lines were too deep.

  Now that we had a diagnosis, my dad had begun to troll the internet. When I got home from school Wednesday he was sitting in front of the computer with a half-finished cup of coffee. Next to him was that day’s pile of printouts th
at he had specially highlighted for me.

  “Krissy, did you email the support group yet?” my dad asked, tearing himself away from the screen with some difficulty.

  “Not yet.” I unzipped my book bag and hauled out my homework. One of the first things my dad had printed out for me was the AIS-DSD Support Group website. Supposedly they had an email list, and meetings. I couldn’t imagine what they talked about. Hoo-hoo Dilation and the Care and Maintenance of Your Testicles?

  “You should do it, honey. It’ll be good for you. I already heard back from the parent support group.”

  “Dad!” It was so typical. He always forgot that he was not the one with the disease. Or syndrome. Or whatever it was.

  “It’s all right if you’re not ready to contact anyone yet, though. Linda said that you just need to know that they’ll be there when you need them.”

  “Who’s Linda?”

  “The doctor who’s the leader of the parent support group. Her daughter, Maggie, is in her twenties. She just got married and is going to adopt a baby girl.”

  Because she couldn’t have her own baby, I thought. It was selfish to think that adoption wasn’t as good. I knew that. But it didn’t change the way I felt, the gaping hole I could actually feel in my belly, as if I’d been the victim of some organ snatcher. Except I never had a womb to begin with.

  “Krissy, promise me you’ll at least look at the website. You don’t have to email anybody. But they have a whole section for girls who have just learned their diagnosis. It’ll help. I swear.”

  I looked up at my dad. Since I’d started high school, with both indoor and outdoor track, and year-round training, we hadn’t seen much of each other. He’d been switched to a six a.m. shift a few years ago and always went to bed at nine, so when I had late track practice we were ships passing in the night. When I did see him, I never really looked at him. I was surprised to see that his wrinkles had gotten deeper, the creases around his lips there even when he didn’t smile.

  I could do this for him.

  I closed my World History book, not taking my eyes from my dad. “I’ll go up and look at it now.”

  It turned out that my dad was right. The internet was hope.

  There was a group of women smiling at me from the landing page of the support-group website. I clicked on the JUST LEARNED tab with Frequently Asked Questions, the first of which was, “Am I really a girl?”

  The answer was: “Yes you are, really!”

  I know it’s not possible to hold your breath for a whole week, but when I read that line, it was as if I released a breath I’d been holding ever since Dr. Johnson had broken the news. It was only when I saw the answer on the screen in plain black and white that I started to think that maybe my life wouldn’t fall apart after all.

  There were other questions that I hadn’t even formulated in my mind, and more answers. I felt tears prickle in my eyes when I read the very next one:

  What do I tell my partner, family, friends?

  Nothing today; wait until you’re fully informed, and then gradually share when it’s safe and you’re ready.

  That part was less helpful. What did that even mean? How could you tell when it was safe? It wasn’t like people went around with tolerance meters that you could monitor, or signs saying, “Welcome, hermaphrodites!”

  Down at the bottom of the page, there was a picture of a girl holding a brown-and-black terrier. Or maybe it was a stuffed animal—I couldn’t tell. The girl had blond shoulder-length hair, and a great smile. Underneath the photo there was a letter from the girl, from a real, live girl with AIS who lived in Maryland. Who had recently gotten married. Who was in medical school. And who welcomed me to her “sisterhood” and offered up her contact information if I had any questions.

  My dad never asked for much. So I opened my email.

  Subject: New Diagnosis

  At that point I stopped. Who was I supposed to address the message to? There was no contact person listed. I finally decided to not even put in a salutation.

  Hello!

  My name is Kristin. I am 18 and was diagnosed with AIS a week ago. I saw your information on the AIS-DSD website and was interested in joining the support group. I live in Central New York and would love to know if there are any other teens in the area.

  Thank you for your time,

  Kristin Lattimer

  I read the message over once, twice, three times. Did it sound too formal? Was I supposed to give them my address? I typed in the Support Group website and scoured the “Contact Us” section, but it didn’t say anything about giving them my address. So I put in my phone number just in case they wanted to contact me. And with a deep breath, I pressed Send.

  For the next hour, I hit Refresh every five minutes, until I got bored and started looking through the mountain of research that my dad had collected.

