My Sister

by Selenis Leyva

  The supervisor came, and I explained the situation. I showed him all of my documents, and I told him that this was my legal right. I felt so proud for standing up for myself. It was like I was my own lawyer. When I finished speaking, he looked at his employee and said, “So, what’s the problem here?”

  She just sat there and said nothing. Finally, she made the change and gave me the paperwork I needed.

  Thankfully, that first morning at Ali Forney was different. “Hey, good morning,” Ms. Kane said to me with a smile. “I want to ask: how do you identify, and what are your pronouns?”

  Yes! I thought. This was the first time in my life someone had asked me these questions, and I was thrilled.

  “I identify as transgender, and my name is Marizol. You can use female pronouns: she/her/hers.”

  “Okay, great. It’s nice to meet you, Marizol.”

  The kids around me were listening, and after Ms. Kane left, they came up to me.

  “That’s a pretty name!” said one boy named Louis. He and I would become very close. He was gay and super feminine, and we always joked that he was my daughter, and I, his mother.

  “Oh thank you!” I said. “It means Ocean-Sun.”

  “Wow,” he said. “You definitely look like a Marizol!”

  Chloe, another trans girl, approached me. “Now I don’t feel alone! I have one of the girls here with me!”

  “Yes, girl!”

  I couldn’t believe how easy it was or how natural this all felt. Here I was, with people who could not only relate to me but also accept me for me, without any judgment. Up until this point, I had never been in a living situation with people who were so open and inviting. I had discovered who I was through other trans girls I met like Miranda, but because trans people often have to live on the edges of society, away from their families or support systems, a kind of survival mode can dominate many friendships. On the streets, I saw trans women betray one another or criticize each other about their looks or ability to pass as cis-women. Because I was young and on my own, I was often afraid of being stepped on by the more experienced girls. I tried to learn from them and be accepted by them, but still, I kept my distance.

  But from the first moment I walked into Ali Forney, I felt warmth and support and love. Everyone was so welcoming and inviting. It felt like home.

  Soon after, I went to go meet with my caseworker. I was waiting in the computer room, where residents could work on their résumés or job applications, when I heard someone say, “Marizol?”

  It was Natasha, my caseworker. Ms. Kane must have spoken to her, telling her not to use my birth name.

  Oh, shit! I thought. Y’all on point! I felt even more reassured that I was in the right place. That good things were going to come from my experience at the center.

  NATASHA WAS an amazing influence in my life. She is the reason I was able to get my life together. She was always spot-on with anything I needed help with. After I explained my situation, our relationship opened up, and she became not only my caseworker but also my mentor. When I spoke to her about my problems, she gave me advice, always grounding me. Her presence was nothing but positive.

  She’d tell me things like, “You are here for a reason.”

  Or, “You are gonna get your life together.”

  Or, “Just keep doing what you need to do. I’ll be here, keeping you on track.”

  I met with her every week, and every meeting, she helped me further my goals. She helped me fix my résumé and apply for jobs. She put me in touch with Americe, an attorney from the Urban Justice Center, a nonprofit organization that offers free legal services and advocacy for those in need in New York City. Americe would represent me at the hearing to have my name legally changed, and the Urban Justice Center would cover my court fees.

  In addition to meeting with Natasha once a week, the Ali Forney Center provided me with a foundation of support to begin living a stable, independent life. The center sets up a savings program for its residents—with every check you received from a job or government program, the center withheld a small amount and deposited it into a savings account for you. Then, when you were ready to move out, you had enough put away to pay for the deposit on your own apartment.

  We were also required to attend group therapy sessions, where we discussed our experiences with issues like discrimination and self-doubt. Before joining the center, I had never heard people speak so openly about their emotions. Hearing other people’s stories made me feel less alone and also more sympathetic to others. It was reassuring to know that we were all going through the same things.

  But more than anything, I think being part of a community like this gave me a kind of confidence I’d never had before. We didn’t really have any cattiness or bad feelings among us—it was always love and support. Being apart from my family for so many years was lonely and difficult, especially around the holidays. But at Ali Forney, we became like our own little family. And even when it was hard, or when I was feeling especially down and missing my parents and siblings, I knew I had others around me who cared, and for that I will be forever grateful.

  I SPENT about a year at the shelter, and for much of that time, I wasn’t really in contact with my family and friends in the Bronx. I spoke to my mom and sister on the phone occasionally, but I knew that I needed to go through this process of growth on my own. And I didn’t want anyone to see me until I was ready. On my birthday, I decided to make the trip up to the Bronx to see my sister and Jackie.

  Going on the train always causes anxiety for me. In general, entering any kind of public space causes anxiety. And I’m not alone in this feeling—many of my trans brothers and sisters experience this, too. Because we are constantly mistreated, discriminated against, or harassed, we find comfort in the private spaces of our homes, where we can fully be ourselves. At home, we don’t need to worry about what anyone is going to think or say or do. It’s draining to constantly live like this. To worry, every time you leave your house, What’s gonna happen to me today?

