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Horse Barbie: A Memoir
The heartfelt memoir of a trans pageant queen from the Philippines who went back into the closet to model in New York City-until she realized that living her truth was the only way to step into her full power.
"Packed with grit, ferocity, and grace, Geena Rocero's story proves that embracing who you are-in all your complexity, and in a world that often seems to think you're simply not allowed-is a truly revolutionary act."-Gabrielle Union-Wade
As a young femme in 1990s Manila, Geena Rocero heard, "Bakla, bakla!," a taunt aimed at her feminine sway, whenever she left the tiny universe of her eskinita. Eventually, she found her place in trans pageants, the Philippines' informal national sport. When her competitors mocked her as a "horse Barbie" due to her statuesque physique, tumbling hair, long neck, and dark skin, she leaned into the epithet. By seventeen, she was the Philippines' highest-earning trans pageant queen.
A year later, Geena moved to the United States where she could change her name and gender marker on her documents. But legal recognition didn't mean safety. In order to survive, Geena went stealth and hid her trans identity, gaining one type of freedom at the expense of another. For a while, it worked. She became an in-demand model. But as her star rose, her sense of self eroded. She craved acceptance as her authentic self yet had to remain vigilant in order to protect her dream career. The high-stakes double life finally forced Geena to decide herself if she wanted to reclaim the power of Horse Barbie once and for all: radiant, head held high, and unabashedly herself.
A dazzling testimony from an icon who sits at the center of transgender history and activism, Horse Barbie is a celebratory and universal story of survival, love, and pure joy.
"Packed with grit, ferocity, and grace, Geena Rocero's story proves that embracing who you are-in all your complexity, and in a world that often seems to think you're simply not allowed-is a truly revolutionary act."-Gabrielle Union-Wade
As a young femme in 1990s Manila, Geena Rocero heard, "Bakla, bakla!," a taunt aimed at her feminine sway, whenever she left the tiny universe of her eskinita. Eventually, she found her place in trans pageants, the Philippines' informal national sport. When her competitors mocked her as a "horse Barbie" due to her statuesque physique, tumbling hair, long neck, and dark skin, she leaned into the epithet. By seventeen, she was the Philippines' highest-earning trans pageant queen.
A year later, Geena moved to the United States where she could change her name and gender marker on her documents. But legal recognition didn't mean safety. In order to survive, Geena went stealth and hid her trans identity, gaining one type of freedom at the expense of another. For a while, it worked. She became an in-demand model. But as her star rose, her sense of self eroded. She craved acceptance as her authentic self yet had to remain vigilant in order to protect her dream career. The high-stakes double life finally forced Geena to decide herself if she wanted to reclaim the power of Horse Barbie once and for all: radiant, head held high, and unabashedly herself.
A dazzling testimony from an icon who sits at the center of transgender history and activism, Horse Barbie is a celebratory and universal story of survival, love, and pure joy.
Editorial Reviews
"Packed with grit, ferocity, and grace, Geena Rocero's story proves that embracing who you are-in all your complexity, and in a world that often seems to think you're simply not allowed-is a truly revolutionary act. There's magic in these pages of the very best kind: the everyday magic kindled when courage meets love. Reading Horse Barbie feels like staying up way too late with your most interesting friend, drinking a little too much wine, and laughing (and crying) until the sun comes up."-Gabrielle Union-Wade, actor, producer, and author of We're Going to Need More Wine
"Inherently American . . . Geena Rocero's enthralling, redemptive, and heartfelt journey forces me to see the world through newly bright and hopeful eyes."-America Ferrera, Emmy-winning actor and producer, and author of American Like Me
"Vivid, hilarious, exhilarating . . . thrillingly perceptive and honest."-Jia Tolentino, author of Trick Mirror
"A propulsive read, animated by the author's honesty, wit, and indomitable spirit of self-acceptance."-Ronan Farrow, journalist and author of the Pulitzer Prize–winning Catch and Kill
"Powerfully introspective and wildly entertaining."-Bowen Yang, actor and comedian
"A groundbreaking book befitting a groundbreaking icon . . . In these chaotic, uncaring, incoherent times, this memoir shines as a beacon of courage and empathy."-Jose Antonio Vargas, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and author of Dear America
