Lorena's 'Alcance'

[Música] En Nueva York, Dorena Borjas protegía a latinas que han aprendido a sobrevivir tres veces. Como mujeres trans, como inmigrantes y como trabajadoras sexuales. "Yo voy a llegar a donde tenga que llegar como una perra, pelear con garras y uñas." Pero cuando murió, comenzó una cuarta batalla para prosperar en un mundo lleno de amenazas. Escuchas central, las reinas de Queens, en la apta I Heart Radio, apod't podcasts o donde sea que escuches tus podcasts. [Música] "On a recent episode of the podcast Money in Wealth with John Hope Bryant, I sit down with Tiffany the Budginista Aliche to talk about what it really takes to take control of your money. What would that look like in our families if everyone was able to pass on wealth to the people when they're no longer here?" "We break down budgeting, financial discipline, and how to build real wealth starting with the mindset shifts too many of us were never ever told. If you've ever felt you didn't get the memo on money, this conversation is for you to hear more. Listen to Money in Wealth with John Hope Bryant from the Black Effect Network on the I Heart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcast." [Música] "Earners, what's up? Look, money is something we all deal with, but financial literacy is what helps turn income into real wealth. On each episode of the podcast's "Earn梨" leisure, we break down the conversations you need to understand money, investing, and entrepreneurship. From stocks and real estate to credit, business, and generational wealth, all goal is simple. Make financial literacy accessible for everyone. Because when you understand the system, you can start to build within it. Open your free I Heart Radio app, search "Earn梨" leisure, and listen now. "Earners' phone was always on, and she was the one that would go to get you out of jail. "Esa mujer que te decía, todo va a estar bien. Keeping me safe." "She became like a mother." Her ability to help people escape trafficking situations, abusive situations, unsafe situations with the police. I've never seen anyone like that before, and I doubt I will ever see anyone again. [Música] [Cheering] Lorena, Lorena, Lorena, Lorena, Lorena, Lorena. [Música] From Futuro Miria, it's Latino USA, I'm Maria Inujosa. Today, one year after her passing, we remember the life and explore the legacy of Lorena Borjas. She's known as the mother of the trans Latina community in Queens, New York. [Música] Originally from a small town in the coastal state of Veracruz, Mexico, Lorena arrived in the United States in May of 1981, just a few days before her 21st birthday. Less than a month later, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention announced the first recorded case of a new and lethal virus spreading in the United States. [Música] This newscast from 1981 and the media large portrayed HIV and AIDS as the gay illness. Some reporters even calling it gay cancer. But even as the death toll from AIDS grew in the following years, little was being done to provide much needed treatment. [Music] The demonstration was carefully choreographed by ACT UP, a two-year-old coalition of gay groups set up to fight what they call the governments in action and silence honey. We have to let people know that there's an AIDS crisis, the people are dying, that we need money, that we need health care. While the AIDS epidemic is recognized as a catalyst for organizing in the LGBTQ community, trans immigrant women are often left out of the narrative. In 1995, at the peak of the epidemic, Lorena, who had become HIV positive, began what she called her "alcanse" or her outreach. She was distributing condoms to trans immigrant sex workers in Queens, New York. It was a means of not only addressing the spread of sexually transmitted diseases, but also a way of connecting trans immigrants to critical medical and legal services. After decades of work building networks of mutual aid, it would be another massive health crisis, COVID-19, that would finally take the life of this beloved community leader. Today on our show, the story of Lorena's "alcanse". It's an intergenerational portrait of a pioneering activist, and we're going to see her life through the eyes of the women who knew her as a mother and as a sister in their struggle. To tell this story, here's producer Juliero Cha. It's March 8, 2018, International Women's Day. Lorena sits at a Duncan Donets on Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens, the neighborhood that she's lived and worked in for 40 years. Lorena calls herself a survivor, a trans Latina, who's overcome many obstacles in her life. It's almost 9 pm. She looks tired after a full day of work, but her day is far from over. The backseat of her car is full of boxes with condoms that she'll soon hand out to sex workers in the neighborhood. She's talking to Sofia Serra Campero, one of the producers of this story. Lorena remembers growing up in Costa Marlouapan. At 12 years old, she was learning to put on makeup and love to secretly try on her sister's clothes. Her family often called her a "hoto", which is a derogatory term for gay. One day, they caught her in her sister's clothes and beat her. At just 14, she moved to Mexico City on her own, where she would meet her first trans friends. Lorena says that her friends used to call her "lucha". And while she found community in Mexico City, she also found danger and discrimination. Lorena says that one day, five men forced her to the top of a building and threatened to throw her off the rooftop. She still hadn't transitioned and was terrified that the violence would only get worse when her body changed. In 1981, some of her friends had come to the US to access gender affirming medical treatment, and they encouraged Lorena to do the same. Just a few days before turning 21, Lorena crossed the