I identify as a trans man; I think that's the term I like the most. I really questioned this a lot because, at first, I was like, "Ah, but do I really want to say that I'm a man?" But I also see that it's important for trans men to accept that they are trans men, if only to help people unlearn the fixed image of what a man is. I thought, "Am I non-binary? Do I want to assert that I have no gender?" But for me, it's important to affirm that there are different ways to be a man. People have told me that I seem kind of gay, a bit effeminate, but that's just the way I express masculinity. So, I like to affirm it: I am a trans man.
Whether I'm bi or pan is something I still question a lot, but I date people regardless of gender. After coming out as trans, I realized that my possibilities opened up so much more. Like, maybe I actually... I like dick too, and I hadn’t really accessed that side of myself, you know? And now, I relate to all kinds of people, regardless of their gender.
I used to see myself as a lesbian, and I was kind of rad, living in this lesbian bubble where everyone had to hate men. It was really hard for me to admit that maybe I liked men too. So, I kind of pushed that feeling away, and it only surfaced after I came out as trans. I think that's what happened—I might have felt somewhat repressed by my lesbian identity.
The "man" I used to despise—and honestly, I still do (laughs)—is the cis-hetero-normative jerk, the kind of man we're all used to seeing. But I realized there are other ways to be a man, that it's not just that one mold. That I can be with a cis man and he can actually be a good person.
It was around mid-2018 when I... I identified as a lesbian until then, but whenever I got drunk, I’d come home and watch videos of trans men on YouTube. I’d watch them and like them, but I wouldn’t admit to myself that I wanted that—I just thought it was cool to research trans men. I never told anyone about it. Then, during a night out, I got drunk and decided to tell a friend that I was starting to obsess over the fact that I didn’t like my chest and that maybe I thought I was trans. But I wasn’t sure because, at the time, I thought that to be trans, I had to want a penis. That was my understanding of being trans. And then I’d think, "No, if I just want to get rid of my chest... have slightly broader shoulders... you know, tweak a little here and there... I’m not trans, I’m just a butch lesbian who doesn’t want boobs, and that’s fine" (laughs). And then my friend said, "Okay, but there’s nothing wrong if you want to get rid of your chest, if you want to be trans, if you are trans—it’s okay." That’s when I started questioning things more and spiraling.
It happened again at another night out, a couple of months later. I was questioning everything—or maybe not even questioning, just scared of everything. I couldn’t even bring myself to question it; I was just terrified and repressing it. Then, drunk again, I was sitting at a bar with a friend, looking up binders to buy. Back then, this friend of mine also identified as a woman—he came out alongside me. And I told him, "I think I’m going to buy a binder." I was so sure he’d find it weird, but he just said, "Dude, me too!" And that was it—we were in this together.
We decided to be each other’s safe space, to start calling each other ‘he.’ We even planned to go to a party where, for one night, we could be whoever we wanted. We walked in, and the first person we met was a travesti. She looked at us and immediately asked if we were non-binary. She didn’t even question if we were women—just straight-up, "Non-binary?" (laughs). And I thought, "Wow, that easy? That obvious?" (laughs). We made up names for ourselves and talked to her for hours. It was perfect, the first perfect night I ever had. But when the party ended, I walked out feeling terrified because I realized, "Oh my God, I want this outside of the party too. I don’t want this to be just a one-time thing—I want this forever."
I thought I’d start calling myself by a new name and not explain much to people. I wanted to be called "he," and that was it. Some friends noticed, asked me about it, and I explained, but I was still really confused—was I a trans man? Non-binary? I didn’t know where I fit in the spectrum of transness. The first thing I did was change my social name. I didn’t want my old name anymore; I needed to find another one. I went through a dictionary of names and knew I wanted one that started with "N" so my parents could still call me something similar, avoiding a drastic change from "N" to "Z." I was torn between Narciso and Nate (Nãte). I liked Nate because it was short—I was tired of having a long name. I wanted something simple yet different. I didn’t want a cis name, a name that belonged to both me and a cis, heteronormative man. I wanted to be unique, you know, like "Natê, the trans guy." But then I thought, "I’m in Brazil. I can’t just call myself Nate here—I don’t want to be ‘Nate’ in Brazil." Then a friend said, "What if you add an accent and make it Natê?"
I kept looking at myself in the mirror, saying, "Natê... Natê?... Could it be? Natê?... Hey, Natê!" (laughs). I’d tell people, "Call me Natê, let me hear how it sounds." And then, I totally fell in love with the name. I consider myself kind of sweet and friendly, and I think you can tell when you hear the name—it just fit me perfectly.
Then I went ahead and changed my social name. I was terrified because I was doing all of this behind my parents' backs. I kept thinking, "What if they see my ID and find another name next to my photo?" Anyway, I did it, but then I started wondering what the next step would be—I didn’t want to stop there. I sought out a therapist. She asked me why I was there, and I cried, telling her I thought I was trans and needed help because I didn’t fully understand or accept myself yet. I didn’t know what to do.
