Transvestite-trans memory: “Carnival was the only moment of freedom”

Photos and testimonies from the Trans Memory Archive explain why the parade was the moment that transvestites and trans people waited for all year.

March 3, 2019

Persecuted and criminalized by police edicts, they lived confined because they were arrested simply for being out in the street: the six days of carnival were the moment they awaited all year. With photos from the Trans Memory Archive and testimonies from some of its workers and collaborators, we remember how they lived through those days.

From exclusion to center stage, from the confinement of houses and boarding houses to applause and feathers in the streets. Carnival has historically been the only popular celebration for transvestites and trans people: those six nights a year, two weekends from Friday to Sunday, were the only times when wigs, makeup, and high heels didn't make them outcasts or criminals, but rather the divas of the parades and carnival processions in the neighborhoods of Buenos Aires province and the capital.

“We waited all year for the six days of the carnival parade when we could go out into the street and be ourselves freely: we met up, we had fun, we wore everything. It was like a diva's dream, something that could only be experienced at Carnival or in exile.”

“It was six days of freedom and 350 days in jail. I'm not exaggerating. That's how it was for us. That's how it was before and after the dictatorship, even worse after the dictatorship. Those days were magical: because from being discriminated against, we went on to be like divas. If there weren't any trans women at a parade, it was like something was missing.”

“At that time there were what were called police edicts: they would arrest us under article 2° F: wearing clothes contrary to the sex. So we would go out to the store or to buy cigarettes and they would pick us up. It was not possible to even walk half a block in a skirt without them taking you away, so imagine what it was like to go out in a bikini and pasties! It was a party for us.”

“We lived like gypsies those days in the buses: sometimes we slept there. We would arrive around 4 pm to go to the houses where they were organizing and we would finish in the early hours of the morning.”

“We spent a lot of time making our costumes: we sewed them ourselves. On the day of the parade, we would always meet at one of our friends’ houses to get ready together. The carnival groups would send a bus to pick us up, and we would go to four or five different parades in one night, like a tour. Some even paid us.”

“And in that time, the 70s/80s, there was nothing but hormones and Moria Casán was very fashionable. So we would put on foam padding to make our hips bigger and four or five pairs of stockings on top and a thong.”

“It was like the fairy tale of the princess whose magic ends: the carnival would end and you'd have to run because the police would grab you right then and there. The carnival parade would finish and there would be a van, a truck, or a bus waiting to take us away.”

“We went to various places where there were carnival parades: in Tigre, in San Isidro, in San Fernando, in Béccar, all over the northern area. But they were everywhere: throughout the province and in the neighborhoods of the capital. It depended on the carnival group you were in or the one you were invited to. But it was like an unmissable event: the daily fantasy.”

“People were applauding us, shouting nice things, and taking pictures with us. We were like the stars of the party. Sure, some people laughed or made jokes, but we didn't care: we were enjoying ourselves, we were happy… Why would I care, with everything I was used to putting up with?”

“When I was a girl, my mom wouldn’t let me participate and told me never to, because they would take us along to laugh at us. Later, I was in a relationship with a guy who played the bass drum in a carnival group, but he was jealous and wouldn’t let me participate. I would go all covered up next to him… But when I could, I put on the feathers and went.”

“You started when you were little, and as a teenager you were already going out: people from the neighborhood would invite you because they knew you. And you would spend the whole year making your costume. One carnival would end and you would already start thinking about the costume you were going to make for the following year.”

“Still, there was a sad part, and that was that when you went there you realized that some of your classmates were no longer there: from one summer to the next many had gone into exile, but many were also already dead. We were never the same again.”

“My group was called 'Las Divas', there were eight of us and I was actually the only transvestite: the others were all what we called 'maricas cicharras', which are those very effeminate faggots who acted more like men.”

“A carnival troupe absolutely had to have trans women, otherwise it was boring. People crowded around to see us because it was the only opportunity. We were like an attraction, because all year long we were hidden away due to police repression. People came to see us and take pictures with us. And many said nice things to us, showing their support, because they knew what we went through, which was going into a supermarket or a restaurant and having someone call the police to remove us.”

“I do miss that carnival atmosphere a little. But things are better now, things are still happening, but not like that. Back then you never knew if that carnival was your last.”

Photos and testimonies: Trans Memory Archive: Ivana Bordei, Carla Pericles and Magalí Muñiz

Texts compiled by: Paula Bistagnino

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