“Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
What is interesting is that my daughter never slipped. And she never once questioned what it meant to watch someone transition. Adults, I’ve learned, have a more difficult time accepting change than children do. Adults want to hold on to ideas, to what they’ve considered to be the truth, no matter how wrong or inaccurate or painful it is to others. Children, however, are much more accepting, much more capable of reframing their views of the world. I never had to have a discussion with Alina about how to address Marizol or how to refer to her; if anything, in those moments when I found it hard to break my own habits, Alina, barely eight years old, would be the one to correct me.
Slowly, I got rid of the pictures of Marizol before her transition that had been out and on display in my home. My mother and I still have them, tucked away in memory boxes, and on occasion, we’ll pull them out to reminisce. It is shocking to look at those images today, to see how much Marizol physically transformed during her transition. But what I’m always struck by, and what has always remained the same, are her eyes.
We say that the eyes are the window to the soul, and I cannot agree more when I look at old photographs of Marizol. No matter how much she has changed, or how different her appearance looks now than it did way back when, I see the same person, the same soul, in those pictures, and it’s in her eyes. Her eyes are what struck me at her birthday party at Lucky Chengs. Her eyes are what made me think, Oh, there you are. Her eyes are what have reminded me that I did not lose anyone during this transitional process. This person, this soul, this human being, this essence has always been there. Even though I struggled with an overwhelming feeling of loss for a time, what helped me most was realizing that the person in front of me was a better version of a human being than what she had been. That Marizol, after her transition, was now a human being who was content, who was happy, who wanted to live.
For family members of trans men and women, I want to say that it is okay to feel a loss in the beginning. But I also want to say that that feeling of loss is an illusion. The person you have always loved and cared for is still there—they are just no longer in hiding. And over time, that feeling of loss will be replaced with the joy that comes with seeing someone you love live their truth.
Chapter 21
MARIZOL
The Ali Forney Center was a point of change in my life. It gave me the tools and resources I needed to live an independent, productive, happy life. I was getting things together: my documents had all been changed, I was learning about my rights. I was becoming the me I had always wanted to be. A major goal of the Ali Forney Center is to help its residents find lawful employment. It provides workspaces for résumé revision, and it helps youths prepare for interviews and networking. While I was at the center and looking for work, I applied for a job that appealed to my future career interests and that I had experience for: a prep cook for a company that packaged and sold organic lunches to private schools around the city.
In addition to working at my brother-in-law’s family restaurant when I was sixteen, I worked the counter at a sandwich chain in Manhattan one summer in high school. I liked working there—I always had fun with the customers and developed good relationships with the regulars, but I ended up quitting for the same reasons I left high school: I wasn’t directly bullied or made fun of, but constant low-key signals made me feel like I wasn’t fully welcome.
Thanks to my time at the Ali Forney Center, I now had the tools to cope with the grief and pain that come with constantly being discriminated against and mistreated. What the center couldn’t do, however, was change how the outside world treated someone like me.
One of the biggest barriers for trans individuals is finding reliable, steady employment. To put this into perspective, the unemployment rate among transgender individuals is three times greater than the national average.2 Federal courts have ruled that discrimination against someone who is transgender constitutes illegal sex discrimination, yet there is no federal law banning employment discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity, and many states do not have laws explicitly protecting trans folk or the greater LGBTQ+ community from discrimination in the workplace. In thirty states, one can be fired simply for being transgender.3
On top of this, discrimination, whether on the basis of sex or race or sexual or gender identity, can be difficult to prove. It requires thorough documentation and legal services, which can be pricey and time-consuming. The National Center for Transgender Equality provides detailed information about trans individuals’ rights when it comes to both federal and general employment, reminding us that even if our states have yet to pass legislation banning discrimination on the basis of gender identity, we have the right “not to be fired or refused a job or promotion” because we are transgender. And many legal-aid organizations, such as Lambda Legal, the Transgender Law Center, and the Sylvia Rivera Law Project, can help transgender individuals with legal advice or support.
Personally, I’ve heard lots of different things when applying for jobs. A lot of no’s. A lot of “We’ve gone with someone else.” I’ve even heard, “We just think that your look would be too distracting to the work environment here.”
When I arrived at the organic culinary facility in Harlem for my interview, I was confident and positive. I had the qualifications. I had my new, updated résumé. I had interview clothing. I was ready! And I was determined to get this job!
The interview went so well. I felt comfortable, like I was finally doing something productive to better myself and to live an authentic life. All of my documents had been changed to reflect my correct gender and name, and I felt excited and proud to finally present them to an employer.
“Thank you so much,” the woman said to me after our conversation. “We’re gonna call you for a follow-up interview.”
The following week, I got the call, and I went in for a second interview. I left that day feeling as confident and as excited as I had the week before. It would only be a matter of days before I was working again.