At the time, I didn’t even consider taking hormones—I was kind of against it. I followed some trans people who had top surgery but didn’t take hormones, and that was my reference back then. I’d see pictures of trans guys with body hair and muscles, and I felt repulsed, thinking, "I don’t want to be like that." Something that has changed now—I see things differently. I used to reject the idea of hormones outright, thinking, "No, I’ll just change my name—that’s enough for me." But through therapy, I started deconstructing that: Why didn’t I want hormones? Why did they repel me? Why was I rejecting them? If I stopped immediately shutting it down, would I start seeing it differently?
Since I sing, I was terrified of ruining my voice. That was the hardest part. There were days I’d be so down, thinking, "God, why did you make me trans and a singer? Couldn’t it be just one thing? This is so hard!" It was really tough. I would weigh my options—do I want broader shoulders? A deeper voice? I couldn’t even watch videos of myself speaking; I couldn’t listen to my own voice. But I also loved singing—it’s what I wanted to do for a living. So I thought, "I want all of this, but this other thing—my voice—feels so heavy." My therapist helped me by asking, "Have you researched trans men who sing? Have you looked into whether it’s possible?" She told me to find information before outright rejecting it. So I did. I found many trans singers abroad, a few in Brazil, and saw that some had been on testosterone for years and still sang beautifully. I realized, "Okay, I won’t ruin my vocal cords. It’ll just change." I booked an appointment with an endocrinologist and told him I sang. He reassured me, "If you know how to sing, you won’t forget. Your voice will deepen, your muscles will change, and you might need some vocal training to adjust, but you won’t wake up one day and suddenly not know how to sing." That reassured me, and I decided I wanted to start testosterone.
On April 2, 2019, I took my first dose of testosterone. I had spent a year figuring myself out, looking for references, going to therapy, and dealing with my voice. The process of deciding to take testosterone took me about six months. I came out as trans on Christmas 2018—I remember because I wanted to be out before facing my family at Christmas dinner. That was my deadline. January, February, and March were spent going to the endocrinologist, doing tests, and preparing. Then, in April, I finally started HRT.
I told them over WhatsApp because I can't talk about serious things in person—I start crying. I'm very sensitive, I start crying really easily, and I didn’t want to cry, you know... I texted my mom first: "I need to talk to you." She replied, "What’s up?" I said, "I think I'm a man." And she asked, "Like, trans?" Then I said, "Yeah." And she went, "What do you want to do? Do you want to change your name?" And I said, "I do." And she said, "Alright, let's change your name then." That was pretty much the conversation. She sort of understood it on a surface level, but whatever, I had told her.
But nothing really changed, like... The real change would come when I talked about hormones and stuff, and since she didn’t ask, I thought, "Damn, I didn’t say it, now I’ll have to find another moment to bring it up." I decided to tell my dad first, and it went a little differently with him. I texted him, "Dad, I think I’m a man." He replied, "Really? Wow, I always thought so!" (laughs) "And you want to take hormones, is that it?" I said, "Yes." And he asked, "Does your mom already know?" I said, "Yes." And he said, "Alright, let’s calmly look for a doctor, let’s take our time and research what we can do," like, super supportive. "Funny thing is, I always thought so—you used to wear my clothes," he told me. "I’d tell you to take a picture, and you’d go grab my pants." Not that being trans is just about that.
Anyway, I booked an endocrinologist, got some tests done. At the next appointment, they came with me because the doctor asked if my parents accepted me. I said yes, and he said, "Then bring them along, because the best thing is having their support and letting them hear everything I have to say." So they came with me, and they were really sweet. My dad wanted me to set up a storage cabinet to stockpile hormones so I’d never run out because the doctor mentioned that sometimes they’re out of stock at pharmacies. He panicked, like, "Oh my God, my son will need to take this every month, so it can’t run out—we need to buy a batch and keep it stocked." My mom was really sweet too. Her biggest concern was whether I would get cancer—total mom worry—wondering about the health risks.
After I told them I was trans, whenever I got home, my mom would be watching movies about trans people on TV. There was one we watched together—About Ray. We watched it together, you know... She also really helped me with all the paperwork to change my name. She even covered the costs so I could do it fast—I managed to get it done in one day. She saw it was urgent. I think the movie also scared her a bit because the kid has a meltdown, and she was afraid I’d do the same. Like, "Oh, he said he's trans, and look, the trans kid on TV is freaking out—my son can’t do that, oh my God." I don’t know where they got their information from. I think my dad’s was from Thammy Miranda. But I helped them understand a lot afterward, explained things to them. I've always been really close to them, and they’ve always been close to me. I've always been friends with my parents.
