My Sister

by Selenis Leyva

  ALI FORNEY prepared me to branch off, to be on my own. It gave me the tools and the resources I needed to be independent. For so many years, I had depended on my sister or on my friends, and it felt good to come out of a place that helped me better myself mentally, emotionally, and physically. After leaving the center, I made a promise to God. I promised to be true to myself, to be on a better path. I promised to have a better relationship with my family. And I promised that I would find a job—and give up sex work for good.

  I was eligible for low-income housing and found an apartment back in the Bronx. Down the street from where I was living, a restaurant was looking to hire a bartender. I was hesitant at first to apply. I worried that the kind of attention I’d get from men while bartending would trigger the trauma I experienced while doing sex work. But I needed a job. And Natasha’s voice was always in my mind, encouraging me to be my best. “Always remember,” she’d say, “you have all the tools.” And so one day in September, I mustered up the courage and walked into the place and asked to speak to the manager.

  I told her about my experience with cooking, about my ambitions of having a career in the industry. It was all going well, but then I felt like I needed to get real with her. “I live by myself,” I said. “I have my own apartment, and I have bills and rent to pay. I need to work. Will you please give me this job?”

  And she did. She heard me, and she seemed like someone I could learn from. She was a strong, independent woman running her own business. She inspired me, and I felt so blessed.

  I never disclosed to the owner, or to the other staff members, that I was trans, and it was liberating when, after I was hired, I could hand over my documents with all of my correct information. For the first time in my life, people saw me for me and treated me like I was just like anyone else. It felt good to work. It felt good being in an environment where I didn’t have to worry whether someone was going to call me out by my birth name. I was making money in a safe, legal way, and I felt empowered. I was getting my morals, my innocence, my sense of self back.

  Chapter 22

  SELENIS & MARIZOL

  Even after Marizol was out of the center, it took her some time to come around to the family. I knew that she was in a good place with her transition—she was working, and she seemed happy. My husband and I were having a big Christmas party with my in-laws, my parents, my brothers and sisters, and I wanted Marizol to be there, too. A lot of time had passed since the incident with the money, and it always pained me to think how difficult it must have been for her to spend all those years alone, away from us. So many young LGBTQ+ people are forced to spend holidays away from their families, and I didn’t want Marizol to keep having to. I remember being so happy that she was finally going to be coming back to us, but I was also nervous as to how everyone was going to react.

  I WAS so excited when my sister called and invited me to spend Christmas at her house, with my family. I was at such a good point in my life. I was taking control and turning things around—I was working, I had a roof over my head, I was supporting myself, and I was fully into my transition. I was in a much a better place than I could have ever imagined being in before going to the center, and finally, after so many years of being apart from everyone, I felt ready to share my life with them. There would be no more hiding. I felt excited to say, “I am here! This is me!” My job had given me confidence and a sense of empowerment, but it was hard not being able to share that kind of satisfaction and accomplishment with others. I really wanted my family to experience that with me, and now it was finally happening.

  But very quickly, a sense of paranoia took over. Seli and Mami were the only people who had seen me since I had moved out of the shelter, and the thought of seeing the rest of my family members made me nervous. What will they think of me? Will they think I am feminine enough? What am I going to wear? It was similar to what I felt before celebrating my birthday with Seli and my sister-in-law at Lucky Chengs, but on a much greater scale. I had missed my family, especially Papi. It was really important that he accepted me.

  IT IS A tradition of sorts for my mother and I to go Christmas shopping together. That year, when we were going from store to store, with Christmas music constantly playing in the background, she gave me a look and said, “I want to buy something really pretty for Marizol.” And I knew exactly what she meant. This would be the first time she was buying presents not for the son she was used to but for her daughter. It was exciting. And we were happy.

  We started looking at everything fabulous, everything that was pink: fluffy slippers, soft sweaters, floral perfumes. It was as if she and I were going out of our way to make up for all of those Christmases we had gotten wrong.

  ON CHRISTMAS Eve, I went shopping for gifts and an outfit. I wanted everyone to see the real me, to see Marizol, but I also didn’t want to overdo it. I remember being in a little boutique, trying on dress after dress, thinking with each one: Do I look good? Do I look feminine enough? Could I pass? I didn’t want to wear anything too revealing or flashy. I knew that Seli’s in-laws were going to be there, too, and though I always felt warmth and acceptance from them, I was nervous about what they would think. Every holiday, the women in my family would dress up in classy, sophisticated outfits, and I wanted to present myself with the same look I had always admired.

  Finally, I found a dress that worked. It was simple but festive: a black tank with silver sequins along the front. I paired it with black stockings, a black trench, and Jeffrey Campbell ankle booties I was obsessed with. I wore my hair in a bob and wine-colored lipstick. I felt beautiful and confident, and like me. But still, before ringing the doorbell, I paused and took a deep breath.

  Just be yourself, I thought. Just be yourself.

  I DON’T REALLY remember the specifics of that holiday. What I remember is being hyperaware of other people’s reactions, of being so tense that I couldn’t relax and enjoy myself. I wasn’t comfortable in the moment. More than anything, I wanted to make sure that Marizol felt good, that no one said anything inappropriate or offensive or hurtful.

