July 15, 2024

A letter to my friends and family, somewhat to myself, and open for all eyes: 

I’m officially ready and extremely, extremely excited to announce I’ll be directing my first short film this winter. SONNY is a screenplay I wrote almost a year ago now, which I’ve been developing with some pretty wonderful, very creative, amazingly talented people. 

This film means so much to me because it’s about something that has always meant so much to me, and I want to reflect on that for a moment.

Sonny is a fictional coming-of-age story about a 12 year-old trans boy who knows exactly who he is.

My film tells a story about one kid’s resilience when faced with rejection. It’s a reflection of the many wants/dreams/feelings/tribulations/strength/comforts trans kids experience. In Sonny, this takes place over the course of a family dinner one hot summer night circa 2009. I want this film to restore and reaffirm one’s knowing of self, no matter their age, no matter their identity. I want my protagonist, Sonny, to be a champion for trans kids who grow up unseen, unheard, and underrepresented; who must often navigate heavy feelings about their identity with little to no support. Sonny represents hope. This film is also (somewhat of) a battle cry. I want people to hear and understand that trans kids know something about themselves truly profound and beautiful and we cannot and should not deny them of this. 

And yet it wasn’t until I started working on Sonny that I realized I was denying myself in many ways. 

I am a trans man.

I’ve said these words before of course, but have always clenched up when I do. Now that I’m working on this short film, I’m only beginning to understand why and work through that, thank fruitfully.

It starts with a question.

Odds are I’d have been a millionaire by the age of twelve if I had a nickel for every time someone asked me:

“Why do you even want to be a boy?” 

*meh.meh.meh.meh.meh.meh.meh?* ——That’s what I hear today. 

But this was my most received question growing up (typically followed by some darn rude comments). I used to feel so embarrassed for not knowing how to answer it, which sucked because I felt like I really needed to. It's not like I really wanted to be one necessarily (although yes I did). I just was. It’s just something I’ve always known. We all know who we are, right?…Or at least we all know who we aren’t?

I was pretty young when I knew I wasn’t a girl — around 4 or 5. I was a very frustrated little toddler by everyone around me insisting I play the part of this girl, which was notably different from the boys. It made me feel so completely left out, icky, bored, and humiliated. Like I was in somebody else’s skin. I felt suppressed and trapped and so far away from who I wanted to be. I’ll say, this was no fun…which is, like, all you’re supposed to have when you're five! All the fun — this was not. How do I remember this? They’re my first memories and some of my strongest. Those don’t leave. This also just happens to be supported by the grumpiest of expressions on my baby face in every single photo that exists of me before this one day: 

When mom let me get my first boy’s shirt from JCPenney in Queen Center Mall — one of these faux double layer short-sleeve/long-sleeves with neon green glow-in-the-dark dinosaurs ironed on (which I eventually plucked and probably ate (yes my intestines is probably glowing in the dark)). In this shirt, It felt like the universe welcomed me into my real life and gave me a big warm hug.

Do you know how immediate my confidence boosted strutting in that Dino four-sleeve? Not only did I love who I was, I didn’t have to think about it constantly anymore. That six year old could just chill for once. I could actually feel my nervous system relax. I smiled more, I talked more, I was becoming my own person and taking a shape that was wholly me. I always wore that shirt. When I was, I was free.

My identity probably had everything and nothing to do with that shirt. But if, in fact, it was the shirt then it was also the toys, and the pronouns, and the games, and the names, and the walk, and the talk, and the hair, and the playground politics, and everything that possibly boils down to one's developing identity. We all do it this way. 

Yet before all the constructs and the what-have-ya’s, there was already this internal compass with a mighty strong gravitational force, yanking me that-a-way towards masculinity. I was just lucky enough to pinpoint and express that very, very early, under the guise of those meddling constructs we all know and love today.
At five, adults don't necessarily want to explain to you WHY they think you’re a girl and not a boy. So the answers you get are pretty lousy. I always got the, "Welp! It’s just how God made you.'' Or the simply put “Welp … You just aren’t, kid.” 

I’d try to assure them, I’d say: “Well, I think God wants me to be a boy.” But I guess these adults didn’t have very much faith.

Doubling down now and throwing them some heat, I begged the question, “How could you know more about me than ME?” And seriously. I ask this. How does somebody way out there in their own mind know what the heck is going on inside me so deep to my core? But to that, I’d always get this pathetic sideways expression. I started to think I was surrounded by morons. 

Eventually, some brave soul taught me that boys and girls have different body parts and because my body was one way, it disqualified me from being a boy…

But how could this possibly be true? I know I am a boy. I thought, surely exceptions must be made! Surely! (And surely there are, we know this today) But the judges then disagreed. It became clear to me. Something must be wrong with my body. Yes! My body was getting in the way of the real me. All these people thinking I’m pretending to be a boy … but nobody was quite ready to consider that maybe, just maybe, my body was pretending to be a girl.

Back then, I was in competition with my body at the race against identity. So, I made some executive decisions. I guess this is not what most seven year olds do, but I wasn’t playing around.  I commissioned my sister to give me a short and nonetheless awful haircut while mom was doing laundry, I renounced femininity, except for the fads when it was tough for boys to wear pink, and sometimes I even pretended my name was Zack. This was working pretty well for me despite a prejudiced elementary school, some skeptical friend’s parents, a handful of bullies, and a few cruel cousins. Easy. All I had to say was that I was a tomboy which was fine by me since “boy” was in the name, and I didn’t know any better, but I was, by all accounts a boy — I was winning. That is until puberty hit at age eleven, fast, and then I was losing. People again chose to see a confused girl, sure to change her mind now that she’s developing and who was probably just gay, or as my fourth-grade classmate's dad put it to me, a “mega-dyke.” So I dropped the tomboy act, now I identified as trans. 

