My life began just outside Boston, in mid September, 1978. We lived in a middle class town that was divided into opposite sides for upper middle class and lower middle class. I grew up on both sides of that dividing line, starting from the lower middle class position where my parents began. My dad was in night school at a state college when I was born, working part time at the job he stayed in until retiring just a couple years ago. He went far in that company, working hard.

My parents have been friends since high school where they graduated together and got married when they were twenty-two years old. They even have the same Pisces birthday. Their wedding was at the height of disco and my dad looked like John Travolta from “Saturday Night Fever” in his white tuxedo. My mom and her bridesmaids all looked like women from “The Godfather”. They all wore giant sun hats and dresses resembling night gowns. Their friends all had 1970’s hair, and my parents danced to “Danny’s Song” by Loggins and Messina, which has powerful meaning to me to this day.

I came into the world two years after they were married. It was around the time that punk and hip hop were born onto the radio, and they were born onto me as well. Like punk and hip hop, I came from the underground. I was different. I was born intersex. From what I’ve been told by the doctor who diagnosed me, I may have been born with a small penis that was removed at birth. This isn’t what my parents say, however. They say I was born with Jaundice. I don’t remember the whole story and I’m not comfortable asking them now because there were huge problems caused by me finding out I was intersex and wanting answers. I’m fairly positive they knew I was operated on at birth, but that they still don’t wanna admit it because that’d mean they had answers all along that may have helped me accept myself; although they were probably worried it would make me hate myself even more, and it may have back then. Knowing that I was really “a freak” like everyone always said, may have pushed me over the edge. I can’t entirely blame my parents if they kept it from me to protect me, but they raised me as a girl, and in many ways I felt I was brainwashed by them and society to make sure I never realized the truth. It all made me feel incredibly different, with no answers as to why. Intersex children are often kept secret, operated on at birth so as not to shame our families, even though it’s as common as being born with red hair.

I didn’t find out I was intersex until after my tragic twenty-third birthday, in 2001.

This book was written in part to paint a picture of how the public system failed us all; intersex or not. Maybe it’ll help us figure out what needs fixing in this new reality we’re entering. Things are evolving, and while some changes are good, we have a long way to go! We need to evolve, but let’s do it right! Let’s truly improve our world and the quality of life for the people in it, because if not, we’re gonna fall apart as a species.

​Chapter 1:

​Nursery School

​“Other”

Somewhere in the chaotic mess of my apartment, I have a photo of myself on my first day of Nursery School. I was just about four years old. My skin was tan from being outside all Summer and my hair was light blonde; worn as a bowl cut. I was wearing a dress, but climbing on the railings. I had a pissed off look on my face. My first day in the system had just ended, and I hated it. I didn’t like the world I was forced to enter and having to play by society’s rules! This shit was not for me, and I knew it on the very first day!

The Nursery School I attended was the First Baptist Pre-School, although I was raised Catholic. All religions together play a part in the society we’ve built, especially Christianity. It plays into the full spectrum of what I see as “the system,” at least the current one. It shouldn’t, but it does.

That first day of school, I was angry because the teachers divided the class, with boys on one side and girls on the other. The only reason I even wanted to go to school to begin with was that my mother said my best friend Matty was gonna be there. At school, I found out that because I was a “girl” or at least assigned female at birth, I wasn’t allowed to play with Matty or most of my other friends. I was “othered” from them immediately…seen as less than them. To be a girl in society meant that I was weak. I wasn’t weak though, and I still knew that early on.

It was a rough year for me. I think something bad may have happened to me on Halloween, for one thing. I also remember finding, or thinking I found a dead body in the woods with my friends across the street. I don’t remember much of the details, but those kids ended up pretty messed up too, and there were other murders in that part of town years later.

My Grammy died that year as well. We were back and forth visiting her at the Cape Cod Hospital a lot, but my mom, my baby sister Liz, and I were home when she died. My dad was down the Cape, and he called to tell us. I was looking through a junk drawer in the kitchen when my mom said “Grammy died,” and I dropped the drawer on the floor by accident. Junk went flying everywhere and my mom snapped. She picked me up and threw me against a wall of mirrors, which shattered. I was covered in glass, and probably blood. I don’t remember it well anymore, but I can sort of understand my mom’s rage; at least at this point in my life. I can understand why she snapped and physically abused me in that moment; not that it was okay. That’s part of why I’m glad I didn’t have my own kids. I could snap like that too. The rage from PTSD is hard to manage.

Mr. Hooper had just died on Sesame Street not long before my Grammy died, and it was because of how they portrayed his death on the show that I had a full understanding of it when my mom told me about Grammy. Sesame Street has always been a beautiful example of “fighting and righting” the system. They’ve always been ahead of their time. I consider Jim Henson to be a bit of a God for the world he created. It was always a socialist program, paid for by the public, and it taught the most vulnerable kids important lessons. I bet Sesame Street has saved hundreds of thousands of kids over the years, the way a good teacher, therapist, or social worker does for those who need it; certainly for me. I’ve been lucky to always find good people working in the system and have never hated anyone working within it just based on the fact that the system is faulty. Yes, the system sucks, but there are more good people in it than bad. Unfortunately there is bad everywhere in the system, and many tend to side with their bad co-workers rather than the people accusing their co-workers of abuse. This is one of the problems. People who work in the system out of the kindness of their heart tend to naturally assume their co-workers do as well.