border. I feel more American than those who were born here, says Lorena. Lorena says that in the US, she became strong. It was in the US that she learned about sex work, drugs, alcoholism. So she says, "If she went through all of that here, then this is her country." Lorena's first job as an undocumented immigrant was assembling furniture at a factory. She made just enough to rent a room in Queens and buy subway tokens. Then in November of 1986, a stroke of luck. Lorena secured legal residency in the US through Ronald Reagan's immigration amnesty. With her new papers in hand, she applied to Medicaid and began her hormone treatment. She was able to get a legal work permit, a new job at a belt factory, and eventually a scholarship to Turro College, where she studied accounting. After school, Lorena would hang out at Port Authority Bus Terminal. Back then, you know, we didn't really have a lot of places to hang out. That's Cristina Herrera. She's an immigrant from El Salvador and one of Lorena's oldest friends. Aside from being one of the country's busiest terminals, Cristina remembers Port Authority felt like a mercado, a fast pace, lively gathering place, and one of the few places where trans people didn't feel as targeted by the police. It was in Port Authority that a friend introduced her to Lorena in 1986. She had a big smile on her face. She had a pile of books on her hands. A big bag, you know, No, no, no. shoulder and she had a pencil on her ear, very like a schoolgirl. Christina was 15 years old and Lorena's schoolgirl look stood out to her. At the time, higher education, a career all felt out of grasp. Back then, like our reality was, okay, so you're here in New York, you're going to do sex work in order to begin your transition for the hormones and surgeries. It was a reality she started noticing around Port Authority. Every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, like around 10 pm, you would see this tall, slim Caribbean trans women walking down with those caderas, like, women. From Port Authority, they would catch the seven train to Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens. One night, I'm like, so where are you going? I'm stepping in. And they're like, are we going to work? Roosevelt Avenue had become a hub for sex work. When you look up in Roosevelt Avenue, you don't see the moon at the start. You see the seven train. That's Cecilia Hintili, who we'll hear more from later. She's describing the elevated train tracks that tower above Roosevelt Avenue. And it's very, very, very, very noisy. A lot of taxes and a lot of black cars, food cars with tacos and empanadas. And a lot of people very, very drunk because they are coming out of so many little bars. When doors open from the bars, you hear music. And as the doors closing, the music goes away. So it's a beautiful chaos. As Lorena began to transition, she felt less and less accepted at her place of employment. And in 1989, she decided to leave the belt factory. With a meager unemployment check, Lorena found herself two months behind on rent. A woman that she knew offered to help get her money doing sex work. The woman began arranging clients for her in exchange for a cut of her profits. Lorena said she was coerced to meet with ten clients a night and had no idea how much money was being cut from her earnings. Linley Edges, the legal director at Transgender Law Center, and an attorney who would represent Lorena years later, says that these kind of situations were common. With the combination of discrimination, inability to access employment, inability to access housing, inability to access safety in general, it creates a higher likelihood of being victimized, whether it's in an abusive romantic relationship, familial relationship, or what I have seen extensively becoming a victim of human trafficking. During this time, Lorena was also a victim to abusive partnerships where she was forced to do sex work. Trans people are very rarely identified as victims of human trafficking, even when the information is right there in front of law enforcement, social service providers, and attorneys. Her friends say it would be years before Lorena recognized herself as a survivor of human trafficking. Lorena says it was them that she began to use drugs, many times provided by her clients, who would pay extra for Lorena to use substances with them. What was Lorena's Christina again? We saw a ditch in a basic reality. It was like a coping mechanism that our community was using just to kind of like survive. But as Lorena began using drugs, the US also ramped up its criminalization of drugs and the expansion of policing in communities of color. Then, in March of 1994, New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani's administration implemented what was known as "quality of life policing," which aimed to "clean up the city" by allowing broader officer discretion to stop question, frisk, and arrest for minor offenses. Arrests in the trans community became more and more common. One day I was eating a chuso in a soda like a 9 o'clock at night and they'd like drop it. I'm like, "Why am I going to drop it? I just bought it right now and they'd like drop it. You're coming in." The loose language of quality of life policing made it so that simply carrying condoms on you could be used as evidence of prostitution. On top of that, New York's anti-loitering statutes, colloquially known as the Walking While Transban, gave police the discretion to detain anyone they presumed to be "loitering for the purposes of prostitution." While the statute was finally repealed this past February, data cited by the New York State Senate shows that as recent as 2018, 91% of people arrested under this regulation were black and Latinx, with 80% identifying as women. Lorena says her encounters with the police were always