Before the party, there was church ceremony for the blessing, a professional photographer, limos. We had over two hundred guests. Then there were speeches, tears, a DJ, and hours and hours of dancing. To symbolize my entering into womanhood, my father removed my ballerina slippers and replaced them with white heels. We then danced our father-daughter dance together. I remember feeling so happy. So special. I was growing up, becoming the woman I’d always wanted to be.
Jose’s party wasn’t that. Jose’s party was lacking. Jose’s party was sad.
My cousin and I decorated the hall while Jose got himself ready. We hung streamers and scattered Mardi Gras beads on the tables. When we finished, we were proud of our work. We were happy to make something special for Jose, my baby brother.
I’ll never forget how cute Jose looked in his baggy pants and white collared shirt, his hair freshly cut and in a fade. He got his eyebrows done that day, too—yet another thing boys in our neighborhood did not regularly do. They were still thick, but angled and defined. Looking back, I see how restrained Jose was in this moment. Here he was, at this party that he’d wanted, but still unable to fully be. It was Mardi Gras after all! And this was supposed to be a Sweet Sixteen! I know that he had envisioned something else.
Of course we all had a good time, the whole family together, dressed up and dancing. But here we were, with a DJ and a buffet, in a huge room with hardly anyone to fill it. We had prepared a party for a big crowd of teenagers, and in my head I had hoped that it would be packed, filled with people celebrating him. Our family was there, and our neighbors in the unit below. Jose’s “girlfriend” was there for a short time, too, before her mother came and dragged her home. But that was it. No one from Jose’s school. I looked over at Jose, the Mardi Gras beads around his neck glistening against his white shirt, and watched as he glanced toward the entrance. I saw his smile vanish, just for a second, as he realized that no one else would be coming through that door. I remember, hours into the party, looking around the room and it suddenly seeming bigger. The decorations were up and the lights were going, but the majority of tables remained untouched. Jose didn’t have a lot of friends, and I knew that, but seeing him there, surrounded not by people but by empty space—that broke my heart. And though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at the time, I could tell that my baby brother was not happy.
The party reminded me of all of those other moments I’d noticed throughout the years—moments that should have been filled with excitement and joy: every Christmas morning, every birthday, every celebration, every day that he was forced to feign being happy and content. Here we go again, I thought. I wished that things could have been different for him. I wished that I could have done something. If I had a magic wand, I would stop everything for Jose to have that moment for him to just fully be free. To have a room filled with friends, all accepting of him. To finally be who he longs to be.
Of course, I didn’t have a magic wand. And neither did anyone else in the family. I think that everyone in that room noticed Jose’s disappointment, but none of us said anything about it. None of us wanted to make a big deal about how uncomfortable it must have been for him. And so we danced. We ate the food. We made the best of the situation in the only way we knew how.
I’m grateful that we banded together to celebrate this human being whom we loved so much. It was by no means perfect. We all recognized that Jose was going through identity issues; this was an unspoken truth in our family. And though I wonder now what things might have been like if we had been able to speak more openly about it, I also know that we all used our individual knowledge and tools to show him love and support. So many trans youth lack support from their families. And for trans youth of color, the feeling of isolation, of rejection, can be much worse.
As a mother, I’ve learned how hard it can be to bring up uncomfortable issues with our children. But we need to face our own fears and be there for them when they need us. We need to be there for our children, no matter how they identify. We need to be there for them even if we don’t quite know how. We need them to know that, no matter who they are, they are important to our community. We need them to know that their lives matter and should be celebrated.
Being there for our children also means that we have a responsibility to teach them acceptance, self-love, and respect for others—regardless of whether we share the same worldviews or not. One of the most shocking things I’ve seen is how many parents fail to see how their own behavior and actions affect their children. Acts of hate and discrimination are not innate to our existence as human beings; these are learned behaviors. I have watched bullies get complete support from their parents, who ignore their child’s actions, make excuses, or even blame the victim! We, as parents, need to recognize this fact, become accountable for the actions of our children. We need to teach them how profound an impact their words and behaviors can have on the life of another.
Chapter 7
MARIZOL
You know that feeling a lot of people have when they are little, that feeling of being excited to grow up, to move on to the next thing? In preschool, you’re excited for elementary. In elementary, you’re excited for middle school. In middle school, you can’t wait to get to high school.
It wasn’t like that for me.
For so much of my life, I knew I was different. I knew what it felt like—I knew what it looked like—to be different. Before I started high school, I worried that I wouldn’t make friends. I was scared that I’d be bullied, that I’d be singled out again. I wanted to do good in school, to graduate, to have the kinds of opportunities that only a high school diploma could bring. And I knew that I was on my way to accomplishing something important. But instead of enjoying the process of moving on to something new, the back of my head was always clouded with anxieties, with what-if’s.
I decided not to go to the neighborhood high school, the big school where my brothers went. They straight up told me not to. This was for a lot of reasons: the school was big, the teachers weren’t good, so on and so on. But I couldn’t help but wonder: Do they know how much of an outcast I am? That, there, I’ll just be a target?