  I remembered a story I’d heard as a kid, one that was told, over and over, in my extended family. My uncle, out at a club, had been “tricked” by a trans woman. Every time they told the story, the men gathered around with drinks in their hands, like a males-only club, ready to laugh and holler at the expense of others.

  “He got quite the surprise!” one said.

  “But you couldn’t tell by looking at her!” said another.

  Luckily, no one said anything like this to Marizol that holiday. And my in-laws were especially kind and lovely to her. Once they learned about her transition, they were wholly accepting of her, and that night, they used the right pronouns and made a point to be respectful and loving. But I couldn’t shake the worries and fears that were brewing in my head, and so I couldn’t be comfortable, I couldn’t enjoy what became a beautiful, important moment for my sister.

  WHEN I walked in, it felt like it was just another Christmas. Like no time at all had passed. I felt welcome. No one made me feel self-conscious or called me by the wrong name. I was so happy to be there, dressed up like my sisters and cousins, in an outfit that Seli would have worn, finally free to be me. I felt love in the room in a way I hadn’t felt in years. But still, throughout the night, little thoughts drifted in my mind: Is my makeup okay? Am I pretty enough? Do I have a five o’clock shadow? And more than about my appearance, I worried whether my family—Papi and Isa and my brother Tito—could really accept me.

  Soon, salsa music was playing loud. There was wine and liquor, good food and laughter all over. It was a party! And it was time to dance.

  I looked over at Isa, my sibling closest to me in age. When I began my transition, a distance formed between the two of us. I was no longer living at my parents’ house, and she wasn’t involved in the process of my transition at all. Instead, she was just always watching from a distance. I think that, during those years, Isa felt like she lost me. And
that Christmas Eve, I got the sense that she was still processing it all. But once we started dancing, I think she realized—and everyone else in the room realized it, too—that I was still the same person. I was still me. She and I danced, and everyone in the room could feel our emotions building. It was then that Papi walked over to us and pulled me closer to him.

  “Tu eres mi hija,” he said. “And I love you the way you are no matter what.”

  I had always wanted to hear this from him. For so many years, I had missed having him in my life. And once I began my transition, it was almost like I was reborn. Like I was moving through childhood and puberty once again, but without Papi there to support me, to give me advice when I needed it.

  I started crying. And then Isa started crying. Seli came over and was also crying. And then we were all there, standing in a circle, our arms wrapped around one another, hugging and dancing. It was a beautiful night. It made me feel validated. It made me feel reassured. I had always dreamed about being my authentic self around my family, and finally it was happening. I felt so happy. So blessed and lucky.

  Chapter 23

  MARIZOL

  After the warm, welcoming Christmas with my family, things started to fall into place. My job as a bartender was going well. I spent more and more time with my family. My relationship with my parents, my brothers, and my sisters was finally going good. I started to make plans to go back to school, to get my GED. And then, out of nowhere, I met somebody.

  I was straightforward with Josh, telling him up front that I was transgender. I also told him that I didn’t want to date anyone. I was busy working on myself. I needed to stay focused on the right path. I had just gotten my life back together, and I didn’t want to put all of it at risk. On top of that, I didn’t want to get my heart broken. I explained this all to Josh, and to my surprise, he was understanding. Supportive, even. And he made me feel comfortable to open up even more.

  We decided to go on a date. At first, he said he wanted to come to my place.

  “That’s not a date!” I told him. “And I don’t know you like that. If you want to go out with me, you better take me out.”

  “All right, cool,” he said. “Let’s go to the pool hall.”

  We did. And something about it just felt right. I tried to keep my cool, to make it seem like I was keeping my distance from him, but the truth is that I liked him more than I let on. I knew that I wanted to continue to work on myself, to become the best me I could be—but how many times does love come along? Trans women often feel that no one will love us for who we are. Most guys will just walk away after finding out about our identities, and the ones who don’t will usually turn it into a conversation about sex. But here was someone, a smart, understanding, and nice guy who seemed to be genuinely interested in me. And he listened. Also, I thought he was cute as hell. He was kind of hood, with long hair that he’d pull back into a bun or wear in braids.

  After the pool hall, he and I went to the iconic Crown Diner, near Yankee Stadium. We sat in the second booth, he with his cheeseburger deluxe and me with my chicken sandwich, and I felt comfortable enough to just lay everything out on the table: about being in foster care, about taking the money from my parents, about living at the center. I never spoke to anybody about these things, and I knew that it was a lot to tell somebody on a first date, but if this was going to go somewhere, I wanted him to have the whole picture of who I was and what I wanted to become. Instead of being scared, he opened up to me, too. He told me about all that he was struggling with, about how he was trying to become a better person.

  I had butterflies in my stomach the whole night, but it was a feeling I loved. I had always watched couples on dates, holding hands, or sitting across from each other at a diner like we were that night, and I wondered if I could have that, if I would be able to find someone who accepted me for me. Nothing about that night was extravagant or over-the-top, but sharing that first meal together at an old-fashioned diner in the Bronx was magical. I started to fall for him.

