Horse Barbie, page 14
At first, modeling did feel as breezy as winning pageants back in the Philippines. I excelled at the ads and catalogs. But as I booked more gigs, I could tell that I was throwing myself headlong into a high-pressure existence. Even as I started down the same path Tula had walked, I could feel paranoia setting in. I lived in fear of that tabloid headline. I realized that for Tula, being outed had been not a one-time event but a daily risk. Every job came with a new set of dangers to navigate.
Modeling was going to be like playing Jenga with my life on the line instead of a bunch of meaningless blocks: The higher I climbed, the more disastrous my fall would be.
But that won’t happen to me, I told myself. Not for a while.
* * *
—
Once I was making enough money to move off Vanessa’s couch, I found a new place to live through Craigslist—a room for rent in a three-bedroom apartment on 101st Street on the Upper West Side. On the day I toured it, I wore a midi floral dress to really amp up my femininity. I didn’t want to get clocked.
Evan, a white dude in his midthirties who worked as a chef, greeted me at the door and gave me the tour. That’s when I realized how generous New Yorkers are with their definition of the word bedroom.
The available room was a tiny five-by-eight-foot space with no AC. It was crammed right up next to the entryway, almost as if it were meant to be used as a mudroom. But I was already living in a figurative closet, so why not live in a literal one? Besides, the room had a big window and some sparse furniture—a twin bed, a small lamp, and a corner table, all of which were included in the rent. And a space this nondescript was only fitting for a spy like me.
By that time, my mission to become a clandestine supermodel dominated my personal and professional life—and I was doing it all alone with no Angels by my side and no Charlie to save me. I was hiding, lying, and performing, all in plain sight. It was stressful, but at times it could also be fun. When I forgot what was on the line—and I often had to for my own sanity—I could enjoy the spycraft. This anonymous room, tucked away on the Upper West Side, would be a perfect base of operations.
Modulating my voice to sound as delicate and femme as possible, I asked Evan, “Could I move in next week?”
Luckily, he was as desperate for help with the rent as I was for a place of my own.
That room became a private space where I could envision bigger things—an incubator for my ambitions. The perpetually bespectacled Robert was my only other roommate—a white guy in his early thirties who worked as an assistant professor at NYU. I saw him only during breakfast as we crunched our cereal in a kitchenette that could only fit two of us at a time.
Chewing was about as much sound as I was willing to make at that time of the morning, when I could swear my voice sounded more manly, the lower bass tones that much harder to pitch upward when my vocal cords were still shaking off sleep. It was a toxic combination of science and internalized transphobia that I dealt with daily.
When I saw Robert in the morning, I’d grab my coffee, all but whisper a hushed “Hey, morning,” and then eat my Kellogg’s.
Robert was kind enough to clear out his closet next to the kitchen—which was about half the size of my so-called room—so I had space for all the clothes I unpacked from my two huge suitcases. The only way to latch the closet door shut all the way was with a firm hip check. But it was mine, as the room was mine. Having a space that belonged to me and me alone was still a novel thing.
From my window, I could see men playing cards on the street below and women gossiping away on vivid beach chairs beside them. It reminded me of my little eskinita back in the Philippines. Occasionally a guy in a white tank top and loose-fitting denim would walk down the street with a stereo swinging in one hand, filling the street with salsa music or reggaeton. Any given afternoon could become an impromptu dance party. This liveliness was familiar, but it could only do so much to cheer me up. I was still in a city I didn’t know. A city that I didn’t want to truly know me just yet.
I longed for the unapologetic trans flamboyance I had known back in the Philippines. What had happened to the pride that I had literally worn like a crown? In New York, I had to silence so many parts of myself to remain inconspicuous. I felt as if I were looking after seedlings I watered under the cover of darkness, hoping people would see only the flower when it bloomed. But this was also part of the immigrant experience in America: We find life in society’s cracks, and we keep going no matter how hard it feels, no matter how impossible it may seem.
Ultimately, the apartment won me over with its ready access to Central Park—the North Meadow was basically my front yard—and with my Dominican neighbors, who made the streets feel like a family and who were always deep-frying something delicious-smelling. New York wasn’t home, but maybe one day it could be.
* * *
—
One of my first big modeling breaks was a sexy shoot for a Complex cover story. For its August–September 2005 fashion issue, the magazine had tapped famed photographer and creative director Steven Baillie to capture “The 10 Most Beautiful Women in the World,” as the cover promised, “One Page at a Time.”
I wish I could say I felt beautiful heading into that opportunity, but all I felt was butterflies. Here I was being introduced to the world not just as a woman, without any qualifiers, but as one of the most attractive women on planet Earth. I should have been elated. But all I could think about was what the tabloids would say if they ever found out.
When I arrived on set that day, I was the last to sit down in my hair and makeup chair. All ten of us were arranged in a long room with a mirror hung against the opposing wall, as teams of stylists powdered our faces and blended our eye shadow to perfection. Clouds of hairspray, sprayed in orchestral unison, filled the air with an aerosol fog. Never had I been to a shoot this intense.
