God where are you? My life in transition

Rosita's testimony collected by Erika Capobianco*

I'm tired, really too tired to go out tonight. Especially my legs, they hurt, they are heavy like lead. I curse myself for what I did to my body. Why did I do it? Was it necessary? I want to sleep, sleep and not think.

There were seven of us in the family, five children and their parents. We lived in one of those suburban neighborhoods with no history where the houses (actually shacks) were pushed together without a plan and without logic, other than that of saving material.

La miseria aleggiava su tutto insieme ad un tanfo al quale però eravamo abituati. Delinquenza, prostituzione e degrado la facevano da padroni ma la gente lì non conosceva altro quindi quella era la normalità. Eppure in ogni casa c’erano immaginette di santi, madonne e papi. Una devozione ingenua e quasi commovente. A chi rivolgersi se non all’Altissimo e ai suoi eredi quando si vive nella disperazione e nessun ente o istituzione ti ascolta?

Quando pioveva per settimane i vicoli diventavano fango, ma dinnanzi agli usci le lussureggianti piante tropicali prosperavano rigogliose nei catini arrugginiti. Unica nota di bellezza.

Io ero carino, un bel bambino con la pelle d’ambra e i capelli neri. Belli erano anche i miei due fratelli e le mie sorelline. Eravamo fiori nati in discarica. Una discarica umana. Della mia grazia un po’ effeminata se ne accorsero in molti, e alcuni ne approfittarono senza che io mi difendessi. E come avrei potuto?
A chi avrei potuto raccontare quelle cose?

Mia madre era sempre affannata a mettere insieme il pranzo con la cena. Mio padre sicuramente mi avrebbe picchiato (lo faceva già) accusandomi di essere io il colpevole coi miei modi da femminuccia. Finii col pensare fosse una pratica normale, tanto in quel posto dimenticato da Dio la normalità (come ho già detto), era diversa che altrove.

There were two nuns who periodically came to the neighborhood to provide some help, mostly medical. They had good faces but an aura that made them seem distant and I would never, ever be able to confide in them.

Sometimes I went to listen to their catechism secretly from dad who considered it a waste of time, but those beautiful and unknown words were a sweet balm for my little soul. When I grow up I want to be a nun, I thought, and I already saw myself in the long white dress together with my sisters. If I had known then what my life would have been instead... Other than a nun. Does everyone have their own destiny? Do we have to build our own destiny? I'm confused. God didn't listen to me.

It's eleven o'clock. I slept little and badly. I absolutely have to get up. I make some rice and beans for lunch then go back to bed. I have to rest because tonight, if the world falls apart, I have to go out.

Three in the morning. Here on the coast road it's incredibly humid. I hate this humidity which ruins the styling that I spent so much time doing with the brush. And then it's torture for my arthritis
I look at myself reflected in the window of a parked car. I find myself ugly. Ugly and pathetic. Alone in this street which is now deserted. I would like to go home but I can't, I have earned very little. There's rent to pay and the landlord doesn't hear any stories. And then there are the bills, the drugs and the fridge is almost empty. I lean against the lamppost. I have to resist as much as possible.

At eighteen I went to live in the city as a guest of some friends. I was a waiter in a hotel for little money and illegally. When I could I went out with new friends. My life had improved compared to before, but I carried within me a dissatisfaction and restlessness that I didn't know how to name.
A friend invited me to a small party he was throwing at his house. I was quite shy and always felt out of place everywhere, however I went.

Among the few guests there was a beautiful, elegant and brilliant woman. The owner of the house explained to me that she had made a transition and had moved to Europe where she had become rich. The thick veil fell from my eyes and into my soul and clearly revealed the reason for my discomfort. I too had always wanted to be like her and deep down I had always known it. Overcoming my shyness, I started talking to the charming lady, peppering her with questions.

«Please let me enjoy the evening happily, if you want I'll see you calmly in the next few days, I'll stay here for a while», she told me a little annoyed. I spent the evening observing her and wondering how it was possible... how? The following night I didn't sleep a wink and I showed up at work looking like a wreck.