But a few days passed, and then a week, and then a bit longer, and I still hadn’t heard back. Finally, I decided to call and follow up. The career counselors at the shelter told us that employers liked that kind of enthusiasm. It showed initiative. It told the employer, “I am serious.” And I was serious. If I was ever going to get on my feet, I needed a job.
The woman who had interviewed me answered the phone.
“Hi, my name is Marizol. I’m calling to follow up on a job interview I had last week.”
“Yeah, hi,” she said. “So, we decided to give the position to someone else—”
My heart sank.
She went on: “We just felt like your presence would distract the other workers.”
I was shocked someone would actually say something like that. I couldn’t speak. It was almost as if she punched a knot in my throat.
“You understand that we need everyone to be focused here. A lot of our employees are men, we aren’t sure if you—well, your look might be a bit of a distraction to the guys here.”
In that moment, all I wanted to do was hang up, but I kept my cool. Finally, I came to my senses and said, “Okay, thank you for your time.”
It was only after I’d hung up the phone that I thought to myself, What the fuck just happened?
I thought about taking legal action, but I didn’t have any evidence. I needed to have a recording of the conversation to prove that the reason she didn’t hire me was a form of discrimination. Though I understand that evidence is needed in legal proceedings, as trans people, we are always worried that someone is going to harm us because of our gender identity. It is psychologically draining to think this way, especially when we are expected to brush off moments like these and pretend like nothing happened or to get up the next day and try again. And if the only way to protect ourselves is to expect the worst of others and arm ourselves with audio or video recordings before an incident happens, we will rea
ch a breaking point. For me, everything seemed to go so well at the interviews, it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t get the job. After getting the news, I was defeated. I was losing hope that I would ever get a job. And I started to fear that I would have to do whatever it took to survive.
I WAS just eighteen years old when I began sex work.
I wasn’t alone. Many people in my community are forced to resort to it. Once I was out in the world, living my life as trans, I started meeting all of the girls. And they understood my situation: that I was without family, without a job.
“Girl, wanna make a coin?”
I had no other way of supporting myself, and so I had a friend of mine put my profile up on an escort services website. It wasn’t something I wanted to be doing, but I couldn’t let myself overthink it.
There is a misconception that we, as transgender women and men, participate in the sex trade because we are overly sexual people, that we do it for our own pleasure. This could not be farther from the truth. The reality is that we do it for survival. We do it because we cannot find other forms of work. We do it because transitioning—hormones, surgeries, treatments, clothing—costs a lot of money. For most of us, transitioning isn’t an option; it is another form of survival. Though we know that we will be subjected to ridicule and discrimination, many transgender folk decide that transitioning is the only way they can feel comfortable in the world. It is the only way we can go on living.
Luckily, the times are changing. Education and greater awareness about what it means to be transgender mean that more young trans people have the support they need to finish school and find work. But still, we have a long way to go. We’ve seen how those in power continually threaten or aim to demolish the rights of transgender individuals. There is an urgency now, perhaps more than ever, to advocate for and protect young trans individuals so that they do not fall into the same harmful cycles that I and so many of my trans brothers and sisters have fallen into.
In my experience as an escort, I never received any sexual pleasure. I made money that I needed for food, for rent, for washing my clothes. I made money to help pay for my hormone therapy before it was covered by my insurance. But with it came huge emotional distress and pain. Every time I went out, I felt like I was losing myself. I felt belittled. I felt like I was giving myself up just so that I could pay my bills. I tried to convince myself that it was just like any other job, but it was draining to constantly feel like I would never be accepted in society. That I would never amount to anything other than the “TS”—online lingo for “transsexual”—escort.
I’ve always dreamed of having a family: getting married, having children. The majority of men who sought my services were men who had families themselves—and knowing this always made me feel cheated. It always made me feel so low because I wanted what they had. I wanted the family. I wanted the kids. I wanted what these men clearly did not value. I wanted the relationship where a man saw me for the woman I am, not just a sex object. But instead of being respected, of being considered a legitimate partner, I was just the chick that was getting paid for someone else’s pleasure, for someone else’s sexual fantasy. And this fucked with me.
Many people think that we choose to live this kind of life. It’s true that deciding to participate in sex work is a choice, but for many of us, we feel as if we have no other option. We do what we gotta do to get by. We do what we gotta do to survive. It is not easy work, and many are afraid to speak openly about their experiences out of fear of being judged. And so we just brush it under the rug, letting those dark memories eat away at us. On top of the emotional risks, the fact of the matter is that sex work is incredibly dangerous. You have to learn to trust your instincts. If your gut tells you that something is off about the situation, you have to listen and get yourself out, even if it means not getting paid.
One night, when I was by myself at a hotel in the Bronx, a man put a gun to my head. I had been working all evening, so he knew I had money stashed, and he wanted to get his hands on it.