violent and humiliating. Lorena would face several charges for prostitution, according to Linley, all a direct result of human trafficking. Although Lorena hoped to apply for naturalization and had even studied for the test, her convictions made her ineligible to renew her green card or applied to become a U.S. citizen. In her last arrest, the judge gave her a warning. One more arrest, and she would be sent back to Mexico. Carrying condoms was increasingly putting trans women of color at higher risk of arrest and deportation, while HIV infection in the trans community continued to rise. We were seeing more of our peers become HIV positive. All we knew is that people were dying all the time and getting really sick. The messages that we were getting from media was that it was a gay illness, anyone that was like a paralel to be to community was going to die of AIDS. In the mid 90s, Lorena herself became HIV positive. Back then, disclosing about being HIV positive was like a really big deal. We were just afraid of rejection, so I don't know if she was able to speak about it early in the beginning of her illness. The crucial early stages of the epidemic were met with a complete lack of government response. Although cases of death and infection from HIV rose dramatically since the virus was first discovered in the U.S. in 1981, President Reagan did not publicly acknowledge the AIDS crisis until 1985. For years, there was no treatment, and even when it became available, it came at a steep cost. It's the only government approved AIDS drug in America. At $10,000 a year cost per patient, it's prohibitively expensive for most and not widely available. In 1993, the CDC reported that black and Latinx people accounted for 55% of the over 100,000 AIDS cases reported in the United States that year. AIDS people faced added barriers when trying to access care. I don't believe that there were any trans-led organizations. So a lot of times, the services were like for gay men. A lot of times, we were misgender. They wouldn't allow us to use her preferred name. And a lot of it was geared towards people who were non-immigrants. So people that spoke English, people that had documentation. In a way, we felt like that was some of our reality. You engage in sex work, like you make that your career, and then you get AIDS, and then you die. We wanted more than that. Coming up on Latino USA, Lorena decides that if her community isn't getting the services they need, she'll bring the resources to them. Her alganze, her outreach begins. Stay with us, not the bias. A win is a win. A win is a win. I don't care what you're saying. Yep, that's me, Clive Retail of the Fourth. You might have seen the skits, the reactions, my journey from basketball to college football, or my career in sports media. Well, somewhere along the way, this platform became bigger than I ever imagined. And now I'm bringing all of that excitement to my brand new podcast, The Clive Retail. This is a place for raw, unfiltered conversations with some of your favorite athletes, creators, and voices that not only deserve to be heard, but celebrated. One week I'll take you behind the scenes of the biggest moments in sports and entertainment, and the next we'll talk about life, mental health, purpose, and even music. The Clive Retail isn't just a podcast. It's a space for honest conversations, stories that don't always get told, and for people who are chasing something bigger. So if you've ever supported me or you're just chasing down a dream, this is right what you need to be. Listen to the Clive Retail on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. And for more behind the scenes, follow @CliveVertail. y un TikTok podcast network. En Nueva York, Lorena Borja será la protectora de latinas que han aprendido a sobrevivir tres veces, como mujeres trans, como el migrantes y como trabajadoras sexuales. Yo voy a llegar a donde tenga que llegar como una perra, pelear con garras y uñas. Pero cuando ella murió, nadie va a poder llenar los zapatos de la señora Lorena Borja. Soy Rula Abilamonios. Él les invito a un mundo feroz y brillante. Donde mujeres tres veces marginadas libran una cuarta batalla, no solo para sobrevivir tras la muerte de su madre protectora, sino para prosperar en un mundo lleno de amenazas, armadas de tacones, lentejuelas, y si hace falta, un buen show de tequila. Escucha central las reinas de Queens, como parte de mi cultura podcast network. En la abde de "Ajard Radio" aportas o donde sea que escuches tus podcasts. [Música] Hey, we're back. And before the break, we'd been listening to the story of the pioneering trans latina activist, Lorena Borjas. In the mid 1990s, at the height of the AIDS epidemic, Lorena would develop a personal approach in order to connect trans immigrants and sex workers to the critical medical and legal resources they needed. Back now, to producer Juliero Chá. [Música] It was on Roosevelt Avenue, in the heart of Queens, that Lorena was witnessing her community grapple with a crisis that the world didn't want to acknowledge. Los condones son tan importantes porque años atrás los condones no llegaban fácilmente. Mi labor llegó a repartir los condones, porque la estadística iba creciendo. Mujeres trans seguían infectando, seguían muriendo. Lorena remembers that by the mid 90s, a condom was a lot more than a piece of rubber. Due to criminalization of sex work, condoms could be used as evidence for prostitution charges. At the same time, trans women were facing high rates of HIV infection. In 1995, Lorena, who herself had become HIV positive, started to volunteer at a hospital of AIDS patients, realizing that the condoms weren't getting to those who needed them most. She began taking condoms from local clinics to distribute to sex workers on Roosevelt Avenue. [Música] In the early years of her work, Lorena's office was the wheelie bag that she carried with her everywhere. Lorena loved to always carry like a little senior citizen shopping cart. She would tuck in there like a lot of her older resources, so she would really like pack a lot of stuff in there. I don't know how she would even carry it up to train station because some trains didn't have elevators back then. I'd be like Lorena, how do you do this? Walking down Roosevelt Avenue with her carrito, Lorena got to know people. And everyone got to know Lorena. She would remember everybody's name. She would walk down Roosevelt Avenue like stopping people and being like, you know, you want this information or you do need any condoms. She always had like a wealth of resources. As she met people on Roosevelt Avenue, Lorena would connect them to medical and legal services. She was building a network and encouraging others to take on this organizing work. By the mid 90s, Lorena and Cristina, who had just gotten a degree in human services, wanted to create the support networks they wish they had had when they first arrived in New York. We were seeing some community members that were newly diagnosed and they didn't know where to like live and stuff. So I would take them in, similar to Lorena. You know, it's like Latino culture, and they come in one day. You know, even if it's a studio, Lorena was going to be here. Lorena felt there were no spaces specifically for trans Latinas, trans sex workers, and HIV positive trans women. So she created those spaces in her own apartment. Known as La Caja de Los Herillos, the matchbox, Lorena Studio became a welcome center for trans women who would find themselves without a place to go. If they fled violence and discrimination in Latin America, if they were evicted, if they were released from prison, if they were ostracized from their families, they would all find refuge and a home with Lorena. Back in the mid 90s, there were Center for Disease Control HIV intervention, which was like a safety net party. And like a safety net party was that you gather a group of friends and you invite them to your house, and you provide them with HIV prevention education, and condoms, if an agency wanted to provide HIV testing, you would invite them to your house, and they would do the testing like in the bathroom. And so Lorena used to love to do those groups at her house. Most of this would be unpaid work, and the cost would come out of her own pocket, from the money she would get cleaning houses, and from sex work. Little by little bit, her mission to really save lives also helped her propel herself to a different place where she saved herself. She got cleaned from drugs. She stopped drinking. She wasn't recovery for many, many years. Lorena would go on to host the first Transcentred HIV Support Groups at the 8th Center of Queens County. But even as she partnered with local organizations, she never left behind her outreach on Roosevelt Avenue. It was through her alcance, one night in 2005, that Lorena met Cecilia Hentili. Cecilia, who had fled gender discrimination in Argentina, had moved to New York in 2004, and she was making good money as an escort. I was invited to go to a club called Atlantis at the time, which later became evolution. When she arrived at the club, pounding with loud music, Lorena was at the front door, giving out condoms. And when she saw me, I could see the excitement in her, and I remember she saying, "Oh, pero que perra, oh, you're very beautiful where you come from," and she asked me a couple of questions. Cecilia asked what she was doing, and Lorena explained. I remember she would call it "alcanza". I used to ask her, "What is alcanza? What does that mean?" And she said, "I can't say it like when you go to the people, you go to the streets." And I thought she was a little bit too invasive for me, and I was living and feeling and doing fabulous. At the same time, I was also using a lot of drugs. Life would reunite Lorena and Cecilia a few years later, at a different moment in Cecilia's life. Because of that specific addiction, I lost my apartment and I became homeless, and I started getting arrested, and going back to do street sex work. And one of those days, I ended up going to work on Roswell Avenue, and there she was again, offering me condoms, like she lived years before, and this time I needed it. Cecilia remembers how Lorena approached her with the same warmth as the first time they met. Lorena offered Cecilia a bite to eat, and advice about staying safe on Roswell Avenue. Cecilia would soon find herself in a trafficking situation, and when one of the houses that she was working out was raided, she too experienced the criminal justice deportation pipeline, going from Riker's Island to an ICE detention center, until she was finally released with an ankle bracelet and was able to access long-term substance treatment. Her case manager recommended Cecilia support services at the LGBTQ center. I started going to meetings in Jackson Heights, where in Spanish, and guess who was there. Lorena wore hers again. Cecilia began to look at Lorena's work differently. I wanted to give that person that it was myself a couple of years ago, who was using drugs, working in the street, access to health care. So I asked Lorena, "You have to connect me with the girls." And she says, "No, I'm not going to connect you with the girls. If you want, you can come with me and do our reach, like what she told me the first time I can see." Lorena invited Cecilia to walk with her, as she distributed condoms on Roosevelt Avenue. The first time I made a terrible mistake of going on high heels and looking like professional, but how to leave right away, because I can't. couldn't talk on heels. She says, "No, girl, "to dinner cabineer in Chang-class." - Next time Cecilia joined Lorena, she got to see more of her strategy. Where it on the street was that having three condoms or more would get you in trouble with the police. - So Lorena, who woke up and down, Roosevelt Avenue, and she always wanted girls to have two condoms with them. Every time they use one, they call Lorena and Lorena to run and give them another one. So they would always have two condoms, but they would never have three condoms, but they would always have condoms. But the problem was these, that while all these girls were walking Roosevelt Avenue with two condoms, Lorena was walking Roosevelt Avenue with hundreds of condoms. And she said, "The police know me, "they're not gonna stop me." And if they do, they do, somebody has to do it. (upbeat music) - As Lorena saw more and more of her community, getting arrested with charges of loitering for the purpose of prostitution, she began mobilizing, knocking on the doors of nonprofits to get money to pay for the bail, transportation, and fees of trans people who would get picked out by the police. Lorena's lawyer, Linley, describes how they first met because Lorena was always at the courthouse. - I was representing one young trans woman who was in jail on felony assault charges, and I needed her birth certificate. Somehow, in walks this woman, and she said, "I hear you need someone's birth certificate." And I was like, "Who are you?" And she just looks at me, she's like, "I'm Lorena." So she digs into her bag, which I later called her Mary Poppins bag, and out pops this original birth certificate for this young person I'm representing in Wrecker's, and I'm just like, "What?" I was like, "How do you have this?" She's just like, "I'm Lorena." And I'm like, "Okay." - While doing this kind of work, Lorena entered the Sylvia Rivera Law Project as a client. She began to learn more about the criminal justice system, and its overlap with the immigration system. She started to connect other women in her network with legal advisors and ultimately, help them file for asylum petitions. Here, she met Chase Strangio, a lawyer and trans rights advocate. Together, in April of 2012, they officially launched the Lorena-WordHas Community Fund to provide bail and bond assistance to trans people. At the launch, the crowd cheers, as Lorena cuts a ribbon, held by Cristina and some of Lorena's friends and colleagues. Two months after the launch of the Lorena-WordHas Community Fund, Lorena attended a conference in Philadelphia, where she met Liam Winslet. Liam, who at the time was 23, was a guest speaker at a panel about the persecution she faced as a trans woman in Ecuador. - When they said, "I'm a presentation," "I'm a brazo," and they said, "Wow, I didn't know this was going to happen in this part of the world." Lorena approached Liam after her presentation and gave her a hug, thanking her for what she shared. In the following days, Liam opened up to Lorena and told her she was hoping she could stay in the US and then migrate to Canada to seek political asylum. Liam wanted to start her transition and knew she couldn't do it in Ecuador. - She had me say, "No, 20% for New York, "and I can help you." - Lorena told Liam to come to New York, promising to help her get settled. A couple of days later, Liam arrived in Port Authority. She remembered she was nervous. She didn't know how to get around or what train to take, but she managed to get to Queens, which was celebrating the Pride Day parade. - Lorena told Liam, "You can't be without papers in this country. "Not having your paperwork would mean to stay in the shadows, "forgotten. "You'll fight and I'll fight with you." And she did. - Liam remembers sitting at that table on Roosevelt Avenue with Lorena, feeling loved, valued, heard for the first time. From that moment on, Liam and Lorena were inseparable. In the following weeks and months, Lorena would walk with Liam to make sure that she made it to her medical and legal appointments. And Liam remembers that arriving with Lorena always made a difference. Providers knew her, and she felt that they treated her with respect. - Liam, who had been doing community outreach and organizing since she was 12, started to work alongside Lorena. - Lorena would tell Liam, you know a lot. Liam in turn would often tell Lorena, your work has power. Lorena, however, would brush it off. - Lorena began getting recognition and awards for her decades of community work. But at the same time, Liam recalls Lorena feeling insecure about her language skills, thinking this was a reason that some people may disregard her. - Liam, Cristina, Cecilia, and many others in her community encouraged Lorena to create her own organization. But when Lorena sought out the help of established organizations and institutions around the city, she soon found door shut. Liam recalls how they were often encouraged to continue to do outreach, but to stay away from leading a whole organization. (upbeat music) - Lorena, you know, she have built a huge network of like lawyers, medical provider. She had developed relationships with like the core system in Queens. She dared to dream to have her own organization. And that's where like, you know, she was like Cecilia, you know, how can we get money? - It became a Saturday ritual. Lorena would go over to Cecilia's and the two would fill out grant applications. - A lot of my work was interpreting emails, but then she was learning some English, and she was very proud. I remember one time, she called me, and she said, I want you to call me back. - And I was like, why can't you talk right now? And she's like, because I want you to call me back. I want you to hang up and call me back. So I hang up and call her back. And it went to her boy's mouth. And her boy's mouth was in English. And she was so proud. (upbeat music) After months of Saturday's at Cecilia's, they were able to