After a few days the beautiful lady showed up and invited me to her house. I arrived early and walked around nervously waiting for the meeting. That meeting that changed my life.

Linda welcomed me with a beautiful pink dressing gown trimmed with marabou, matching heeled slippers on her feet, I immediately noticed that they were small on them. He had big hands and big feet. The apartment was large, furnished with expensive furniture and lots of trinkets. To me it seemed like the home of a diva, one of those I had seen on TV and especially in soap operas. "This house is owned," he said, "I bought it a few years ago but I don't come here much, I live in Barcelona." I thought about the dingy sublet room I was staying in and the cabin I was born in.

We chatted for a long time, especially her, I couldn't take my eyes off her and I tried to be as kind as possible. She told me I could visit her whenever I wanted, that she liked having company. «You can also come at night, I don't sleep at night anyway, I fall asleep at dawn, I'm used to it». I didn't let her repeat it to me and, practically every day, after work I ran to her who slowly became my friend, my teacher, my hope.

By now Linda knew my inspiration, she knew that I wanted to become like her. He scrutinized me, told me that after all I had the right physique and features to transform myself into a beautiful girl. Of course we had to work on it with hormonal treatments and scalpels. He started making me wear his clothes and I could already see something I liked in the mirror. I wobbled on her heels which I wasn't used to but mostly because of the emotion. Finally he baptized me with a small rite. Now my name was Rosita. I didn't like that name very much, but I didn't dare contradict her.

The situation is now unsustainable, I can no longer earn enough to live on, I am no longer young and attractive and the competition is fierce. The road has become heavier than usual and more humiliating. My health worsens. The owner of the house doesn't want to listen to reason, I have to leave the house as soon as possible. Where will I go? What will become of me? I'm now a waste. The waste of humanity to which I have no right to belong. I hope that at least God doesn't abandon me.

When Linda returned to Europe I left with her. Barcelona is lively and Linda's house looked like a pink and white wedding favor. I started hormonal treatments, my teacher lent me the money for the cosmetic adjustments.

After a year I was finally a beautiful creature, almost more than her. I didn't recognize myself in the mirror, I had become a plus-sized woman. In truth, I would have liked smaller breasts and I didn't think it was necessary to have amphora hips. But Linda persuaded me by telling me that men liked generous curves.

In fact, when I started working on the sidewalk I was very popular and started earning a lot of money. I got my own apartment and my life seemed satisfying to me. I started sending money to my mother. I told her I had found a good job but I don't know if she believed me.

Obviously I didn't think about returning to my country again. Instead, I returned for his funeral and my father, after looking at me with contempt, spat on the ground and told me never to be seen again. In fact I never saw him again and I don't miss him. Sometimes I cry when I remember my mother.

Years later I landed in Italy and fell madly in love with a boy. We saw each other regularly, but always at my house. It was clear that he was ashamed to be seen in public with me. But I didn't care, I loved him anyway and in his arms I felt satisfied.

Antonio started using drugs and I with him. I basically worked just to pay for the habit for both of us and he would get furious if sometimes I didn't bring home enough money or if I didn't feel like going out. He was no longer my love but my tormentor.

I managed to get rid of him by moving city but I didn't get rid of the addiction. The new city in northern Italy I had landed in was cold and hostile. I only hung out with clients and companions in misfortune. People's malevolent glances were stabs, contempt and marginalization slowly led me to isolation. I never went out during the day, rather I paid someone for the most mundane tasks such as shopping or paying a bill.

The pushers brought the drugs to my home and I only went out at night (I was comfortable in the darkness) or received customers at home. Without realizing it I slipped into the abyss. My father was right: I was a cursed being.

It's almost Christmas. I left my little apartment. Now I live with some friends in a makeshift place near the pine forest. Sometimes I feel like I'm back in the slum where I was born. This place is humid, unhealthy, I was admitted to hospital where I was diagnosed with numerous health problems. Above all, my legs always hurt, my ankles are so swollen that I can't put on my shoes. It's the fault of the silicone which has migrated downwards from the hips and buttocks. Even my face, previously harmonious, became deformed for the same reason. From Cinderella to princess, from princess to toad.

