I am safe in our home with my husband, living the lifeβ all new appliances. I was not trans like her or Anji but we did what we had to do to make our coins. I get to still be here today, too old to hustle, shoplift or risk getting killed. The only mopping I do these days is occasionally on the kitchen floor. In those days, everyone was afraid of dying of AIDS or simply dying.
We belonged to Houses because most of us were homeless. Our fathers abandoned us because they already had families and our mothers cast us out as demons or something similar. We all had stories, many forgotten. Our parents were never wrong.
It was our fault if we came home bloodied from school or found dead in a cheap hotel room. No one felt bad for usβ the family, the cops, the government. We deserved it. But now children can choose their gender, be celebrated for coming out, live in fluidity. I survived at the expense of my sisters being sacrificed. We were criminals, prostitutes, destined for prison or hell. I pay tribute with poems I read to high school students, inmates, nostalgic Nuyoricans.
New generations get crowned and walk away with Anastasia Beverly Hills cosmetics for being the best at what our girls were once eliminated for. If they were alive today, would they be celebrated? There are essays and articles about how we lived. I tell my spouse stories as we dine somewhere safe and welcoming. I sleep like the child I never really got to be, dream for all our angels who never had this moment. In the shadows of city lights, we dwelled, untold stories, almas olvidadas , enduring streets where dreams were bought and sold.
Corazones βlike broken glass, reflecting pain, the sting of scorn, searching for love en la oscuridad. Para mi gente I look at myself in the mirror trying to figure out what makes me an American I see Ecuador and Puerto Rico. I see brujo spirits moving across the backs of Santeros splattered with the red blood of sacrificed chickens on their virgin white clothes and blue beads for Yemaya practicing religions without a roof. I see my own blood reddening the white sheets of a stranger proud American blue jean labels on the side of the bed.
