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.
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.
So, here is my call to you: If you have a friend whose home feels like a sanctuary, tell them. If you have a grainy video or a blurry photo from 2021 that makes you smile, save it. That is your history. That is your flag.
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. En Casa De Mi Amiga Trans -Spanish Amateur 2021...
But this post isn’t just about a video. It’s about what that phrase means to me today: In my friend’s house.
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 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. If you were deep in the niche corners
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.
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.
As we move further into 2023 and beyond, the landscape has shifted again. Some of us have lost friends we made in those digital rooms. Some of us have moved into our own apartments where we can finally close the door. It was a digital time capsule of late-night
When I think of En Casa De Mi Amiga Trans , I think of the details the pros would have edited out: the hum of a refrigerator in the background, a half-empty bottle of Fanta on the nightstand, the way the curtain didn’t quite cover the window.
October 12, 2023 Category: Personal Essays / Cultural Reflection
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.
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.