Still I Rise

Years ago I would not have had the courage to write my story. I was too ashamed to tell anyone my “secret.”

I was born June 11, 1963 in Chicago. I found out thirty–seven years after my birth that I was born with severe hypospadias and a bifid scrotum. Surgery was performed at birth, leaving me with a micropenis. My labia were fused to form a scrotum. After a couple of days in the hospital, my parents were able to take home their baby “boy.”

Throughout my childhood I had urinary tract infections because of the surgery to move my urethra from the base of the penis to the tip. For years I would get a burning sensation in the middle of the penis after urination. My endocrinologist at the time concluded that I had an infection of some type, but it was never explained to me where it originated.

My mother raised me with my seven siblings on the south side of Chicago. Aside from me jumping rope with the girls, playing with dolls, and sitting when I peed, I had a pretty normal childhood. From an early age, I knew I was different. I was effeminate, and was often called “faggot” by everyone in the neighborhood, including my own brothers. I always liked hanging out with girls. In fact, I believed that I was a girl until my mother, a minister, beat it out of me. Literally.

At the age of nine, I was first admitted to a teaching hospital. It was there that I was treated for growth hormone deficiency, hypothyroidism, panhypopituitarism, hypoadrenalism, and hypogonadism. At age 14, while other boys in high school were beginning to become young men, my voice got higher and I started growing breasts. My endocrinologist diagnosed me with gynecomastia and started me on testosterone injections to stop the breast growth, and to help with the masculinization process. To me these changes confirmed what I believed all along: I was indeed female.

I took male hormone injections for five years. My endocrinologist convinced me that I could be a “normal” male if I took male hormones; I didn’t want to be male, I wanted to be female. But no one asked me what I wanted. Besides, the testosterone was making me sick. I wouldn’t be diagnosed with PAIS (Partial Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome) until a number of years later. I still remember trips to the hospital like they happened yesterday. There were multiple IVs, MRI’s, CAT scans, and photos taken of me. I still have flashbacks of standing in front of the graph board, naked, while strangers walked in and out of the room.

There was no one I could talk to about this. I was never allowed to tell my friends why I was hospitalized numerous times a year. In the black community you don’t talk about family secrets. And that’s what I was, a secret. I would go to school between the hospitalizations and pretend everything was okay. I hated my life. I hated being different. I would get teased in school, but I managed to survive it.

One day on a routine office visit—I had to be around 16 at that time—my endocrinologist told me that I was infertile, and could never have kids. He didn’t offer any psychotherapy, just smiled and said “I’ll see you in three months”. I went home that afternoon and attempted suicide for the first time.

I was hospitalized every summer, for weeks at a time, for testing. My endocrinologist and his parade of residents awakened me every morning in the hospital. They stood by my bed, peeking under my gown, and talking about me like I was not present. I discontinued my visits to the hospital, and all medications, at the age of twenty–four. I just wanted to be normal, but I knew I wasn’t.

The next ten years of my life were full of drinking and getting high, trying to forget that I was different. I did have girlfriends in that time, and I even got married. I was convinced that a...