  When I was living in Brooklyn and going back up to visit my old neighborhood in the Bronx, that anxiety was always present, and the closer I got to the area where I grew up, my fears became worse and worse. What if someone recognizes me? Will they call me out by my birth name? Am I gonna get spooked?

  A few days before my birthday, Jackie had sent me a message:

  It’s your birthday! Come by, I wanna see you!

  When I got to her apartment, she and her parents greeted me with a present and cake.

  Even though Jackie and I had our ups and downs, I loved her like she was my own sister—God knows that we fought like it, too! Her parents had always been welcoming and accepting of me, and when I lived with them, I called them “Mom” and “Dad.” Still, I never expected them to do something like this for me. I thought that this birthday would be like all of the other birthdays I’d celebrated without my family—nothing special, just another day. I was so touched, I started to cry.

  After a few hours with them, I went over to my sister’s house. Selenis had a gift and a cake for me, too. But I couldn’t stay long. The center had strict rules, including a seven o’clock curfew, and I needed to be back. I hugged my sister, thanked her, and prepared myself for the long train ride back to Brooklyn.

  I got back to the center just in time, and when I walked in the door, everyone yelled “Surprise!”

  Arroz con gandules, Puerto Rican–style barbecue chicken, and a birthday cake were all set out, and big Mylar balloons that said “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” hovered nearby. They even had a few gifts for me. Louis had put it all together, cooking all the food and getting all the other residents onboard. He and I were close, but still, I couldn’t believe that he would do something like this for me. I had spent so many birthdays alone, or with people who didn’t care much about me, and this year, I had three different cakes. I teared up again. I was so happy to be there, and I was so appreciative of being a part of this caring community. I didn’t feel alone.
I felt safe. I felt understood.

  ON THE way to court to get my name legally changed, I had butterflies in my stomach. I was nervous, but I was happy at the same time. Once I received the court order, I could have both my gender and my name on my documents be true to me. Then, I wouldn’t be embarrassed or afraid whenever I had to show someone my identification. Yes, finally! I thought.

  I met my attorney, Americe, who was there with a few other trans girls who were getting their names changed as well.

  She asked, “Are you ready? Are you excited?”

  “Yes, girl! I am so excited!”

  Once she filed the paperwork, we sat in the courtroom until the judge called us forward.

  The judge was an older white man with gray in his hair, and I’ll admit that I was intimidated by him. I was afraid of what he would think of someone like me. But when he called us forward, he was nothing but kind. And he called me by the right name! He told me “congratulations,” and I said, “thank you,” and then it was over, just like that.

  When I walked out of the courtroom, I felt like a new person. I was so happy, you’d have thought I was walking down the aisle on my wedding day! I was laughing and smiling.

  “Oh my God, Americe, thank you so much!” I threw my arms around her and gave her a big hug.

  “Of course, Marizol. This is a big day for you!”

  Yes, it was! But it wasn’t the end of the process. I still had to go back to the Social Security office and to the DMV and to the insurance company. And I still worried about the kind of mistreatment I might face.

  Unfortunately, this second trip to the Social Security office was no different from the first. Another judgmental look. Another “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” This time, though, I didn’t have the energy to defend myself. I was too drained. So I called Natasha, and she demanded to be put on the phone with the supervisor.

  After I handed the supervisor the phone, I could tell by her face that Natasha was going off and letting her have it. It is against federal policies to treat transgender individuals this way. Social Security employees, for example, must treat you with respect and fairness. They must use your preferred gender pronouns and not ask inappropriate questions.1 And even though government offices provide training for federal employees, many employees refuse to follow the mandatory protocol.

  When she hung up the phone, the supervisor apologized. She gave me my paperwork, and then I was out.

  But that wasn’t the last step. I still had to change my name on my ID and with my insurance company. And each errand stirred up anxieties that still get to me this day. Is someone going to say something? Is someone going to spook me? Will someone deny me service because of who I am?

  What frustrates me is that I am not asking the entire world to accept me. I know that there will always be people who think that my identity is something unnatural or that I just woke up one morning and decided to live this kind of life. But this is not a choice. It is something that my trans brothers and sisters and I have to live with every single day of our lives. And we can choose to hide, or we can choose to be ourselves and live our truth.

  It is not easy being trans—I’ve often thought about how much easier things would have been for me if my physical body had always matched my mind and soul. When I was growing up, I wished that I could just wake up as a girl. Now, I wouldn’t change who I am for anything in the world. Being trans has taught me things most cisgendered people never have to face. I value my perspective and insights, and I am proud of being part of such a resilient and creative community.

  So, though acceptance would be nice, what I am asking of the world is that they respect me and everyone else who is part of my trans family. Treat us like any other human being who comes through the door. Our lives are just as valuable, and our rights are just as valid.

  Chapter 20

  SELENIS

  The day after I dropped off Marizol at the Ali Forney Center, I was a mess. I cried that entire drive home, and late into the night, and when I finally woke the next morning, my eyes were puffy and red. I felt guilty for having left her there, for not being able to take care of her myself. Most of all, I just wanted her to be okay—I wanted her to be happy and safe and living her life as the person I knew, deep down, she had always been.

