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Weaving the Thin Threads of Resilience
Growing up trans in the heart of a slum
Growing up in Comuna 13 was like living in a kaleidoscope of chaos and beauty.
Every day was a fight. A celebration. A story to be told.
Our little corner of Medellín, Colombia perched on hills that scrape the belly of the heavens was infamous for its ungodly violence. However, violence was not the whole truth.
Comuna 13 was a paradox. It was as much a place of struggle as strength and resilience. Although poor in hard cash, we were rich in spirit, a currency that kept our dreams alive.
Our house was a patchwork of cinder blocks and tin sheets — a great dystopian sight. A memorial to poverty. Prayers and my mother’s brow sweat glued it together. It wasn’t much, but it was ours — all ours.
We shared an outdoor toilet with three other families. A structure that stood like a reluctant sentinel standing centry at the edge of our yard.
The door had no lock. The stench was eye-watering. We locked it with a stone that we propped against it. A stone that protected our dignity. A dignity already hanging by a thread.
At night, using the bathroom felt like braving the wilderness: the wind howling through the slats, and the fear of who or what…