“Pout your lips,” one of the makeup artists asked me, holding up a tube of gloss, and after she applied it, the effect was incredible, almost otherworldly. I looked good. Maybe I wasn’t ready to call myself beautiful yet, but the makeup boosted my self-esteem.
On the other side of the door, I heard the popping of studio flashbulbs and a buzz of activity in the wardrobe area. The energy was busy, loud, and chaotic, like a fiesta in the Philippines.
“Gorgeous, yes, give me more!” I could hear Steven calling out to a model. “Give me more of that.”
And then, to an assistant, “Wind! We need the wind! More wind!”
If anything could make me feel gorgeous, it was this atmosphere. This electricity. The wind machine would probably give my ego a boost, too. What girl doesn’t want to be seen with her hair artfully flowing all Beyoncé around her face? Still, I was a total novice compared to these other models. I didn’t know if I could give the photographer what he wanted. What did it mean to give him more? Give him more what?
I looked sideways at the nine other girls sitting in their chairs—a cadre of models from Victoria’s Secret. I had seen their faces before on TV and billboards. Each was from a different country, and our skin tones covered a wide spectrum, like an artist’s palette for all of humanity. None of them looked as scared as I felt.
The model next to me was a petite woman with deep brown skin, accented by a glow that seemed to emanate from her body. There was an effortlessness about her—an ease I coveted. I looked into her eyes, hoping to find some reassurance, but her expression was icy. Maybe she thought I was a diva because I was the last to arrive? I wasn’t late—I had shown up when my itinerary said to be there—but they had all stared at me when I walked in and took the last empty seat.
“Who’s your agency?” my neighbor asked me, her tone suspicious.
She might as well have said, I haven’t seen you before. What are you doing here?
I could have told her, Major Model. But the way she asked the question told me she’d only hit me with a dozen follow-ups: Is this your first magazine shoot? Where are you from? Oh? Did you do any modeling in the Philippines? The floodgates would open, and she’d try to find out everything there was to know about me, not because she wanted to be my friend but because I was a possible enemy. Only in the modeling world can such a benign question be so barbed.
I lowered my chin, quieted my voice, and pretended like I barely spoke English. It was the only way I knew how to stop the conversation in its tracks.
When my agent first told me that Complex wanted to feature me as “one of the 10 most beautiful models from around the world,” I felt as if I had been selected as a finalist in a pageant. They had picked me! I was teleported back to countless stages, where the mood had been fun and generally supportive. But the make-do spirit of pwede na yan had no place in this hair and makeup room. No, this felt more like being chum in a shark-infested sea. The model next to me had sniffed blood in the water and was circling.
Just as she was about to try to talk to me again, I was called in to shoot. “Geena, we’re ready for you!”
Once in the studio, the hairstylist finished my look by teasing the top of my hair, giving me a full ponytail bouffant à la Gwen Stefani in her No Doubt days. Another stylist laced up red Rollerblades around my ankles while her assistant stood by with a boom box—not a hollow prop, but an actual, working heavy-ass boom box.
They handed it to me, and I had to lift my arm to hold it, straining under the weight. The gesture stretched out my tight-fitting deep V-neck shirt so wide that it almost exposed my boobs. Faster than a Secret Service agent could dive in front of the president, the stylist’s assistant swooped in to help me hoist the thing onto my shoulder. My boobs were safe. Crisis averted.
If you’ve never held a twenty-five-pound boom box while wearing roller skates, I don’t recommend it. It was nearly impossible to find my balance, let alone pose gracefully. But I needed to look hot. I was supposed to be one of the most beautiful women out of billions, after all.
I focused on keeping the line of my body vertical and calming the shaky wobbling of my ankles. Somewhere in there, I must have followed Steven’s instructions because I did end up in the magazine. But all I remember was trying not to fall on my ass.
When I look back at that issue of Complex now, what I notice first is my impeccable smoky eye. The makeup artist really did make me look gorgeous. But if you keep looking, there’s something else in the image, too. You can see my sheer performance as I deliver exactly the aura the photographer wanted. It’s almost too much—at least by American standards. I had come from the pageant world, so I brought a certain theatrical flair to my work, trying out new ways of being, inhabiting different characters with each shoot. But American fashion culture looks down on such earnestness. I had to tamp myself down to the point that it almost crushed my soul.
There was a light inside me, full of hope and wonder, that I was supposed to dim when I modeled—but it still found a way to peek through.
I had been on hundreds of pageant stages, honoring what felt like an artistic calling. The pageants made me money, but more important, they allowed me to tap into my desire to express myself—to connect with the world through performance.
Modeling in New York felt like performing only for myself, wrapped up in my own inner dialogue as I tried to make each shot better than the last, really becoming a bride or a sexy boom-box-carrying Rollerblader.
The photographers didn’t care about any of that; they just wanted strong angles and the right mood. My image was only going to end up getting flattened anyway, consumed on a page instead of a stage. The viewer would be so many more steps removed from what I was doing; their gaze would be distant enough to keep my secret safe but too far to really see me.
