Gabriela Meléndez Rivera, GPJ Puerto Rico
Cosmos Ramos Irizarry poses with cosmos, the flower that inspired their name, in Río Piedras, Puerto Rico.
RÍO PIEDRAS, PUERTO RICO — Cosmos Ramos Irizarry was due for their second dose of testosterone in April 2023, but they had not yet mastered the skill of self-administering injections. Their nerves got the better of them, and they had no one nearby to turn to. So they sent a message to a private WhatsApp group for transmasculine people, which they had joined in late 2022 after being invited by a contact. Minutes later, on the other side of Puerto Rico, they found somebody willing to help.
For Ramos, a nonbinary person who uses the pronoun “they,” one of the most difficult parts of transitioning has been finding community. There is no official record of the transmasculine population in Puerto Rico, and there’s a lack of information about safe spaces to receive medical or psychological support, among other things. In addition, within the trans community, people with masculine gender expressions are often overshadowed by their feminine counterparts, making their processes less understood and more solitary.
In this context, the WhatsApp group has become a support network to share experiences, needs and support.
“I used to have people to talk to and places to read about the aggressions I experienced as a woman and feminized body. The aggressions I experience as a transmasculine person are more isolating,” says Leandro “Lale” Namerrow, 37, co-founder of Red Transmasc de Puerto Rico. The initiative promotes bonding between trans and nonbinary people whose gender expression or identity is on the masculine spectrum. He is one of the five co-founders of the virtual community where Ramos asked for help.
The chat, which shares its name with the organization that founded it, started in the aftermath of Hurricane Fiona, which struck Puerto Rico on Sept. 18, 2022, and left approximately 90% of the archipelago without electricity. Red Transmasc wanted to find out what the community needed and channel emergency assistance funds, but the chat group was well received — 100 participants joined in four days — and soon, members started asking for recommendations for gynecologists, psychologists, chest binding tape, surgeons, testosterone and more.
Sharing information regarding medical services and the correct use of binding breast tape can prevent injuries and violent experiences. But due to stigma, many transmasculine people avoid asking questions in spaces they don’t deem safe.
“There’s something about a phone and a text message,” Namerrow says. “It takes away the anxiety of asking a question.”
Wyatt Damián De Jesús Casanova, 20, resident of Hatillo, joined the group in late 2022. He was the one who responded to Ramos’ message about injecting testosterone. He remembers writing something to the effect of, “I don’t know you, but call me and I’ll walk you through it.” A few minutes later, he explained everything to Ramos on a FaceTime call. The injection process is far from simple, De Jesús says.
“I want to give [other transmasculine people] something I wish I’d had,” says De Jesús, who started his hormonal transition in 2022 and had to learn about the nuances of the process on his own. He also offers his services as a barber to other members looking for a safe space.
Stephan Malik, 29, co-founder and member of Red Transmasc, believes that the group has allowed more transmasculine people to access information. That might accelerate the new members’ transition processes, in comparison to those who, like him, had to discover things on their own.
To Malik, finding out what group members need and where it’s located should be Red Transmasc’s next goal. However, he explains, the lack of official records makes that difficult.
Meanwhile, the group chat is a way to share information in real time. “I found very generous people willing to help. They tend to share resources even when nobody asks them to,” says Elías Damián Vélez, who joined the group in 2022. He recalls that both he and his partner were able to get free chest binders — a compression garment to flatten the breasts — thanks to information shared in the group.
“The group chat has helped me remember that even though they seem like total strangers, I am not alone,” he says.
In April, Ramos celebrated their first year on testosterone with a karaoke night. They sent an invitation to the group, which still has about 100 members across Puerto Rico. Ramos remembers the relief they felt on the call with De Jesús and the peace of mind that came from having someone by their side during the first steps of their hormonal transition.
Sometimes Ramos messages the group about good things that happen to them. They say it’s about striking a “balance between ‘we’re trans and it’s damn tough, but we can also accomplish things.’” Sharing with friends who are cisgender — people whose gender identity aligns with the sex assigned to them at birth — wouldn’t be the same. “For me, [the group chat] has made the process of transitioning easier. I don’t feel so alone because I have a place where I can say things about the transition that only people who are transitioning will understand.”