secure funding. And in 2015, Lorena became the founder and executive director of the collective intercultural transgradiendo. The organization rented a small office in the basement of a building under bustling and beloved Roosevelt Avenue. Liam remembers Lorena's beaming face the day they opened the space. Lorena looked around and said, Liam, just how far will we go? (upbeat music) Even as she was building an entire organization, to advocate for trans women fleeing gender violence and discrimination in Latin America, Lorena was still at risk of being deported due to her pending criminal charges. She needed to move on from being in that place where she had all those convictions that were giving her problems to become a U.S. citizen. Although Lorena was reluctant at first, her lawyer, Linley, proposed that they file for a governor's pardon. The application that Linley put together was hundreds of pages long with letters of support from organizations, elected officials, and most importantly, all of the people like Liam that Lorena had helped. Here's Linley again. But I remember her looking at those letters and her crying. Because it was the first time I think she had taken a moment to acknowledge how much she's done. In 2017, Lorena received a call from Governor Cuomo himself. He issued her a pardon, making it possible for Lorena to apply for naturalization. Lilla remembers that the momentum of the past few years felt like a snowball growing bigger and bigger. "Estabos pasando por un momento único." "Los que en algún momento la habíamos hablado en el 2014, los 2015 fue tomando fuerza, ¿no?" In the spring of 2018, Sofia met Lorena again. This time with Cindy Nanclades, another producer for this story. "Yo tengo registrado en mi base de datos, 490 mujeres activas que buscan servicio que están conmigo conectadas." Lorena shared with them that she had built a database of over 490 trans women doing sex work in Queens. And she was helping to connect them to legal, immigration and health services. In 2020, she saw a possibility to materialize her dreams for collective. I think she finally had the pride to say, "Yeah, you know, "I'm a trans Latina. My English is not the best. And I am an executive director, and I deserve money for my girls." I think she was ready. She was like, "Like a right papaya." Coming up on Latina USA, a moment of hope interrupted. Lorena and the trans immigrant community in Queens find themselves at the very epicenter of an unforeseen public health crisis. Stay with us, not de vallas. A win is a win. A win is a win. Yep, that's me, Cliford Taylor IV. And now I'm bringing all of that excitement to my brand new podcast, The Cliford Show. One week, I'll take you behind the scenes of the biggest moments in sports and entertainment. And the next, we'll talk about life, mental health, purpose, and even music. The Cliford Show isn't just a podcast. So, if you've ever supported me, or you're just chasing down a dream, this is right what you need to be. Listen to the Cliford Show on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcast. And for more behind the scenes, follow @cliford and a TikTok podcast network on TikTok. In Nueva York, Lorena Borja was the protector of Latinas that she learned to survive three times. Like trans women, like migrant and sexual workers. I'm going to arrive where I have to arrive like a dog, fighting with dogs and children. But when she died. Nobody will be able to fill the shoes of the Lorena Borja. I'm Rula Abilamunios. I invite you to a bright world. Where three times women are free to live in a fourth battle. Not only to survive after the death of her mother and protector, but to prosper in a full world of threats, tacones, windows, and if you need it, a good tequila show. Listen to the Queen's Reigns, like part of my podcast network culture. In the App of IHeart Radio, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. [Music] Hey, we're back. We've been telling the story of Lorena Borja's activism grew out of a moment of crisis, the AIDS epidemic. And its impact on trans Latinas in New York City. After decades of movement building, the community Lorena had helped to forge with face another unexpected health crisis in 2020. Producer Uliarrocha picks up the story from here. [Music] The number of confirmed coronavirus infections continues to grow worldwide. There are now at least 89 cases in the US with New York, Oregon, Rhode Island, and Florida reporting new infections. Very few tests have been done. It was early March of 2020, and the first cases of COVID-19 were all over the news. But the government continued to downplay the severity of the situation, and little was known about how to stay safe. Liana remembers the trans community got together after Alexan Egeron Luciano, a trans woman, was killed in Puerto Rico. [Music] Lorena arrived with her usual warmth, giving everyone hugs and kisses. They had no way of knowing this would be Lorena's last public appearance. That this greeting would actually be their goodbye. I did try to tell her to minimize interactions with people, but it was hard for her because she loved to work with people. So it was hard for her to live by herself to stay home. On March 14th Cecilia got a call from Lorena. They had made plans to see each other, but Lorena told her she couldn't make it. After battling HIV for decades, Lorena's health was precarious, and she wasn't feeling well. And I said, "Lorena, can you taste food?" And she said, "No, not really." And I said, "Lorena, I think you have COVID." And I said, "Like, I prefer if you go to the doctor." And she said, "No. Trans people have a long history of mistrust with medical providers, right? She was going to go and see a doctor that would know her that she's strength, that may misgender her." Most likely, it's not going to speak Spanish. So, you