I ended up going to a smaller school called Wings Academy, which was a few miles away. Every day, I took the bus to Gun Hill Road, where I got on the 2 or 4 train to East 180th Street. I hoped that someone from my middle school would go there, but it was just me. In some ways, I knew that I should make a fresh start, take this as an opportunity to start showing people the real me. But I always worried—what if they didn’t like the real me?—and so I kept to myself. I tried to do all I could to blend in, to just be a regular teenager. I tried to hide who I was, and I was so uncomfortable. Looking back on it now, I realize that so much of my time was spent trying to ignore my discomfort or avoid situations that made me uneasy. I hoped that I could just make it through the day without an incident.
The bathroom was always a huge source of anxiety for me. I hated using the boys’ bathroom. I knew that guys would play around, bust in on one another in the stalls, and I didn’t want to be caught up in that. At first, I tried to avoid using the bathroom at all costs, but that just wasn’t realistic. Then, I tried to avoid going during times I knew it’d be busy, like passing time or lunch. But still, even when I went during class, I always feared that another guy would be in there, waiting to say something to me, or burst in on me while I was in the stall, or worse.
Giving transgender folk access to the public restrooms that match their gender identity has become a huge concern for many Americans and lawmakers. But when it comes down to it, I want people to understand that we, transgender individuals, are just like everyone else. We want to be able to use the bathroom in peace, to feel safe and secure as we go about our business. We are not trying to harm others or entering bathrooms with dangerous intentions. Unfortunately, many believe the opposite about transgender individuals, and this is a direct result of how we have been stigmatized and portrayed negatively in the media.
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sp; Even to this day, I worry about what is going to happen for me in a public restroom. I worry that someone is going to spook me or make a scene. But in high school, before I transitioned, my fears were much worse. Eventually, if I really had to go, I learned that I could use the single-stall bathroom upstairs, the one specifically meant for staff. All I had to do was ask the front-office secretary for the key. She never questioned me or told me that it wasn’t allowed; instead, she was kind and compassionate. I think that she could sense that I was different and saw me for me. During lunchtime, she helped monitor the cafeteria, keeping order and excusing tables once the period had ended. I’m sure she saw how I was teased. How I always felt alone.
Bathrooms weren’t my only source of stress at school. I had similar anxieties about gym and changing in the locker room. Every year, we got to choose between dance and physical education. I really wanted to take dance, but it was mostly all girls—there may have been a couple of guys, but I was scared what other people would say about me. If they’d make fun of how I danced. If they’d call me names for doing an activity that was mainly for girls.
In middle school, Seli had put me in classes at Alvin Ailey. I liked it at first. I was starting to accept the fact that it wasn’t sustainable for me to always try to hide who I was. Dancing was a way for me to let go, and I was quick to pick up the moves. One of my instructors, though, was especially tough on me. Maybe she knew I had potential and wanted to push me to the next level. But instead of motivating me to try harder, this kind of attention just made me feel self-conscious. I felt like all eyes were on me, and it reminded me of the constant stares I got at school or walking down the street. And more than feeling self-conscious, I remember feeling envious of the other kids who were comfortable in their own skin and could just let it all go. I started to worry about what these confident, talented kids would think about someone like me, so I stopped going. And in high school, it was the same shit: me not doing what I really wanted because I was scared of how others would see me.
So, instead of choosing dance, I chose gym. I had the option of doing weight lifting, but it was all the masculine-type guys. Too much testosterone. I knew I wouldn’t fit in there, either, so I stuck with the normal gym class, where I could blend in better.
At first, it was okay. Our school was small, without a regulation-sized track, and the principal was hesitant about letting us run around outside. Instead, my gym teacher had us walk or jog in the hallway that circled the gymnasium. During these activities, nobody said nothing to me. But when we started playing basketball or volleyball—when we started to have to interact with one another to pass—that was when other kids started noticing me. That was when other kids had things to say. And so instead of changing into my gym clothes, instead of participating, I sat on the bleachers and failed. Every day.
I wasn’t the only one sitting out. A few other kids, kids I knew were bullied, too, had their own reasons to sit out. We talked sometimes. But usually we just sat there, watching everyone else interacting, playing, having fun. Being themselves. Coming into their own.
Now, I see how calculating I had to be just to look out for myself. Can you imagine going through that for so many years, trying to remain low-key so that you won’t be called out or bullied? Thinking about every single move you make, always adjusting your natural voice and patterns of speech—it was like working overtime all the time. And I was just trying to find myself, like everyone else.
ON THE weekends, Isa and I worked as servers at a restaurant in Spanish Harlem, where Seli’s then-husband, Raul, was part owner. I liked being there, it felt like family. But some of the other employees made me feel the same way that I felt at school, so I held back and didn’t let them see the real me.
Luckily, though, I did find my place at the restaurant. Ever since I was young, I’ve loved to cook. To this day, I find that cooking is a way for me to process and deal with my emotions—it nourishes my body and my soul. For me, cooking is an escape and an outlet for healing from all of the trauma I’ve experienced in my life. And cooking a meal makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something productive and good.