He gave me an ultimatum: “I’m going to rape you, or you’re gonna give me your money.”
The money was enough to cover my expenses for an entire month, but I didn’t hesitate. I handed it over.
“Don’t even think about calling the cops,” he said. “I fucking know your name, I can find you.”
He ran out, and though I should have felt safe now away from him and his gun, I was afraid to go outside. I didn’t know if he was waiting around a corner for me somewhere. And even if he hadn’t threatened me, I wouldn’t have called the cops—I would probably have been arrested myself. I was shaking out of fear. I had always tried to protect myself—to always use protection, to go out with a friend, to carry pepper spray. But it just goes to show you that no matter how safe you think you are, or how in control you think you might be, participating in this kind of work makes you vulnerable to violence, extortion, and worse.
Somehow that night, I made it to Jackie’s house, where I was living at the time. I was so scared, I couldn’t even tell her what had happened. I decided that I wouldn’t do any more escorting, that I had to find another way to make ends meet. It was a terrifying situation to be in: earning money as an escort was the only way I knew I could guarantee my survival, but it was putting my life at risk. Still, I knew that I was lucky. Situations like these happen all the time. I knew so many of my trans sisters who had it much worse than me, trans girls who had been assaulted or raped or left in a dingy motel for dead.
I WAS on my way to a job interview, all nicely dressed in professional clothes, when I noticed a guy on the subway checking me out from the other side of the train. He really analyzed me and stared. I became really uncomfortable, but I tried to keep to myself.
And then, I noticed a shift. I can’t explain how, but trans folk can always feel it: when someone’s gaze goes from “Dayum!” to “Oh, I know what you are.” You can always tell when someone knows.
At the next stop, after a handful of people exited the train and even more entered, I noticed another guy staring at me. I tried to ignore everything else and stay calm—I needed to get to my job interview! And I didn’t want any trouble. The first guy, the one I knew knew that I was trans, kept watching me. But it was when he noticed the second guy checking me out that he decided to spook me.
“Oh, yo, that’s a nigga over there!”
Everyone looked at me. I was so embarrassed. I’ll admit that sometimes it can be hard for me to keep my mouth shut. I also know that sometimes saying something smart back can cost you your life. That day, I tried to bite my tongue. But then, something just burst out of me. I looked directly at the man who let everyone on the 4 Train know my business.
“You were checking me out,” I said. “Clearly, you like what you saw. I’m over here minding my own damn business, nobody’s here for your ugly ass.”
That got him angry. He jumped out of his seat and started coming my way.
“Get the fuck outta here,” he said. “I’ll fucking snuff your face. I don’t play that shit!”
I was scared as hell. He was a big guy, and I could tell that he wanted to hit me. So I pulled out my pepper spray and got him right in the eyes. It was the first time I’d ever used it, though it wouldn’t be the last. Luckily, right as I sprayed, the train pulled into the next stop and I fled out. I ran down the stairs as fast as I could, just spiraling.
Why did no one say nothing? Why did everyone just sit there watching?
LGBTQ+ individuals are all susceptible to hate violence and crime, but transgender individuals, especially transgender women of color, are especially vulnerable. According to a report by the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs (NCAVP), in 2016, aside from the tragedy of the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, 68 percent of the victims of hate-violence-related homicides were transgender or gender-nonconforming people. And all but two of these homicides were transgender women of color.4
That day, after I ran from the train, I was on the verge
of breaking down and crying.
And then I said to myself: No, no. Not here. Damn.
It’s hard to experience these kinds of threats by yourself. To pull up your Big Girl pants and continue with your day. But that’s what I did. I went to my interview, and the next day, I got the call telling me they decided to go with someone else.
TRANS PEOPLE often feel that the sex industry—whether it be escorting, strip clubs, porn, or something else—is the only place that is inviting for us to make money. For me, this kind of work seemed like the only way for me to get a job and be accepted.
Still, it has had its effect on me. It stripped me: of my morals, of what I believed in, of my self-respect. And I felt like nothing. There is a lot I have done that I am not proud of, but I can’t beat myself up about it now because it was my reality, it was the only way I knew to survive. But I want my trans brothers and sisters, and anyone else who has had to participate in sex work, to know that, if you want to, you can change your situation. You can get your sense of self back. I know a lot of girls who have completely turned their lives around from sex work and have gone on to do amazing things. They have steady jobs, they are living productive lives, they are happy and at peace. I was inspired by individuals like these.
I knew that I could not be at peace with myself until I stopped. And it was a struggle. Many nights I went hungry. Many times I didn’t have money in my pocket to do simple things like laundry or buy groceries, but I knew that, for me, I could just deal with the situation for what it was instead of going back to a lifestyle that put me physically and psychologically at risk. I do not judge or criticize people who decide to live that life, but many are simply resigned to it because they believe there is no way out. And I want to say to them that there is.
My Sister Page 17
