V.K. CHAND

cw – cissexism, transphobia, colorism, racism, slavery, ableism, regionalism, violence

SOMETHING’S GOT TO GIVE & IT SURE AS HELL WON’T BE ME

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There are things nobody tells you about being intersex, right up there with the fact that you are intersex. It all boils down to extremes. One, nobody knows how your condition is inherited. Two, everyone knows it’s genetic. One, your mother does anything she can to deny the fact that this means something. Two, your mother is fearful of what this means for all the women in the family that perhaps this is something different. One, you are balding at sixteen. Two, you can grow a full beard better than any white boy in junior year. One, your body is not really cut out for American suburbs. Two, you wouldn’t survive anywhere else. 

When you were six years old, an uncle who probably isn’t actually related to you told you that you wouldn’t get married because you were too dark. Here’s the thing: the first time India wins the World Cup, your mother’s sibling is born. The second time India wins, your sibling is born. Between wickets, Fair & Lovely ads play on TV. Every time you buy makeup, Mummy compares the color on the bottle to your skin. If it matches, she puts it back. Unless it’s two shades lighter, she doesn’t buy it. You’re brought up in a self-loathing family. You hope to God you haven’t internalized it. 

One, in 1943, the British orchestrated a famine in Bengal that murdered somewhere between 2-4 million people. Two, every history class about WWII, we learn about what a fucking hero Winston Churchill was. One, your father’s family hates letting people know where they’re from. Two, you are the only one in your generation interested in your ancestry.

You’re sworn to secrecy about anything relating to class, so let’s talk about this instead. Your uncle spit into a tube a few years ago, sent the DNA all the way up to 23andme and got the testing done. Your uncle is the son of the oldest son of the oldest son. Four generations ago, someone left our homeland and landed in the Caribbean. It would be ridiculous to assume they left for any reason other than indentured labor, considering you have distant relatives everywhere the British had plantations. Once you asked my history teacher if she knew about the indentured Indian labor trade. She said at least it wasn’t slavery. At least you were born in the United States. At least your parents were born in India. You found out later on that you were the first person she had ever met from East India. Because you live in a town listed on the Wikipedia page for Little Indias, you cannot fathom the fact that nobody knows where you come from. You know six girls named Shreya. None of them can point out Ranchi on a map. Once, the Indian Student Association put out an infographic about the lack of South Indian representation in the media. In the North-South split, where does that leave you? The Indian government doesn’t even recognize your grandmother’s language. The way Northeastern Indians are treated is glossed over in the name of solidarity. How much more can you take?

One, you were one of the first members of your family born in the hospital. Two, you have stayed in a hospital more times than you can count. One, every year you pull fifteen test tubes of your own blood and try to figure out what else is wrong with you. Two, your mother likes to pretend you’re completely normal. One, you’re technically protected by the ADA. Two, nobody looks at you and sees someone who needs protecting.

This is not your history to tell. 0.2% of all Indian immigrants in the United States are from Jharkhand. You don’t know if that WhatsApp statistic is still true. Sometimes you know why your dad doesn’t want you to specify where you come from aside from the obvious. Once, there was a Punjabi substitute teacher who asked you where you were from. Because you didn’t know any better, you actually answered. She made you stand in the hallway for the rest of class when the girl next to you spilled water on the floor. According to Wikipedia, politicians say that students like you spoil the atmosphere of cities when they try to learn—this in regard to a student being beaten to death in 2016. Have you ever met a poet with a story like yours? Who would tell it if not you?

One, you are more than demographics that are part of your identity. Two, you are nothing without them. One, you might be the first of your kind. Two, you hope to God you’re not, because that’s a devastating burden for your art to carry. One, you have been between sexes since birth. Two, you have been between genders since you were fifteen. One, the white girl who was born a white girl in your history class (white girl who plays devil’s advocate, white girl who writes about her universal experiences in English) says this is identity politics. Two, what are you supposed to do if your identity is political? One, you are an individual first. Two, you are a collective first. One, the last time you told someone what was going on, you quoted a Matt Mitchell poem because the title “INTERSEX BOY WATCHES EPISODE 179 OF FRIENDS FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE COMING OUT.” was too descriptive to give up. Two, fuck the last person you told, because they said you were making things up. 

The only thing you’ve ever felt, really truly felt, is the duplicity of being in-between. Too gorgeous for this world. Too wondrous to change it. There’s this movie that isn’t meant for you that asks if all lovers think they’re inventing something. Sometimes you wonder if everything’s already been invented. If there’s space for you to tell your story. Baby, own it. You could swallow the world raw if you wanted. Still, you thrive—despite, despite, despite.

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