"Witty, heartbreaking, and vivid, Horse Barbie is a must-read for anyone looking to know more about self-acceptance in the face of profound struggle, what it means to be trans, and Geena's outstanding impact as a groundbreaking advocate, model, writer, and inspiring woman."-Sarah Kate Ellis, President & CEO of GLAAD
"Inherently American . . . Geena Rocero's enthralling, redemptive, and heartfelt journey forces me to see the world through newly bright and hopeful eyes."-America Ferrera, Emmy-winning actor and producer, and author of American Like Me
"Vivid, hilarious, exhilarating . . . thrillingly perceptive and honest."-Jia Tolentino, author of Trick Mirror
"A propulsive read, animated by the author's honesty, wit, and indomitable spirit of self-acceptance."-Ronan Farrow, journalist and author of the Pulitzer Prize–winning Catch and Kill
"Powerfully introspective and wildly entertaining."-Bowen Yang, actor and comedian
"A groundbreaking book befitting a groundbreaking icon . . . In these chaotic, uncaring, incoherent times, this memoir shines as a beacon of courage and empathy."-Jose Antonio Vargas, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and author of Dear America
"Witty, heartbreaking, and vivid, Horse Barbie is a must-read for anyone looking to know more about self-acceptance in the face of profound struggle, what it means to be trans, and Geena's outstanding impact as a groundbreaking advocate, model, writer, and inspiring woman."-Sarah Kate Ellis, President & CEO of GLAAD
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Sun Kid
I learned how to be trans in the Catholic Church.
When I was ten years old, before I ever entered pageants, I was in the children's choir at Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish Church in Makati. As we stood on a three-tier set of wooden choral risers, crammed up against the wall, our voices reverberated, bouncing off the marble floors, reaching every crevice of the gently arched ceiling sixty feet over our heads, filling the space with sound.
Still, when I knelt with my eyes shut to make the sign of the cross, I could hear the motorized tricycles whizzing by outside, and the distinct sizzle of ripe saba bananas, coated in brown sugar, deep-frying at vendor stands, their caramelized aroma wafting in through the open door.
The lives of everyone in our neighborhood revolved around the church. Good kids participated in the services. Trustworthy kids got to collect donations, holding out red-velvet baskets as they walked among the pews. The altar boys displayed an almost otherworldly level of devotion; they didn't walk, they floated alongside the priest, their floor-length white dresses brushing against the floor, steady little hands clutching bronze communion cups and tapered candles.
The position I aimed for in that hierarchy of holiness was the choir. People who sang in church were special, and I wanted to be special. At first the choir director tried to keep me out because he didn't think my voice was good enough. But most of my friends were in choir, so I showed up to practice anyway, week after week. Eventually, the director felt bad for me, and so I earned my spot on the risers.
Well, on the bottom corner of the risers. Everyone's got to start somewhere, right?
One Sunday, the director picked me to "hand interpret" the opening song mere minutes before the four p.m. mass was scheduled to start.
Traditionally, a child would stand in front of the altar, gesturing in sync with the lyrics, interpreting them to add another layer of pageantry to the proceedings, performing for hundreds of churchgoers as they filed to their seats. Usually children from rosary study group were selected for this honor, most often girls, very rarely boys.
I wanted to make the most of my big moment. As I slowly walked toward the front of the altar, I looked out at the incoming titas, the kids held tight by their mamas, and at all the lolos and lolas minding their own pace but still laser-focused on securing their seats. They played it cool, but God help anyone who tried to take their pew.
As I took my place on the second marble step in the center aisle, I felt each sensation acutely: The crispness of my pale pink short-sleeve shirt, freshly ironed, brushing against my skin. The scratchy fabric of my high-waisted navy cotton pants, reminding me to stand up straight. As I looked out over the congregation, their faces shrouded by the abaniko hand fans they were waving to keep cool, I felt dizzy. They looked like they were animated in stop-motion, my anxiety blurring their faces together.
But as I heard the first notes of the opening song and began to interpret them, I started to feel more at home. The gentle movements were familiar. At home, I liked to mimic the powerfully feminine hand gestures my mother made whenever she conducted the national anthem at my school, where she worked as a teacher. Now I was imitating her in front of an entire congregation. As I swept my hands in front of me, I sang, "Santo, Santo, Santo, Diyos makapangyarihan. Puspos ng luwalhati Ang langit at lupa."
