“I use my body to confront systems of violence.”
I do not separate my body from my politics.
I do not separate my art from my resistance.
When I dance, I am organizing. When I speak, I am dismantling. When I move through the world, I carry centuries of defiance in my spine.
Every performance I do is a response to something happening in the world — police violence, anti-trans laws, genocide, labor exploitation. I use public space to call it out and demand something better.
This is about visibility, truth, and survival.
It’s about refusing to stay silent when people are dying — and using my voice, my body, and my platform to stand with those who are being targeted, erased, or forgotten.
I grew up in a society where religion was used to shame and control. It taught me to fear who I was — to see my queerness, my Blackness, and my femininity as wrong. That harm stays with you.
My work confronts the ways religion has been weaponized — against queer and trans people, against women, against anyone who steps outside the lines. I’ve taken my performances into churches and sacred spaces to expose what’s been hidden and to reclaim what’s been stolen.
I don’t reject faith — I reject how it’s been used to justify violence. My body, my truth, and my presence are not sins. They are sacred.
Trans and queer liberation means more than survival — it means being able to live fully, loudly, and without apology. It means we are no longer treated as experiments, as threats, as burdens, or as symbols of someone else’s discomfort.
I dance for the girls who didn’t make it. For the boys who were punished for softness.
For the kids with no language yet for their truth, but who feel it burning in their bones.
Liberation looks like healthcare without judgment. It looks like love without shame.
It looks like a world where we are not fighting to prove we are human — because our joy, our rage, our gender, and our bodies have never needed permission to exist.
Every time I move through the street, through a protest, through a cathedral, I am not just seen — I am felt. Because transness is not confusion. It is clarity. It is the future. And we will not be legislated out of it.
My father was a Black Cuban refugee. I was raised by my white mother in a household where racism was deeply normalized — and I was the reminder of everything that didn’t fit. I grew up learning to question and suppress the parts of myself that tied me to my Blackness and to him.
My work for racial justice starts there — with the internal work of unlearning shame and reclaiming my identity. But it doesn’t stop there. Through performance and protest, I stand against the systems that criminalize Black life, erase Black history, and police Black expression.
I’ve carried the cross through streets that were built on slavery. I’ve danced for those murdered by police. I speak for those who were silenced, and I move for those still fighting to be seen.
This work is not symbolic. It’s survival. And I refuse to be quiet about it.
I stand in solidarity with Palestine because justice is not optional.
The occupation is ongoing genocide, and silence is complicity. I refuse to stay silent.
Through my performances—whether carrying a bloodied cross in Times Square or speaking out in sacred spaces—I expose the brutal reality of colonial violence and imperialism. Christ was crucified resisting the empire. Today, Palestinians endure the same systems of oppression.
My work calls on everyone to see the truth, to resist apartheid, and to demand freedom for all oppressed peoples. This is a struggle for human dignity, for survival, and for liberation.