  When I used to babysit a lot, before track became a year-round training thing, my favorite activity to do with kids was puzzles. I loved getting down on the floor with them, teaching them what a corner was, and what it meant for an edge to be straight. There’d be that aha moment when things clicked, when they’d start getting that you could rotate pieces, match colors and patterns.

  My life had been one big puzzle, except I never knew it. As I flipped from page to page, reading about AIS and what it meant, everything started to make sense: Why I never got my period—I didn’t have a uterus. Why I never had a problem with acne, and why Sam had thought that I’d gotten a Brazilian wax—something about how my messed-up hormones prevented zits and pubic hair. Why it had hurt so goddamn much my first time—my vagina was too short because my organs didn’t develop right.

  My body missed an exit.

  So I was stranded in no-man’s-land.

  Or more accurately, no-woman’s-land.

  I got about halfway through my dad’s stack before I started feeling restless. It was dinnertime, anyway, so I bounded down the stairs with more energy than I’d had in a couple weeks—since Homecoming, really.

  “Dad! I did it! I emailed the support group.”

  My dad was still hunched by his computer. When he turned around there were tears streaming down his face.

  “What’s wrong? My God, is something wrong with Aunt Carla?”

  He shook his head, and I was shocked to realize that the expression wasn’t one of fear, or anger, or sadness. It was an emotion that I would’ve never thought to have seen on his face.

  Relief.

  He waved me over to his computer. He was reading what appeared to be a magazine article, with a really detailed picture of AIS anatomy. I looked at the diagram, wondering if I was missing something, and then looked back at my father.

  “Dad?” I said.

  He opened his mouth to say something, then closed his eyes.

  “You don’t have a cervix.”

  “Huh?”

  He pointed to the diagram with a trembling finger, and I looked closer. No uterus. No cervix.

  I was never going to die of cervical cancer like my mom.

  And that’s when I started to cry.

  CHAPTER 9

  The first couple of days after my diagnosis, my alarm clock would go off like it always did and I’d stumble to the bathroom half asleep. Then there’d be a moment—as I was brushing my hair or going to the bathroom, for instance—when I remembered that I was a hermaphrodite, or intersex, or whatever people chose to call me.

  The day after I realized I would never die of cervical cancer, though, I woke up knowing what I was. It had settled into my bones, heavy and uncertain.

  It wasn’t supposed to be a running day, but I pulled on my tracksuit anyway. Some people eat comfort food; I take comfort runs.

  Sam was probably already awake, doing strength training in his basement, but I didn’t call him. Having him there running beside me would only muddle me up even more.

  If there’s anything more head-clearing than the air at five in the morning in late October, I’ve never experi
enced it. I’ve always loved running in the cold, loved how my sweat evaporated right away when I ran. The way the wind made my cheeks rosy and smooth, and how I could see my breath scar the air. The cold always made the track faster. Harder on the knees, but quicker on the rebound. I never lost races in the cold.

  You also tended to overthink less when it was close to freezing outside: Don’t look at a problem from so many angles that you lose sight of the real issue. Don’t worry about how your boyfriend will react to your being a hermaphrodite, when you might never be ready to tell him what you really are.

  As I ran back home toward my neighborhood, the early birds started coming out. Mrs. Davidson was a nurse, and her silver Camry was the first car I saw, rear lights glowing like demon eyes in the blackness of predawn. My dad wouldn’t be far behind—he usually got ready for work while I was doing my cool-down stretches.

  I jogged up to our front porch, stepped inside, and in the warmth suddenly things felt less clear.

  The coffee table was still a mess of highlighted printouts. The handout that Dr. Cheng had given me on vaginal dilation lay on top, along with the unopened kit. I’d finally read it the night before. It assured me that dilation “can feel a little strange at first, or unpleasant, but after a short while most women and girls can dilate quite easily.” It gave a link to a YouTube video that demonstrated the dilation process, and described a specialized stool called a “bicycle seat” so you could do it hands-free, in case you wanted to do schoolwork or email while you were growing your own vagina.

  The whole thing made me feel queasy. I shuffled the pamphlet to the bottom of the pile when I heard my dad’s footsteps on the stairs.

  “Morning, Dad,” I said, reaching above the fridge for the cereal and putting it on the table. I sat down in front of my laptop, opened up my mailbox, and saw: