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Gabriela woke up dreaming of Christmas carols. The ones her mother used to sing to her when she still lived in Lima, Peru. Gabriela looked forward to this day all year because on this festive day her mother would kiss her on the cheek and forgive all her mischief. On this day, Gabriela became a child again, sharing her best-kept secret with everyone. Christmas was like a loving embrace for her. She had been taught to enjoy this day so much that it had become a cherished tradition in her life. 

As Gabriela grew up, her customs changed so much that she began to sense a growing lack of love for Christmas all around her. And one day, Gabriela left Peru, even though she knew that migrating to Argentina meant ending up on a street corner. With the same courage she had shown when leaving her homeland, she managed to survive through prostitution, becoming a whore, a mistress, a slave, a Playboy bunny, and a schoolgirl. She understood and accepted that this destiny was not a choice for her, but an imposition. 

Gabriela's Christmas traditions remained alive whenever she crossed paths with a trans migrant friend from her homeland, who understood the cultural value of celebrating Christmas in her native Lima. That's when Gabriela became a trans girl again, remembering her home, her city, its sun-filled windows, the shopping for a multitude of gifts, the warmth, and the love—so much love.

So one day in December, Gabriela planned everything. She wanted to relive the profound feeling of the birth of the Christ Child. She was going to make hot chocolate, buy sweets, candies, a tres leches cake, and a colorful tablecloth adorned with flowers. She wanted to invite all her fellow Peruvian women to share the joy she felt on this day. She wanted to wear a beautiful white dress and high heels. 

Gabriela is 36 years old. She knows she had surpassed the life expectancy of trans women, she knows that there comes a point in life when no memory is safe, so she decided to give it her all this day. Christmas is about that for trans women: living a beautiful memory to treasure. Empowered and happy, she jumped out of bed, went to the bathroom to wash her face, grabbed her cell phone and took a picture which she later uploaded to her WhatsApp status. Happy and smiling, with a bare face, she wrote: "MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL."

She took out her savings, put on makeup, and slipped into red leggings. She grabbed her shopping bag and went out in search of everything she wanted. The streets of Buenos Aires were cool and sunny, and people were rushing around getting everything they needed to fill their tables. 

Gabriela walked along Pueyrredón Avenue looking for the dress, bought some wine, found a nice perfume, and sent money to her family. She felt fulfilled, content, and eager to be happy. Her phone buzzed with notifications. "It's clients calling," she thought. But she didn't want to get distracted from what she still needed to buy. She refreshed herself with some rice pudding made by the women who sell it from coolers on the sidewalks of Buenos Aires and sat down to enjoy the treat on the steps of the Once train station. 

When she read what was happening on her phone, her mood turned to anger. Someone had made a meme out of the photo she'd uploaded that morning. It was a picture of her face, they'd drawn a beard on it and added some words mocking her. The damn meme had gone viral in different groups. Trans women were laughing at her, making fun of her. The pretty ones, the ugly ones, and the perfect ones. Even the trans women closest to her were saying, "Have you seen the latest meme?" "Those guys are terrible!" Painfully wondering why we can be so mean at times, Gabriela wanted to know who had done it. She started investigating, searching for an app on social media that would show her where the chain had started. She wanted to know if it had come from an Argentinian number. But if she discovered it was from a number in another country, she would feel like she was dying. There was a moment when everyone was guilty: her cousins, her mother, her cousin who was a whiz at social media, her older friends, the young trans women.

She stopped shopping and went back home. The sun seemed to set for her, the wind turned hot, her hands sweated, and her heart pounded. She stared at the floor and abandoned her dream of Christmas. She couldn't understand her community; she wanted to tell the world that where they saw laughter and mockery, she saw sadness—that's how she felt. She turned off her phone, and when she opened her shopping bag, she decided to spend it alone. She felt listless. By nine o'clock at night, the meme was going viral on social media. She didn't want to cook and eat alone. She went to bed thinking about the transvestite Christmas, but woke up to the sound of fireworks. She never found out who made a meme out of her Christmas dreams. In her case, being a victim of cyberbullying was, in a way, like being virtually crucified, forcing her to abandon Christmas. At midnight, she got out of bed, washed her face, put on makeup, and went to the red-light district to work as a prostitute.