  But right away, there were red flags. Red flags that I ignored.

  IN FEBRUARY, a friend of mine was celebrating her birthday out at a club. I hadn’t gone the year before, when I was still at the center, so I promised her I would be there. When I told Josh about my plans, he was not having it.

  “Why you goin’ to the club? So you can see other niggas?”

  “What the hell are you talking about? It’s my friend’s birthday! You should come, too.”

  “I don’t have my ID,” he said. “It’s at my house.”

  “Well, okay, let’s go and get it.”

  “Nah. At those places you have to dress up fancy.”

  He was coming up with any excuse he could not to go.

  “Oh my God, no you don’t. Just put on a nice button-down and some sneakers. It’s just the Heights. It’s nothing fancy.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  “No. You’re not going.”

  I couldn’t believe that he was telling me I couldn’t go see my friend on her birthday. But I held my ground. He wasn’t going to tell me what to do. I was going to support my friend.

  “Fuck you, then,” he said. “I’m going home. You’re all the same.”

  We got into separate cabs. I went to the party, and he went to God-knows-where.

  Wow, I thought.

  We didn’t talk for days. Then, on Valentine’s Day, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I thought about what had happened, about how he probably believed that his girl shouldn’t go out, that she shouldn’t have her own friends, that she should always be at home, playing the housewife and submitting. I didn’t want to be that kind of girl, but I really did like him. And so I said yes, knowing that was the standard I was supposed to add up to.

  VERY QUICKLY, I started losing control over my life. He didn’t want me to have social media accounts—he and I had met on social media, so if I wasn’t looking for other guys, what I did I need them for? I deleted my Facebook and Instagram. But that wasn’t all.

  “You need to get rid of that job,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I can take care of you. I don’t want my girl to work.”

  “Well, I need to work,” I said. “I want to work.”

  “Find another job.”

  “What do you mean, ‘find another job’? It’s not so easy for someone like me. I’m lucky I have this one!”

  “I don’t want you working there. There are too many guys there. I don’t like the way you dress when you go to work. I don’t like how they look at you.”

  “It’s just bartending! That’s how you make tips!”

  But he was insistent, and we started to fight.

  Eventually, I gave in. I was his girl. And I had this idea that to be someone’s girl, you had to do whatever it was they wanted.

  NOW, I see how inexperienced I was in terms of relationships and matters of love. Before Josh, my only other relationship had been with Nathaniel. We had started dating when I was just seventeen, before I began to transition. Nathaniel was older than me, but with him, I never felt like I had to do exactly what he wanted. And despite how comfortable I felt around him, how much I felt loved, in the end, he wasn’t comfortable with my transitioning, and this broke my heart. I tried to explain to him that I’d be the same person he loved—it was just my appearance that would be changing. Still, he didn’t want that, and I held my ground. Instead of doing what he wanted, or letting him make decisions for me, I did what I felt like I needed to do. And then we went our separate ways.

  Josh was my first boyfriend since I had transitioned. I didn’t know what it meant to be someone’s girlfriend or how to stand up to someone without losing them for good. I also knew that finding someone who could accept and love me for me wasn’t going to be easy. I wanted to stick it through and make it work. I knew that he had his own demons, that he had struggled in life, too, and I thought that I could be the woman who could chan
ge him for the better. If it takes me leaving my job, I thought, then I’ll leave my job.

  I was sad when I gave my notice. Part of me wondered whether I was losing myself again. Now, I see that quitting my job was the beginning of me telling him it was okay for him to control me. It was the start of me saying, “Yes, it’s okay for you to treat me this way. It’s okay for you to make decisions for me.” Now, I realize how I was able to then fall into a pattern of abuse that so many vulnerable individuals, especially trans women, fall into.

  NCAVP defines intimate partner violence (IPV) as “a pattern of behavior where one intimate partner coerces, dominates, or isolates another intimate partner to maintain power and control over the partner and the relationship.” An “intimate partner” can refer to a current or former dating partner or spouse. IPV can take many forms, including emotional, economic, physical, and sexual abuse. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, IPV affects millions of Americans.

  IPV is devastating for all victims. But for those who are already vulnerable to harassment and discrimination, like members of LGBTQ+ communities or those who are HIV-positive, IPV can be especially harmful. And when a victim of IPV also fears homelessness and hate crimes, like so many LGBTQ+ people do, it can feel as if they have nowhere to turn.

  Unfortunately, trans women are more vulnerable than other populations to abuse and IPV. Studies show that up to 50 percent of transgender individuals have experienced some form of IPV in their lifetime,5 and rates are higher for those who have been homeless, participated in sex work, are multiracial, or are undocumented.6 In NCAVP’s 2016 Report of Intimate Partner Violence, transgender women were “2.5 times more likely to be stalked, 2.5 times more likely to experience financial violence, and 2 times more likely to experience online harassment” than non-trans LGBTQ+ victims of IPV.7