In elementary school, I was obsessed with Rachel Ray’s show Thirty-Minute Meals. Whenever I cooked, whether it was omelets and home fries for breakfast or sandwiches for lunch, I pretended that I was a Food Network star with my own show. I acted like I was on set, talking out loud to the viewers at home, explaining each step. By the time I was working at the restaurant, my brother-in-law knew that I had an interest in cooking, and he asked me if I wanted to help out in the kitchen, to be an assistant chef. Immediately, I said yes.
I loved working with Chef Diego. He was a funny, chubby Mexican guy with a big smile and a kind soul. He was not the judgmental type, and so I never felt unwelcome or uncomfortable around him. He was just cool, always smiling and laughing, always in good spirits. And being able to cook set me free. I was more comfortable in the kitchen with Diego than I was at school, and even though I was there every single day, from three-thirty or four in the afternoon until eleven at night, I never felt burned out or unhappy when I was at work. In fact, it was just the opposite, like my little getaway.
At first, Chef Diego had me prep the ingredients for each dish. Washing, chopping, slicing, mixing—the works. He saw that I was a fast learner, that I’d had experience in the kitchen, and soon, I started taking orders from the floor, making the dishes, and sending them out myself. I had it all memorized: the ingredients, the prep work, the recipes. Once, after having surgery, Chef Diego was out of the restaurant for three weeks. For some reason, the other chef who worked there had just up and left, leaving me as the one in charge. It was the best experience ever. I felt good, confident. This is for me, I thought. It was only when I was in the professional kitchen, in charge of the restaurant, that I remembered the aspirations I had when I was a kid, of becoming a chef and having my own show. For the first time in my life, I had a taste of what my future could be.
My brother-in-law would always say to me: “If you’re feeling like this is too much with school and everything, just let me know. It’s okay if you are—school comes first.”
Even though I loved my job, and the confidence it gave me, I was starting to feel drained. I was finding it hard to function at school. Even my teachers were noticing how tired I was all the time. And I didn’t want to fail. I wanted to graduate, to go to college, to move on to bigger and better things.
After three months, I made the decision to quit. Working at the restaurant didn’t change my experience at school, but it did give me an outlet to express myself. (And, at ten dollars an hour, I felt like I was raking it in!) So when the job was over, I didn’t have anything else to distract me from all of the worries, all of the anxieties, all of the calculating that defined my days.
THE ONLY person I really talked to about what I was going through was Kimberly, the girl who lived downstairs. We had that type of relationship where it was just easy to be around one another and open up. She went to a school two stops past mine, so we took the bus and train together every morning and afternoon. And at night, we’d sit on the porch for hours, gossiping and sharing secrets. She told me things about her and her boyfriend that shocked me, but it made me feel comfortable telling her about myself, about how alone I felt at school.
Other times, when I was alone at home, I’d go out onto our roof and watch the sun set behind the Tracey Towers, thinking about my dreams and what I wanted to become, wishing that my life could be different. Wishing that I could be myself 100 percent. I had so many questions about who I was, who I was going to become, that I didn’t even know where to start. But there was something about sitting up there—the quiet of it all, the view of this large city all around me—that made me feel better.
I didn’t have any words to really describe what I was feeling, but “gay” felt like the closest. For much of my life, people always told me that’s what I was. When I denied it to kids at school, they’d just tell me that I was de
lusional. Was I? I tried to think it through: I certainly was attracted to guys—and I’d rather have been one of the girls than be with them. So, I must be gay, right? I thought. I mean, what else could I be?
Part of me felt like there was still something more to it than that, but I decided that I needed to tell someone, and that someone was Kimberly. I went outside, into the yardita, and stepped onto our neighbor’s doorstep to see if I could see her inside her living room or dining room. When I spotted her, I knocked on the door, and she and I sat out on the front porch like we always did. Eventually, I mustered up the courage.
“Kimberly?” I said. “I need to tell you something—”
She looked at me. “Yeah?”
“Well—I’m gay.”
She smiled. “Jose,” she said, “I know!”
She knows? But how?
I wasn’t even sure, but it felt good to get it off my chest and confide in someone. I laughed and shrugged. I guessed that if she knew, then it must be true. After this, I felt a little more confident. Maybe I could start showing people the real me.
I STARTED finding people on Myspace who seemed more accepting and more like me than the kids at my school were. And there was one guy I met who stood out from all the others. His name was Jayden. He identified as gay, but he looked kinda hood, like a bad boy. In his profile picture, he wore Pepe jeans and a Sean John shirt. He was my ideal definition of masculinity, and I loved that. There was also something about him that made me feel secure. He wasn’t ashamed of who he was, and he was open about his sexuality—even his family knew that we’d been chatting! Once, while we were talking, he put them on the phone. I was flustered and didn’t know what to say. I never would have expected them, a Latinx family like my own, to be so comfortable with the whole thing. It got me thinking: maybe it would be okay if I came out to my family. But not yet. I was not ready for that yet.
My Sister Page 7