  Later that afternoon, I got a call. It was Marizol.

  “Hi, how are you?” I asked, blurting it all out at once.

  “I’m good!” she said. “I slept well, I feel ready to go!”

  She didn’t just say the words—I could hear in her voice that they were true, and I was so relieved. Here I was, recovering from a horribly stressful and emotional night, and she was sounding good. She was finally sounding happy and safe.

  We didn’t speak much during her time at the center, but every conversation we had felt like progress. She was hopeful, and though she was probably lonely, being so cut off from the family, she was doing what needed to be done, and I was happy for her.

  But I was struggling.

  IN DECEMBER 2011, I hit rock bottom. Everything in my life was a challenge: my depression, my marriage, my career. I had tried to make my marriage work for the sake of my daughter, but it wasn’t working. At the same time, though, I didn’t have any financial stability, and I knew that, as an actor, I wouldn’t be able to provide for her on my own. That Christmas, I finally came to terms with the fact that acting wasn’t working for me anymore. It was too painful. And if I was going to ever move out of that dark, suffocating apartment and support my daughter on my own, I needed to get a stable job, one with a reliable paycheck and schedule.

  Finally acknowledging this was a surreal, out-of-body experience. By myself, on the floor of the living room, the Christmas tree lights glowing softly in the background, I just sobbed for what felt like hours. It was me surrendering to God. I prayed and said, “I know I’m not supposed to be acting any more. I know that I need to stop. This is it.”

  I called my manager and told her the news. “I don’t want to be doing this any longer,” I said. “I can’t keep doing this.”

  “You have so much more to give,” she said. “Don’t worry about it—”

  But I couldn’t keep going on that way. I just couldn’t. “No, I’m done.”

  Then, in mid-January, she called me with some news. I was getting offers for jobs I had auditioned for in the previous year. “Remember that audition you had for that pilot? Well, you got it!”

  I accepted the gig, but it was the first time I wasn’t excited about booking a role. Instead, I saw it as a little gift from the universe—a way for me to save money or, at the very least, survive—while I was on the lookout for what I considered to be a “real” job. I went to Los Angeles for about two weeks to shoot, and when I came back, I got two other acting jobs back-to-back. Out of nowhere, it seemed, it all started coming at once. I still had this idea that I was going to give up on acting, but suddenly I was working more than ever.

  The following summer, I had an audition for Orange Is the New Black. I didn’t know what to think about this new “web series” for Netflix—I certainly didn’t expect it to be anything magical. But I thought, Why not do a couple of days on this show? Why not give it a shot? That first season, I ended up doing eleven episodes, and everything changed.

  When I first saw Laverne Cox, I recognized her from I Want to Work for Diddy and the performance at Lucky Chengs. And one day, I decided to share with her that I had a trans sister. I was getting ready for filming in the hair chair, with Mamma D, one of the show’s stylists. Laverne stood in the doorway and listened when I told her about Marizol. I told her about the support my mother had always showed my sister, and she told me about the support her mother always showed her. It was an immediate connection, and soon, all three of us—Laverne, Mamma D, and I—were crying, sharing this little emotional moment together.

  It was only after the first season of Orange aired that I realized how powerful Laverne’s character, Sophia Burset, was. Jenji Kohan, the sh
owrunner and executive producer, had created a show with rich, emotionally complex characters formed with layers and layers of backstory and experience. And because of the show’s depth, and Laverne’s performance, I felt that, for the first time, the industry and greater society were actively paying attention to what it meant for someone to be trans. For the first time, I saw a trans character who was married, who had a child, who was treated just as any other human being was and who was as empathetic as any other character.

  “Thank you,” I said to Laverne months later, “for giving my sister a voice.”

  She smiled and said, “Well, she’s always had a voice.”

  “No,” I said. “She might have always had a voice, but no one was ever listening.”

  NOW, WHEN I look back on that night I drove home alone from the Ali Forney Center in Brooklyn, I think that without even knowing it, I was saying goodbye to Jose—to my baby brother—forever. That night was the last time I ever saw even a trace of Jose. After Marizol went to the center, I never again had to go back and forth with the pronouns, or with the name. I didn’t know she had made the declaration to herself that night that she would never go back to that dark place, living with an identity that wasn’t hers but that had been chosen for her, ever again—but I think that I could sense it.

  And I began a period of mourning, though I wasn’t really aware at the time that that was what it was. I found myself, at random times, crying for the loss of my baby brother. But what helped me heal was seeing how happy and alive Marizol was. I realized that I wasn’t mourning the loss of a literal person but the idea of a person. And that idea wasn’t Marizol’s truth—it was simply what I, after all of these years, had gotten used to.

  Saying this all out loud now feels strange. Not to mention disrespectful. My family and I accepted Marizol and loved her for who she was, but it was a process for us. And at times, it was incredibly painful. There were so many instances when I would slip up—calling her “Jose” or referring to her as “my brother.” It was hard to break the habit. And whenever I slipped around her, she would give me a smile and correct me: “Um, don’t you mean Marizol?” she’d say.