‍Borders the imagined realm of monsters¹ 

A Colombian passport doesn’t get you very far. It's a pretty burgundy, with biodiversity stamped into its pages: macaws, coral reefs and orchids. So much abundance, and somehow, it still doesn’t get you very far. 

Passports determine so much.
Where you get to live.
How you get to travel.
Whether you get to work.
How much you get to make.
How much you get to save.
What language you get to speak.

Pero mi lengua materna me ha llevado a tantos lugares, por eso estoy muy agradecido. My mother tongue has thankfully brought me to many places, for that I am very grateful.

The action begins just before Midnight¹

I love a film with a dancing scene. 

I mean who doesn’t love that? The flickering color lights, the loud bass, bodies dancing, moving, sweating. It doesn’t get more primal than that. Or does it?

Nightlife has always felt like a portal to me. The dance floor. A space that lets me be. Lets others be. I often do not know the lyrics of songs, but music always brings me home.

Each city’s nightlife is so different. Bogotá’s night is terrifying and simultaneously the most fun. I wonder what makes someone a creature of the night. The camaraderie that exists between us. Now, I get to dance shirtless.

I much prefer dancing in Latin America because by the end of the night you have almost always made new friends.

Remember when we couldn’t go out during the pandemic? I thought that was it. I had so much energy that I started running for the first time. Me and my roommate Juan would drive to Golden Gate Park and run like our lives depended on it. Then I saw the girlies from the club running too. We had found another outlet. Music playing, sweating, wearing sunglasses. A different type of dancing in plain sight.

There was something moving about seeing them there. Checking up on each other. Remembering our bodies moving to the beat of the music.

So…... Do you want to go out tonight?

My body was adjusting to the hormonal shift² … Complex algorithms of chemicals³ 

You probably already know that I like a sense of control. My friend Juana once told me that coming from a volatile, violent context often leads to looking for consistency. And it is true. I love consistency. I love reliability.

When I started testosterone, I was drawn to microdosing. I had first read about it in a Vice article by Alyza Enriquez in 2019. I was intrigued. Slowly introducing a substance that could physically transform you in small doses. I wanted to become the process, so attuned to every small shift, understanding and surrendering to it while staying attentive to every change.

Salimatu and I started testosterone on the same day. August 16, 2023.

The thing about transitioning is that it is so unknown. Each body so different. And yet, there is a collective feeling of doing something TOGETHER. Is that what drugs do? Or alcohol? Or finishing an MFA together? Or traveling? That sharing of experience makes the experience worth it. So celebratory.

I have so much energy. Ask my friends. I think of myself as an eager puppy who wants to eat life whole. Testosterone doubled that for me. Eyes wide open. Stronger. How wild to feel so alive at 35.

They keep attacking trans folks. Maybe that is why we hold onto each other.‍

I’m scared of what can happen when I go outside²

Or at least I used to feel that way back home. Anything could happen, at any time. One thing about living in the Bay Area is that I feel safe. I can walk at night. I can walk early in the morning. No fear. 

I hate living in fear. What a terrible way to live. Your heart racing all the time. 

Of course, there is inevitable danger outside for people like us. OF COURSE. But I don’t want to define my day by it. 

I refuse.

Saliva is good¹ 

Okay, this one feels way off topic, but I have to tell you about it. Two years ago, my bestie Ambrose and I went to Mexico to interview art handlers. We spoke with a conservator who often works on churches and religious paintings. She told us saliva is sometimes used to clean paintings because of the enzymes in it.

I immediately thought about using the saliva of a trans person to clean a church painting and I smirked. What a sexy sin. My grandma wouldn’t approve, but she would understand why I find it entertaining.

Using queer saliva as the first resource to restore a religious painting feels like a blessing to me.

What exactly is my crime?¹

But seriously. I’m out here living my life. Taking my little hormones. Fucking in the ways that give me pleasure. Loving my love, friends, and family. Working hard. Filling out my taxes. Going on runs, on walks. Cooking. Reading.

And meanwhile, there are 778 anti-trans bills across 43 states this year. What is so powerful about us that you want us killed? Is my crime to be different?

I would choose this life again and again and again before choosing one built on harming others.

During the AIDS crisis, people used to leave these elaborate instructions for their funeral and it was a burden on the living⁴

I love the idea of curating my own death. Not now. Way later in life. Throw a big party, invite everyone I love, dance the night away, eat the best feast. Then a beach. A pill. Falling asleep permanently knowing I’ve lived the best life I possibly could.

Carnations, who planted them?¹

I much prefer orchids. I think of orchids like trans people because their blooming is long-lasting. People think growing orchids is difficult, but I think they simply require the right kind of care, light, and attention. And patience. The right conditions to unfold on their own terms.

Some flowers bloom for two to four months, sometimes even six. And the joy they bring to your life? Unmeasurable.

I don’t understand why people prefer a more predictable flower. Roses are one of Colombia’s biggest flower exports and, don’t get me wrong, I’ll happily accept roses if you gift them to me. But they’ve never been my favorite. They feel too familiar, predictable, and they’re spiky. They don’t want you too close.

I’d take an orchid over a rose, any day.

‍