October 12, 2023 Category: Personal Essays / Cultural Reflection
I revisited this memory recently because a younger trans woman asked me, "What was it like back then?" I didn’t have a political answer. I told her about the 2021 video.
I told her about the way the light hit the peeling wallpaper. I told her about the off-screen laughter when someone tripped over a pair of platform sneakers. I told her that you could feel the trust through the screen—the trust that this moment wouldn’t be exploited, that it was made for us , by us.
Thank you to the women of 2021 who opened their doors, turned on a camera, and said, "You are safe here." Have a memory of a safe space from that era? Share it in the comments below. ¿Y tú? ¿Dónde encontraste tu casa? En Casa De Mi Amiga Trans -Spanish Amateur 2021...
The title specifies casa (house). That word is important. For many trans people, especially in conservative Spanish-speaking cultures, the family home is often the site of rejection. The phrase “Mi casa es tu casa” (My house is your house) can feel like a fantasy.
It was amateur. And thank God for that.
But in her house? The friend’s house?
That’s why the amateur, homemade nature of content from this era hits differently. It wasn't about lighting rigs or scripts. It was about proving we were still alive.
Professional media often tells trans stories through a lens of tragedy or transition timelines. But amateur media—the stuff we make for each other—tells the truth: that being a trans woman in 2021 often meant laughing until you cried in a friend’s messy bedroom. It meant teaching each other makeup tricks using a phone camera and a $2 eyeshadow palette.
If you were deep in the niche corners of Spanish-language amateur content during the pandemic, you might recognize the aesthetic. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t professional. It was a digital time capsule of late-night conversations, borrowed mascara, and the radical act of existing authentically when the world outside was still locked down. October 12, 2023 Category: Personal Essays / Cultural
By 2021, we were all exhausted. The initial panic of 2020 had given way to a strange, suffocating numbness. For the LGBTQ+ community, specifically for trans women, isolation wasn’t just boring—it was dangerous. Community spaces were closed. Chosen families were separated by Zoom lag and government restrictions.
There are certain memories that feel like a warm room you can step back into whenever life gets cold. For me, one of those memories is pinned to a specific, grainy screenshot from the summer of 2021: En Casa De Mi Amiga Trans .
But this post isn’t just about a video. It’s about what that phrase means to me today: In my friend’s house. I told her about the off-screen laughter when
But the lesson of En Casa De Mi Amiga Trans remains: It is built in bad lighting and borrowed clothes. It is built in the houses of friends who see you completely.
That becomes sacred ground. It is the only place where you can take off the armor. You can stop modulating your voice. You can admit you’re scared. You can dance badly to Rosalía without judgment. En Casa De Mi Amiga Trans isn’t just a location—it’s a permission slip to be soft.