But they will see me one day, I told myself. They will.
I thought I could be the one to change things. I had an almost messianic belief in myself that I had been chosen for this. The speed with which I had reached the top of the pageant world was unheard of. Even Tigerlily, who had mentored so many girls before me, was in shock. She couldn’t think of any other way to explain it besides some sort of innate capability—or, hell, even destiny. When I was wearing my Manang Sally wig and striking my Horse Barbie pose, I had felt it, too: the power, the clarity, the purpose.
With the enormous odds stacked against me in the New York modeling world, I had no choice but to believe in that force again—an ethereal power that emanated from within, flowing outward but still lingering like an ember in my very core. It was my guide, especially in moments when I couldn’t find my true north.
I thought if I became successful enough, the fashion world and the media would accept me when they found out, because by then, they would adore me too much to trash me in the press.
That’s why I told Ericka I was serious when she asked me if I wanted to model on that snowy night—and why I kept going even when I had so much to lose. I felt like the exception to the rule, mistaking my own confidence for invincibility. I had to stay silent until it was time to be loud, I thought. And it wasn’t time yet.
A few months later I read that issue of Complex for the first time, noticing that my name was spelled wrong in blaringly large print: Genna. For a second, I was disappointed, but it quickly dawned on me that it might be better this way. The misspelling could help me hide a little longer. If someone were to look up a “Geena” from the Philippines, I couldn’t be her! I was “Genna” now!
The way I had answered the two questions they asked me for the article also made me laugh.
“What she likes about home: It’s a really tropical, laid-back country. There’s no pressure about getting a career right away and money isn’t everything. It’s more of an easy life at home.
“What she’s got to say: One thing I like about modeling is the role-playing. It’s sort of an act. It’s not just the glamour, runway, and prints; it’s trying to fit into character. I love that.”
I was definitely role-playing during that shoot. And I was also imagining how Tula must have felt every time she was photographed for a magazine. Had she ever been able to relax? Or was she too afraid of being seen?
13
JAMES BOND
MAYBE I HAD BEEN A ballerina in another life, because my movements that day flowed in perfect harmony with the camera. Click. My arms moved to my hips. Click. I turned my profile ever so slightly, letting the lens catch me in a new light. I felt as if I were in an Edgar Degas painting, each angle of my body a masterpiece in motion.
It was spring 2006, and I was shooting the monthly catalog for Demetrios Bridal.
Most important, I was feeling myself.
I mean, there was no greater validation than being chosen to model for the multibillion-dollar bridal industry. Out of all its options, Demetrios had picked me to adorn the pages of its glossy oversize catalog. My face. Women browsing the catalog would look at me and dream about their own weddings. At every turn of the page, I would be a different facet of their fantasy personified, a fun-loving bride with a sweet ponytail on one side of the spread and an untouchable goddess on the other.
It was my job to be that moldable. Over the course of the eight-hour workday, my hair had to be restyled countless times, from an updo to a French twist, from curly to wavy, from headbands to hair ties. I had to be whoever they wanted me to be.
When I first started modeling, I had booked jobs with “looking for Eurasian” written on the casting sheet. I never anticipated bagging that market. But my agent was also sending me to castings that said, “Looking for Latina.” There had been no space for my Filipino-ness back then; if you weren’t East Asian, you weren’t top choice. Brown Asian models were not the kind of Asian the industry wanted. But I had the kind of look that could blend in—a blank canvas of a face that makeup artists loved, especially because of my small, almond-shaped eyes. I couldn’t help but feel that I was erasing myself all over again with each new job, so the client could paint who they wanted to see instead.
At the same time, that flexibility was what made me so good at the tedious bridal shoot. I could look like thirty different women in the same day. And the affirmation I got in return was incredible. I felt as if I had infiltrated the inner sanctum of the gender binary, like James Bond slinking through a secret underground facility, not in a tuxedo but in a thousand dollars’ worth of puffy chiffon. My mission was working.
Back on the streets of New York, though, that high faded, and my self-doubt surfaced. Because as much as I felt destined to change things, I couldn’t escape the mental toll of all my covert maneuvering.
I was living two lives at once. Every moment held split realities, even in the most mundane conversations. Around fellow models or my agent, I was constantly on guard. Could they see the pain behind my smiles? Did they notice the fear flashing across my eyes between casual sips of coffee? Sitting across from them, I often felt as if they could peer into me, as if they could feel my longing to be seen as I was. But I was too good at hiding for them to notice.
The only industry figure I ever thought about telling was Dmitry, a sexy Ukrainian model whom I had come to think of as a friend. We had built up a rapport after running into each other at several “sexy” castings, chatting away during the dread-filled minutes we spent waiting to be called. He looked—if I’m being honest—like a mobster, his arms covered with mysterious scars, but he was a softie at heart: crunchy on the outside, gooey on the inside, like a Ferrero Rocher.
