A Kitchen Staffed by Trans Women is a Refuge for Mexico City's LGBTQ+ Community

Karolina Long Tain González Rodríguez plops another corn cake into the piping hot oil of a large pan. As she grabs a set of tongs to flip them one by one, she yells across the kitchen realizing she's pressed for time.

"We open in 15 minutes!" she shouts over the cumbia music playing in the background.

At Casa Lleca, an LGBTQ+ shelter in Mexico City's Peralvillo neighborhood, a community kitchen was founded two months ago to provide employment opportunities to transgender women – and serve surrounding residents in the area.

As González, 36, reaches over for more of the corn cakes to fry, Thalia Trejo busies herself stuffing shredded pork into small masses of dough. While they've only worked together for a short time, González says she runs a kitchen based on mutual respect and communication.

"We know how to talk to each other... and we know how to find a solution. We're a really united trans community, we're really understanding," she said.

The community kitchen was born after Casa Lleca received approval from city authorities to open through a social welfare program, as many trans women in the shelter were having trouble finding work.

Casa Lleca's founder and human rights activist Victoria Sámano, 30, had brought up the idea to González, who came from a culinary background.

"She (Victoria) saw the opportunity to employ our friends who arrived unhoused and gave them dignified work," González said.

Much of the funding for the kitchen came from the women themselves, who purchased appliances, chairs and tables to create an authentic dining experience.

González, a native of Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca, arrived at Casa Lleca seven months ago seeking refuge and a fresh start as a trans woman. She had studied cooking in middle and high school, but then dropped out, and after working in a kitchen in Oaxaca, she left for Mexico City to begin her transition.

Once in the capital, she was recommended to a plastic surgeon who gave her faulty breast implants and, after one of them ruptured, he refused to give her a warranty – or operate her again.

That's when she said her life began to spiral.

"I acquired lots of bad vices, lots of bad habits, and that took me to a lot of dark places," she recalled. "But God always has a plan for us."

When she arrived at Casa Lleca, things began to turn around.

Sámano approached her after noticing her active involvement in the shelter and strong work ethic. She thought González could be a good fit to lead the kitchen. Along with her other helpers, González runs a tight crew. All kitchen employees are up by 7 a.m. to bathe and drink coffee. They start cooking at 8:30 a.m. and prepare for customers' arrival at 1 p.m.

For González, the kitchen has become a safe space where she can also use all of her culinary knowledge. "Now that I found this kitchen, this project and this rhythm of life, I've found a way to fulfill my dreams as a young person," she said.

Though the kitchen initially began as an idea to serve and employ their community, as soon as it opened, residents in the surrounding neighborhood started to flock in. Out in front of Casa Lleca, Sámano guides customers into the small dining room set up for the community kitchen. Etched onto a whiteboard hung on a steel door, the menu reads in big black letters, "chicharrón gorditas, soup, beans and dessert." A full meal for only 11 pesos (about 50 cents).

They cook lunch for up to 150 people a day, including workers like 31-year-old Alan Olivares, who has become a regular. Olivares, a cleaner who works in the nearby Cuauhtemoc neighborhood, has been eating at the kitchen for the past couple of weeks.

"In addition to saving some money, the food is delicious," he said, adding that he was happy to see the shelter thriving in its new business. "Mexico needs to have a more open mind, we're all human and it's part of our diversity," he said.

Sámano founded Casa Lleca in 2020, right in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, in an effort to help LGBTQ+ folks and sex workers who were unhoused or at risk of losing their homes. As hotels remained shut down, many had been left without a home or workplace. She said many of the shelters that were opened by the government at that time didn't know how to address the needs of the LGBTQ+ community.

"When they arrive in these spaces, they are often violated or discriminated against," said Sámano. "In part by other residents, but (also) by the staff who don't know where to place them because of their gender identity."

"One day, when we leave this place, we're going to say 'thank you, Casa Lleca' for showing me how to live," said González. "Thank you for showing me new progress in my life."

Still, many trans individuals like González are not given the space and support to embrace who they are, and are often vulnerable to dangerous situations.

Mexico's trans community continues to face challenges, and transgender individuals continue to be killed, sparking protests and anger. So far this year, 36 trans people have been killed in Mexico, according to an August report from the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights.

Some progress has been made. At least 20 Mexican states have passed legislation to protect trans people. Mexico City in July passed the Paola Buenrostro law, named after a trans woman and sex worker killed in 2016, making transfemicides a crime punished by a prison sentence of up to 70 years.

Sámano believes adopting laws to support trans individuals is crucial. She points at laws passed recently in Spain and Colombia that cover everything, from access to medical services to labor protections for trans people.

"(These laws) address many areas of life for a trans person, and put emphasis on the tools for them to overcome and – in some cases – to survive," said Sámano.

For residents of Casa Lleca, the community kitchen has also helped to raise awareness about who they are and what role they play in the neighborhood.

"Now that they've tried the food, and they saw we opened the kitchen with a really nice atmosphere, people started to approach us," said González. "How should I refer to you all? They ask... 'We're trans women,' I would tell them. People have been really accepting."

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