know, when you have all those things, of course you don't want to go to the doctor. Cecilia called an ambulance that would take Lorena to the ER at Elmhurst Hospital. And she said, "No, no, don't do that. I don't want to go to the hospital." And she said, "Lorena, if I could, I would be with you, but you're not going to let me. You have to go by yourself." The hospital less than a mile away from Lorena's apartment was already overflowing with COVID-19 patients. At the time, Queens, which has the highest rate of residents born outside the U.S. in New York City, accounted for 32% of the city's confirmed coronavirus cases. "All-Hairst Hospital is the epicenter of the epicenter of the COVID crisis that would go into it. There are over 500 beds here and all of those beds are filled." Lorena was tested for COVID, but the results would take two days to come back. Hours later, when she got hungry, she texted Liam that there was no food in the hospital. Liam brought her Mexican food from one of her favorite restaurants on Roosevelt Avenue, chicken with rice and beans, just as she liked it. "I never imagined it would be the last time I had to go to the ER and I was in the hospital for the first time. I was in the hospital for the first time. Even in the hospital, all Lorena could think about was her girls, her Baharas, as she called them. She told Liam they had to raise funds for the community. Liam agreed and we've goodbye through the window. Early in the pandemic, the protocol was to send stable patients to recover at home. On March 15th, the hospital discharged Lorena. When she went home, she had really, really bad, really, really sick. And that's where she stopped answering my phone calls. One day later, Lorena's test results came back. She was positive for COVID-19. I went to take them girls' service, but she couldn't really talk or anything. She was like really sick. Lorena was declining quickly. She could no longer talk or swallow, again, Cecilia called an ambulance. Lorena was taken back to Elmhurst, but they weren't taking new patients. She was moved around, looking for an open bed. She had her phone on her and the only way Liam could find her location was through the Find My iPhone app. They sent her to Corny Island Hospital. That's a hospital on the other side of the city. And she was there but she was intubated. Lorena was induced into a coma and according to Liam, the doctor said that if her heart stopped, they would not try to revive her. On March 30th at 5.22 in the morning, the hospital called Cecilia. I missed that call when I woke up by call back then I remember because I knew that it was a hospital and they told me that Lorena had died. It was just his own incredible feeling of emptiness. Lorena was 59 years old. This all happened when Lorena was on top of the world. Like she had just become a naturalized citizen. She had bought herself a new car the year before. She was traveling to Europe, to Mexico. Like things were going really good for her. And I think that in her last few days, as Cecilia gave her a call, because she probably knew that she was really sick. Seriously sick. She survived HIV for so many years. And then the virus came along and took her. With all in-person gatherings halted due to the virus, the process of grieving would take on a new and unfamiliar shape. Lorena's loved ones organized a memorial over Zoom. It was beautiful. There were so many people, hundreds of people in a virtual vigil. And all these people who are very private and very shy just saying, "I want to say something about her. Something about her." Over 250 people from across the US, Puerto Rico and Mexico joined the call. Over and over, people spoke about Lorena as their mother. For me, it's the third mother, because first she was the virgin, then my mother and then Lorena. So I have three mothers. A friend describes Lorena as their third mother, after the virgin and their birth mother. With Lorena's passing, Leam became the executive director of the collective intercultural transgradiendo, the organization that she had pushed Lorena to start. I don't want to be Lorena. I want to keep her legacy alive and put into practice all that she taught me. And it's not only Leam who carries the legacy of Lorena's lifelong work. Cristina Herrera leads the Trans Latinx network, an organization she founded in 2007 to help trans and gender non-conforming folks access legal and immigration services, as well as health and mental health support. Cecilia Hintili started transgender equity consulting at the beginning of 2019, after serving for three years as the director of policy at GMHC, the world's first provider of HIV/AIDS prevention, care and advocacy. And many of the people Lorena helped and organized with are now involved in her organization. Others work closely with LGBTQ organizations across the city, including the movement to decriminalize sex work. After witnessing how government and difference during the AIDS epidemic led to disproportionate infection in black and brown communities. In her final days, Lorena had predicted that the COVID-19 crisis would hit her community hard. Many in the trans sex worker community have faced lack of work and access to any kind of government aid during the pandemic. Many have been evicted, putting them further at risk of becoming infected with COVID-19. And a protest on July 17, 2020. Liam and the members of Transcretiendo march in the streets. As sex workers, as undocumented workers, they've been excluded from stimulus checks and access to unemployment benefits. During their last conversation through the hospital window, Lorena asked Liam to start a fun to support their community through the pandemic. Liam set up a go fund me after Lorena's passing. And to date, the fund has collected close to $60,000 that they've been able to use to create