The choir behind me swelled at the Hosanna chorus, "Osana, Osana. Sa kaitaasan."
As we sang those three words, I spread my arms, mirroring the body of Christ on the crucifix behind me. I felt like His power was flowing through me.
But the way I flicked my fingers, slowly unfurling each of them in turn as I stretched my arms out to their full extension-the gentleness of that gesture was all me. My motions were soft but regal, almost grandiose and yet filled with the innocence of a child honoring the Lord. My hands met in prayer. The choir sang again, "Osana, Osana."
As they repeated their supplication, the words seemed to me, for the first time, to mean ...
Sun Kid
I learned how to be trans in the Catholic Church.
When I was ten years old, before I ever entered pageants, I was in the children's choir at Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish Church in Makati. As we stood on a three-tier set of wooden choral risers, crammed up against the wall, our voices reverberated, bouncing off the marble floors, reaching every crevice of the gently arched ceiling sixty feet over our heads, filling the space with sound.
Still, when I knelt with my eyes shut to make the sign of the cross, I could hear the motorized tricycles whizzing by outside, and the distinct sizzle of ripe saba bananas, coated in brown sugar, deep-frying at vendor stands, their caramelized aroma wafting in through the open door.
The lives of everyone in our neighborhood revolved around the church. Good kids participated in the services. Trustworthy kids got to collect donations, holding out red-velvet baskets as they walked among the pews. The altar boys displayed an almost otherworldly level of devotion; they didn't walk, they floated alongside the priest, their floor-length white dresses brushing against the floor, steady little hands clutching bronze communion cups and tapered candles.
The position I aimed for in that hierarchy of holiness was the choir. People who sang in church were special, and I wanted to be special. At first the choir director tried to keep me out because he didn't think my voice was good enough. But most of my friends were in choir, so I showed up to practice anyway, week after week. Eventually, the director felt bad for me, and so I earned my spot on the risers.
Well, on the bottom corner of the risers. Everyone's got to start somewhere, right?
One Sunday, the director picked me to "hand interpret" the opening song mere minutes before the four p.m. mass was scheduled to start.
Traditionally, a child would stand in front of the altar, gesturing in sync with the lyrics, interpreting them to add another layer of pageantry to the proceedings, performing for hundreds of churchgoers as they filed to their seats. Usually children from rosary study group were selected for this honor, most often girls, very rarely boys.
I wanted to make the most of my big moment. As I slowly walked toward the front of the altar, I looked out at the incoming titas, the kids held tight by their mamas, and at all the lolos and lolas minding their own pace but still laser-focused on securing their seats. They played it cool, but God help anyone who tried to take their pew.
As I took my place on the second marble step in the center aisle, I felt each sensation acutely: The crispness of my pale pink short-sleeve shirt, freshly ironed, brushing against my skin. The scratchy fabric of my high-waisted navy cotton pants, reminding me to stand up straight. As I looked out over the congregation, their faces shrouded by the abaniko hand fans they were waving to keep cool, I felt dizzy. They looked like they were animated in stop-motion, my anxiety blurring their faces together.
But as I heard the first notes of the opening song and began to interpret them, I started to feel more at home. The gentle movements were familiar. At home, I liked to mimic the powerfully feminine hand gestures my mother made whenever she conducted the national anthem at my school, where she worked as a teacher. Now I was imitating her in front of an entire congregation. As I swept my hands in front of me, I sang, "Santo, Santo, Santo, Diyos makapangyarihan. Puspos ng luwalhati Ang langit at lupa."
The choir behind me swelled at the Hosanna chorus, "Osana, Osana. Sa kaitaasan."
As we sang those three words, I spread my arms, mirroring the body of Christ on the crucifix behind me. I felt like His power was flowing through me.
But the way I flicked my fingers, slowly unfurling each of them in turn as I stretched my arms out to their full extension-the gentleness of that gesture was all me. My motions were soft but regal, almost grandiose and yet filled with the innocence of a child honoring the Lord. My hands met in prayer. The choir sang again, "Osana, Osana."
As they repeated their supplication, the words seemed to me, for the first time, to mean ...