Fortunately, the other derelicts who live nearby in the same conditions as me give me a hand.
Some still manage to scrape together something on the sidewalk and have not abandoned me totally to poverty. I repay as best I can, perhaps with some household chores. I have no further news of my family.

My sister had moved to Italy and I insisted on meeting her. I took a long trip to join her in the southern city where she got married and works. He arranged to meet me in a suburban bar. We hugged each other in tears (we hadn't seen each other for many years) but his embarrassment was obvious, he did nothing but look around to check the reactions of the bystanders.

He didn't invite me to his house, I understood the reason and didn't hold it against him, accustomed as I was to being considered "unpresentable". Yet I was so committed to adopting the sober look of a respectable lady. Her hair tied back, a little makeup, flat shoes and a beige dress below the knee. But all this is not enough to erase the brand.

I got into the habit of going to afternoon mass at the nearest church. I felt at peace there. I never took communion because I believed I was not worthy of it. But that dim light, the songs of the few faithful, the priest's readings gave me relief. Like a hot shower after a freezing night.

Christ was enthroned on the cross, he had suffered more than me and could understand me without condemning me. Many times I stood in line for confession but then went back to my seat. I was too ashamed.

One evening, as I was leaving the church, an elderly lady stopped me: "Hello madam, I often see you here at the evening service, my name is Ada." «Nice ma'am, yes I like coming to church», in the usual attempt to soften my voice a shrill sound came out of my throat.

"It's cold tonight, do you want to come and have some hot tea with me?" said the old lady. I accepted even though it seemed strange to me, I wasn't used to certain kindnesses. Walking towards her house I wondered what this woman wanted from me and why she would invite a complete stranger into her house. "Ma'am, I'm not a real woman," I said as soon as I entered. I don't know why I said that. "I know dear, it doesn't matter, have a seat in the living room while I make tea."

Ada moved slowly and had a certain grace in her bearing, she was tall and wiry. Looking at her I found myself reflecting: why did I believe that it was necessary to have big breasts and big hips to be a woman? Femininity is certainly not that.

I saw Ada again in church and frequently went to see her. She seemed to be happy about it.

It's been almost a year. After a few months of dating Ada made me an unexpected proposal: "Why don't you move here with me?", she asked me. "The house is big, I live there alone and you could give me a hand, I'm not that young anymore and the loneliness is starting to weigh on me."

I feel comfortable with her, the house is comfortable and it's good for me too to be in her company. We go shopping together, to mass in the afternoon (if it's not too cold). I cook for both of us (she hates cooking while I like it), I often prepare typical dishes from my country that she goes crazy for.

In the evening Ada reads passages from books to me, my Italian has also improved a lot. And so is my health. I often visit my friends and with the money that Ada regularly gives me (she insisted so much) I try not to let them lack what they need.

Ada took me to a notary, she decided to leave the house to me as an inheritance. In truth, I don't know which of us will leave first, given that my health conditions are not the best, but this gesture moved me and made me believe in humanity and also in the benevolence of God again.

Yes, I believe it was He who made my bumpy path cross that of Ada.

* Testimonianza raccolta grazie as part of the “Born twice” project, con cui i volontari del Jonathan Project vogliono raccontare i cammini di fede delle persone transgender e dei loro familiari. A maggio 2025, in occasione delle Prayer vigils to overcome homotransbiphobia, alcune di queste storie saranno raccolte da Jonathan's tent in un libretto a stampa gratuito che racconterà i percorsi di fede delle persone transgender, cattoliche e evangeliche, e dei loro familiari nelle diverse chiese. Una raccolta di testimonianze con cui vogliamo tessere un ponte di conoscenza tra questi due mondi spesso lontani, per contribuire a buttare giù muri e pregiudizi. Per leggere le testimonianze che abbiamo già raccolto clicca su https://www.gionata.org/tag/nati-due-volte/ . Se vuoi aggiungere la tua scrivi a tendedigionata@gmail.com PASSAparola