mutual aid programs. On a hot summer day in 2020, Liam and the volunteers hand out fresh fruits and vegetables at their Mercadito Saludario Trans, a food distribution mutual aid program that they created in April of 2020, just a month after Lorena's passing, with donations from local farmers markets and the money from the fund that Lorena asked Liam to make. Despite the moment of pain and loss that they're living, the volunteers laugh and dance to the music blaring out of car speakers. And on weekend nights on Roosevelt Avenue, Liam and the Trans-Grena de Ando volunteers are still there to hand out condoms. On October of 2020, one of Lorena's most ambitious dreams for the organization would come true. El Colictivo expanded beyond their tiny one-room office and was able to secure a whole floor with rooms for offices, meetings, community gatherings. As she walks around the half furnished space, Liam imagines all that the organization will do in each room, an area for legal services, an area for their syringe exchange, a desk for all of their employees, a space for people to come and relax. Standing next to Lorena's old desk, Liam says she can still feel Lorena's support. She can sense how proud she must be, knowing that her work continues. Liam says that their next step is working to found the Lorena Borja shelter in Queens to provide safe housing for the trans community. On March 30, 2021, a year after Lorena's death, people from the community, neighbors and politicians representing the district gather on Roosevelt Avenue and Baxter Street. Liam speaks into the mic. Lorena is here, recente. In a ceremony that would unveil the new name of the intersection, Lorena Borja's way. You know, we can say in Queens it's a street that has the name of a whore. You know, we're so much pride. It's a street that has the name of a drug addict. And we need all of these together. But I'm also like a little mixed feelings to have a name in your street. If it's girls out there, they don't have anything to eat. If it's girls out there, they can't pay their rent. If it's girls out there, they don't have a doctor. So, all these ****ing tears don't mean nothing if we don't have a commitment to do better for the community. That's the only thing that would make her happy. At the event, Jenny Rivera's Mariposa de Barrio, a song about embracing hardships, is playing from a speaker almost drowned out by the seven train. Liam remembers that when the song would play, Lorena would stop everything and sing until the very end. Liam says Lorena was that butterfly. The one who, as the lyrics say, turns pain into color. On April 1st of 2021, Lorena's ashes were taken by her closest friends to a crypt at a local cemetery. - Now in prayer, they were once again united by the woman, who saved their lives. The same woman who found in them, her motor, a reason to live. On May 29th of 2021, Lord and Abbot has "Wood of Turn" 61 years old. (upbeat music) This episode was produced by Juli Arrocha, Sofia Cerdacampero, and Cindy Naklades. Sofia and Cindy began covering the trans Latina community in March of 2018 while they were students at the Craig New Mark Graduate School of Journalism at CUNY and they continued to report on this community since. This piece was edited by Andrea Lopez Cruzado, fact checking for this episode by Amy Tardiv. The Latina USA team includes, Miguel Macías, Marta Martinez, Mike Sargent, Juliata Martinez, Victoria Strada, Ginny Montalbo, Alejandra Salazar, and Renaldo Leaños Jr. with "Hop from Raúl Perez". Special thanks to Cristina Areira, Cecilia Gentili, Leanne Winslet, Lindy Edges, and all of the people who share their stories and memories about Lorena Borjas. We also wanna thank collective, intercultural, transgrediendo for documenting the trans Latina movement in Queens and for sharing their archive with us. Our engineers are Stephanie Lebow, Julia Caruso, and Leah Shaw, our digital editor is Luis Luna, our New York Women's Foundation Ignite Fellow is Maria Squinca, our intern is José de León, our theme music was composed by Zangar Rubinos. If you like the music you heard on this episode, stop by latinousa.org and check out our weekly Spotify playlist. I'm your host and executive producer, Maria Inujosa. Join us again on our next episode and in the meantime, look for us on social media. Hi, los veo. Ciao. (upbeat music) - Latinousa is made possible in part by New York Women's Foundation, the New York Women's Foundation, funding women leaders that build solutions in their communities and celebrating 30 years of radical generosity and the Windcoat Foundation. Funding for Latinousa is coverage of a culture of health is made possible in part by a grant from the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. (upbeat music) - In New York, Dorena Borjas - The recent episode of the podcast, Money in Wealth with John Hill Bryant, I sit down with Tiffany the Budgenista Aliche to talk about what it really takes to take control of your money. - What would that look like in our families if everyone was able to pass on wealth to the people when they're no longer here? - We break down budgeting, financial discipline and how to build real wealth, starting with the mindset shifts too many of us were never ever taught. Listen to Money in Wealth with John Hill Bryant from the Black Effect Network on the I'd-Hard Radio app, Apple Podcasts or wherever you get your podcast. - Earners, what's up? Look, money is something we all deal with but financial literacy is what helps turn income into real wealth. On each episode of the podcast, Earn Elysia, we break down the conversations you need to understand money, investing and entrepreneurship. From stocks and real estate to credit, business and generational wealth, all goal is simple. Open your free I'd-Hard Radio app, search Earn Elysia and listen now.