How transgender culture in the Philippines shaped one model’s life

“Growing up [in a] poor, working-class background, I never had access to all notions of critical analysis of the history of the Philippines.” she said. “I had to leave the motherland, unfortunately, for me to truly get to know it because I grew up within the structure of the colonial mind-set from our beauty standards to the way our history is told.”

Rocero’s self-reflection led her to reclaim the insult of “horse” — a moniker given by her competitors during her pageant days due to her brown skin, long neck, full lips and dark locks. But her trans mother, Tigerlily, nicknamed her “Horse Barbie” after the “enduring American symbol of beauty,” she says, and to put a name to Rocero’s award-winning aura.

Rocero spoke with The Post about honoring the Indigenous, gender-neutral culture of the Philippines, grounding her story in history and how she worked to counter American narratives about trans people.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Talk to me about beauty standards in the Philippines. You mention in the book that you bleached your skin at one point.

The lightness of your skin color and the proximity to whiteness — you’re automatically considered beautiful, you’re automatically considered femme and of a better standard — not just in beauty pageant culture but also in our celebrity culture, in our advertising in the Philippines. I was very aware of that. Not until I moved to San Francisco, I had this experience of my first learnings of people here want to get tan — going to a tanning salon. I know certainly for me that experience was just so bizarre. They’re choosing to be dark. That was such a foreign concept for me when I moved here, because, again, in the Philippines, we all want to be white. I literally felt like slowly my shame was melting off my skin that I’ve carried with me. And that was revelatory, that was enlightening, that was healing. That was sad.

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You said the Philippines is a conservative Catholic nation. And yet, you wrote that you learned how to be trans in the Catholic Church.

(Laughing) Yes, I did. I remember the first inkling of ownership of a feminine expression. It happened to me at the church when I was doing [a] performance interpreting the church songs. But also, that led me to the very symbiotic relationship of trans beauty pageant culture that [mostly] happens during Catholic fiesta celebrations. But certainly, when I share that specific part of our culture, from a Western lens, they were like, “You mean this is accepted?” It’s really not.

In pre-colonial Philippines, gender fluidity had always been a part of our culture. Trans people had a very powerful role in society before we were colonized. We have 7,000 islands. We had so many kingdoms before we were put together as this one country. Before 1521, [in] each of those kingdoms the spiritual advisers to our rulers were trans people or gender-nonconforming people. They’re called the babaylan. We had that pre-colonial gender fluidity understanding, and then we were colonized by Spain, thus the introduction of Catholic religion, and then we were purchased by America.

You have those forces together and then you have this trans beauty pageant culture as an amalgamation of all that — survival, resilience and expression of beauty. It’s a culture that hasn’t processed its own trauma of colonization. Trans activists have been fighting to pass legislation, and we have anti-discrimination policy that’s been sitting in the Senate because [it’s] controlled by the Catholic Church. I would like to offer nuance here because it’s really complicated from an American lens where you see and you hear stories about the mainstream visibility of trans people. We’re not politically recognized [in the Philippines]. To this day, you can’t change [your] name and gender marker on your legal documents. There are no comprehensive anti-discrimination protections, so trans people are not considered full citizens.

Were you under the impression that things would be better for you as a trans woman when you came to America?

(Laughs) I joined pageants at 15 years old, and I reached the pinnacle so quickly. I was making so much money. I was able to help out my family. When I was 17 years old, my mom, who had moved to the U.S. five years prior, called me [and] said my green card petition came through and I could move here. I actually initially said to her I didn’t want to move because I was a young pageant diva. Why would I need that? A few weeks later, she called me back and said, “If you move here, you could actually be legally recognized in your documents as a woman.” And there was no more question.

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So, in 2001, when I moved to San Francisco, I felt like, okay, I am legally recognized. This is going to be amazing. As happy as I was, when I asked my mom, “Where are the trans beauty pageants?” she was like, “There’s no such thing here.” In the Philippines, trans beauty pageants are shown on national television; the whole family watches during lunch after everybody goes to church on Sunday. The first representation of trans people that I saw in media in America was on “Jerry Springer.”

So you could imagine what it did in my psyche. It was the beginning of shame, of “Oh, this is how trans people are treated here?” Something of a pariah, something of a circus and something to be ashamed of.

How did you try to counter the narrative you saw on American TV?

I thought I was just going to work at Macy’s — that was my first job. I worked in the cosmetics department, and I was going to school. I thought I wanted to be a psychologist. And then I met a former model who was working in New York City, and she told me that if you wanted to really pursue a quality career you should move to New York City. It reignited that desire to perform, to be in the arts, to find my path again onstage. So that’s when I moved to New York City in 2005. But obviously, this is 2005, I went “stealth,” meaning I was a working fashion model [but] nobody knows about my trans identity.

I had to hide that part of who I am for eight years. My model agent did not know I was transgender. The fashion industry did not know I was transgender, because the culture didn’t allow it. My community is littered with stories [of] trans women that were fashion models, but the moment they got outed, their careers [were] basically ruined. They’re thrown into trash. Inasmuch as they were my inspiration, they were also a sense of caution for me. Writing this book, I do know now this is my way to heal myself. This is my way to understand a little bit more of what happened and figure out those choices that I made, especially in fashion. I [was] so visible and invisible at the same time.

The Dial Press. 320 pp. $28