With no other trans kid to grow up with, you get kind of lonely and confused and you think that you’re the problem. But when you learn something about yourself so young, and feel the divine impulse to follow and trust yourself, you feel one with nature. You feel rested. You feel true. It becomes an easy choice, the easiest I have ever had to make. I was a boy. That kid found the discernment to push forward, being true to himself.

Why did I even want to be a boy? Because I’m trans. It was the best answer out there. The only problem was no one knew what trans was. Back in 2010, I was introducing this word to everyone I knew. Everyone. In my world, no one had ever heard of it. It wasn’t known about, talked about, seen about, the way it is today. So even though being trans was the only answer, it still wasn’t a good one for people and it still wedged a gap between me and the other boys. I was only a kid, desperately wanting to fit in. I made a lot of compromises in order to be a boy which made it harder and harder to find who I really was beneath all of that. And so I remained hidden. 

If only I could have just given myself permission to be a trans boy.

I wanted to be a boy but I didn’t want to be trans and yet I was very public about my trans identity — a young activist, a public speaker. At twelve, I believed in bringing change to the world. I wanted to help make lives easier and safer for other trans kids and adults, still kind of unsure if there were others out there. In the meantime, I still felt I needed to prove myself, needed to defend my masculinity and my sureness of this, and then tried to overcompensate the judgment from other kids, educators, family, and strangers. I was pooped. Zonked. Tuckered out. Many trans kids and adults are exhausted by similar interactions. For the sake of brevity, which I’ve all but pretty much lost at this point, we skip to age seventeen. After living more than ten years as the only out trans kid in seemingly all of Queens my whole life (save one friend I met in HS) and after knocking out some social-progressive change, I became more and more reluctant about opening up publicly. I was now on T, I already had my top surgery the summer before my sophomore year of high school, I was getting kinda jacked, looking pretty swole, and I passed like it was nobody's business. It’s a trans boy’s dream, all I ever wanted. It felt safer…plus, it was super convenient for me, at the time.  

I put all of my trans experiences and emotions in this teeny tiny box, chucked it far, far out of my sight, and wiped my hands clean, feeling like I’d done my part. A retired trans activist — and perfect — just in time for my 20’s. I still told people I trusted, but now I was just a “man.” Some idiot really believed he could just shut up about it and relax. Somewhere deep within me, I’ve always felt like a coward because of this decision.

The world has always been a scary place for trans folks. Though there is more awareness today with support, community, and resources, there is still and maybe even more ever growing animosity, discrimination, and persecution against trans individuals…especially towards trans BIPOC, especially towards trans kids and their families. Neither of which I am. So why the f*ck do I get to hide? No. I don’t. Not anymore. I don’t have to be scared anymore. I have a responsibility and obligation to my community and to myself to fight and protect our rights and continue raising awareness towards our experiences. Now more than ever. Trans kids today should have more, not less, opportunities than I had growing up.

I do not regret any decisions that me, my family, nor my medical team made towards my early transition. These choices saved me. They gave me a happier childhood. I am grateful for them. I love my body. I love my life and who I am, and how I look, and how I feel. It taught me confidence at a young age, I so desperately needed. It gave me freedom. It gave me hope, love. Life became infinitely more comfortable and more positive the further I transitioned. I was suffering so much before. I no longer suffer at the hands of gender dysphoria. I can’t remember the last time I have, and yet, I am still a trans man. People don’t believe kids can have that kind of clarity to make such decisions but I’m living proof that’s not inherently true. I’m living proof of success, and I’m not, by any means, the only one. I’m not alone. You got that, You reading who still might be skeptical. I do not regret anything. I just wish I cared less what you thought about it back then.

I’m returning in many ways to my childhood roots. I’ve always been a visual storyteller. I grew up making films and writing screenplays. I mean, I chose to study this in college. It’s who I always wanted to be.  I just didn’t realize that by putting my identity and experiences in a box I was inadvertently putting my creativity and inspiration in there too. Without these two in my life, I’ve become restless; unhappy. I realize now I made a boo-boo. I’m committed to reconnecting and repairing my relationship to both my trans identity and my creativity.

So, as a trans man and as a storyteller/filmmaker, it is a, duh, no brainer that my first short film be about this. And it makes me incredibly proud and happy. 

Sonny is a film inspired by my experiences growing up trans, however, I’m really empowered to tell this story because of today’s trans youth and their incredible resilience, intelligence, and beauty.   

To my younger self, I am so grateful that you never backed down and never listened to anyone’s bullshit about who you oughta be or what that oughta mean for our future. Racquel, you were the man! There stood a tough kid who knew exactly who he was, and who knew his choices would result in a definitively happier and more comfortable life. That kid was way smarter and braver than I’ll ever be. 

My life is very rich and comfortable today because of that kid’s stubbornness; for always being right on the f*cking money about his identity. I wish he didn’t have to feel so alone and scared but I’m proud of him nonetheless. Sadly, not every trans kid is going to be given that privilege nor have the people in their lives that will love and protect, advocate and support them. It pains me to think there are many kids who will never get the chance to be their authentic selves, ever. I find that unacceptable. You should too. So I’m gonna give it my go, the best way I know how to do something about it. I’m gonna tell a darn story. And then later on I’ll tell some more stories and make more films about other stuff I really care about, or that interest me. 

I’m making this film to honor and celebrate these little trans warriors. The silent and the bold. 

I’m so, so happy to finally start including my friends and family in that process! 

More updates about the actual film to come. <3

Love,

Rocco Sanabria