As March begins, Crispin Torres will take a significant step along a life-path fashioned by an enduring and unconditional love of both music and his transgender community.
It is a part of a medical process that the prevalent philosophy of transgender discourse has decreed wrong to discuss.
Regardless, after Torres emerges from anesthesia and the brief respite of convalescence, he will resume his work not only as a community educator for the Midwest Regional Office of Lambda Legal but as an educator, activist and community organizer.
Torres works to change the lives of transgender individuals from a struggle against a growing tide of anti-transgender legislation, violence and discrimination to a day when their basic human and civil rights will not be questioned, left open to debate or eradicated completely.
Despite the task which lies ahead of Torres, despite a transgender community whose divisions along racial, age and "passable" lines render the battle for recognition of its humanity even more challenging, despite little or no support from mainstream LGBT groups, Torres shared with Windy City Times why he remained optimistic.
"There was a backlash that, in some ways, many of us anticipated after [the marriage equality ruling] Obergefell [v. Hodges]," he said. "But we will overcome it. Waking up every day seeing another piece of legislation introduced in a different state trying to restrict the freedoms of our trans siblings, I think, 'This is what's going to bring us together. This is what's going to break the tide.' At some point, we're going to have to stop fighting, build an understanding, and really let go of the pain and anger. Because, if we don't build and sit at our own table, roll up our sleeves and set the agenda then LGB people are going to make decisions for us. They're going to be having conversations about what is the best way to approach these things without a single trans person there."
"Although the backlash is demoralizing and terrifying, there are many solutions to a problem," he added. "We will find ways to get past these issues and move forward. We don't have to agree as a community with so much breadth of experience. We just need to agree that we want trans people to be fully recognized and that their civil rights are realized across the country. That's all we need to be on-board for."
Torres' love for his transgender siblings has never been tempered by cynicism or a battle weariness through years spent on the community's front lines.
"Trans people are some of the most incredible people I've ever known," he said. "I sort of cringe when I hear people say 'You're so brave. So resilient' because I think there's a misunderstanding that trans people are emerging from the shadows. I was trans long before I transitioned. Trans people are here and we are a gift to the world because we challenge it. My body is inherently challenging systems of oppression and notions of what it means to be a human being. If a trans person can be free and authentic, then it requires and demands that people ask themselves, 'How am I not free? How am I not authentic?' Trans people know those are very hard questions to ask yourself and honestly answer them. But we are unafraid. We are a part of a community that is unapologetically themselves."
Torres certainly never felt such a need to apologize from the beginning and throughout his journey of self-discovery and expression.
The youngest of three brothers, he was born in Mexico City and raised in the Little Village neighborhood of Chicago. Surrounded by and relishing in the Latino culture was part of the tapestry of his childhood—one that he recalls with great fondness.
"I was always a 'tomboy,' as they used to call it," he said. "I always preferred masculine or non-gendered clothing. My mom was flexible and let me choose my own. I had a favorite pair of little red and gray, '80s-looking sweatpants I would wear. My mom and dad never wanted to push any gender conceptions onto me. I have really good memories of being a kid. I think Latino families are stereotyped as being homophobic or transphobic and that's not accurate. Even though my parents had their own journey alongside my sexual orientation and gender identity, at the end of the day, they were really supportive."
His role model then and today is his older brother Cesar, an accomplished journalist and the managing editor of The Wirecutter.
"It is continually inspiring to see him as a person," Torres asserted. "He was one of the first LGBT adults I ever knew in my life. When I was in elementary school, he was studying journalism at Northwestern. It was a big deal and so inspiring to me to see this super-smart, motivated person recognized as an out gay person of color which was a big deal in the '90s and still is."
Torres recalls his own school years with affection despite the challenges.
"Elementary and middle school were probably the hardest for me with regards to my gender identity," he said. "I got teased a lot for my appearance."
The bullying became more profound when Torres attended a magnet school in Oak Park and became part of a very small racial minority within the student body.
"The challenge of that continued all the way through grad school," he recalled. "Pushing against racism in our education system. The tide began to turn for me when I was a sophomore in high school. I came to terms with my identity and I owned it. I wasn't scared. I had this very unapologetic attitude of 'this is me and you can take it or leave it' that I still carry with me today."
Alongside that outlook and a universal regard for his patient and approachable demeanor, a significant part of the Torres package is music.
"My whole life, I've looked up to all of the Riot Grrrl artists like Kathleen Hanna and bands like X-Ray Specs," he said. "All the bands of that era were the first celebrity figures that I recall seeing and thinking, 'I could do that.' Be myself and not be scared to ruffle feathers."
It was a feeling that carried Torres through what he remembers as a major turning point in his life—his birth into activism.
One frozen day, his high school student group was staging a protest while then-President George W. Bush was touting his plans to go to war in Iraq. A crowd of 400 students had gathered along with a sizeable cadre of reporters.
"Someone was supposed to give a speech and wimped out," he said. "I was handed a couple of talking points and I got up there. That time period lit a fire in me about what is at stake for our country when people who are in leadership positions do not have the best interests of human rights in mind. I felt like I could actually make a difference."
In 2013—armed with two masters degrees from DePaul University and after deciding not to pursue a teaching career—Torres believed he had a wealth of education and information that he could share with the movement.
"Everything fell into place," he said. "A friend of mine was leaving his position at Lambda and I got hired for it. The rest is history."
But history will always serve as the sculptor of the future. For Torres and the transgender community, it is a future that walks along a knife-edge. He, and a few like him, have the will to ensure it doesn't slip into the oblivion below.
"My biggest concern with our community is the sadness and the pain that remains unprocessed," he said. "There needs to be love, compassion and restorative justice and I don't see that happening. When people do what they are called to do in the trenches of activism it is rough emotionally. We have a long way to go and a lot of conversations to have with our allies and our opponents. I'm excited to continue to do the work of challenging people to see us, recognize us and respect us. To be a part of seeing other folks in my community explore their genders while non-trans people become more conscientious allies. Building those bridges and that infrastructure is something to look forward to and it's going to be my life's work."