I started taking hormones on April 2, 2019. For a year, I was figuring things out, looking for references, going to therapy—there was also the whole voice thing. It took me about six months to decide, "Do I want to take testosterone or not?" I came out on Christmas 2018—I remember spending Christmas already out, freshly out of the closet. I even remember that it was something that would have bothered me—going to a family gathering and people not knowing. I thought, "No, I need to come out before Christmas." That was my deadline. I kept setting deadlines for myself. In January, February, and March, I went through the process—seeing the endocrinologist, getting tests, going back. It took about three months. And in April, I got my first dose.
My family's gatherings are pretty quick because my family isn’t big. I usually spend Christmas with my dad and whatever girlfriend he has at the time because my mom usually works on Christmas. So I stay with him so he’s not alone. I don’t remember much, but my dad went around telling everyone, "You know Natália is trans now, right? And now it’s Natê," introducing me to everyone at the party like that. And I was kind of smiling, thinking, "What? You don’t have to do this," like, I don’t know (laughs). But anyway, it was cute. My dad is super sweet—he even made a Facebook post saying he was proud to have a trans son.
That happened because my therapist suggested I do a session with my dad and one with my mom, to ask if they had ever suspected, if they understood what transitioning meant, etc. My dad cried during his session and left feeling really proud because the therapist told him he was a great father and he heard a lot of affirming things. Then he posted on Facebook, "I’m proud to have a trans son." And my dad has a bunch of Bolsonaro-supporting friends on Facebook. My dad is right-wing, actually, but he always says he’s not that kind of right-wing. Like, he never supported Bolsonaro, you know. And anyway, he has always supported me despite his political views and his shitty friends—he has some really shitty friends. I thought it was really cool that he wanted to share that on Facebook, to show his shitty friends that this is his reality, that he accepts it, you know. I thought that was dope.
And after I came out to him, he always asks about my friends’ pronouns—whenever I introduce someone, he asks, like, "So is it he or she?" Like, "What are you?"—in his kind of blunt way, but still asking.
I practice Umbanda. And every time I went to a session at my terreiro, the spirits would tell me things like, "This will happen when you discover who you are," "You’ll only achieve this once you know who you are." Always that damn message about discovering who I was. And I’d be like, "Alright, I’m a musician!" thinking it was about my career... It never crossed my mind that it was about being trans. But after I came out, they stopped saying that. The last time I went, the spirit told me, "Now that you know who you are..." And I was like, "Shit." It’s crazy how we don’t realize that some things mean something else entirely. I never thought I’d be trans, seriously. I love being trans now, but I never thought I would be.
I even have a tattoo on my chest that says "LOOK AT YOURSELF." I remember back then... I mean, identifying as a radical lesbian was kind of an imposition from the people I was around because I don’t know if I really wanted that, you know? I don’t know if that identity actually represented me. Because I’d look in the mirror and... I remember a moment when a spirit even told me I had to look myself in the eyes. And when I did, when I looked into my own eyes, I started crying. It was the first time I ever looked myself in the eyes and cried. I was shirtless, looking at my body, thinking, "I don’t know if I like this..." And then I thought about getting a tattoo on my chest to see if I’d like it more, to make it feel more like mine, to become a little more intimate with my body. So I got the tattoo, and for a while, I fooled myself. But now, it actually makes more sense—now that I’ve had top surgery. But I think the first moment of realization was that—when they told me to look at myself, and I did, and I thought, "I don’t know if this is right." Because I had never really looked at myself before.
I think the first person, idea, or reference of a trans person that I ever came across was Tarso Brandt. It was on a show called Pânico. Ah, seriously, they were awful, it was this "boy-girl entering the women's bathroom" prank, and that was Tarso—who at the time was Tereza Brandt, a trans man who was still using a feminine name. Now it's changed, now it's Tarso. But Pânico’s prank was about scaring women with the "man with a pussy." And that was the first time I ever came across something like that, and I was like, "Oh my god, how did they do that?" I was kind of shocked, like, "Oh my god, how does this exist? They were a woman and became a man?" I was terrified, but I think that was my first exposure.
[This episode aired in 2013. Natê was 13 years old.]
I remember a trans person from my school years, there was a travesti who studied there. She was in high school, much older than me. I never spoke to her, but I remember it was something that still scared people a lot, you know? It wasn’t really talked about. In my bubble, it was this weird thing, like, "Oh my god, people do that?" There weren’t many trans people around, really.
I was a really shitty teenager, I’d see a girl wearing short shorts and be like, "slut." These are things we shouldn’t be ashamed to talk about because, well, people change. We have to talk about it. I don’t need to hide the fact that I used to look at girls and call them sluts because I really did. But anyway, nowadays, thank god, I’ve changed a lot.
[This episode aired in 2013. Natê was 13 years old.]
I remember a trans person from my school years, there was a travesti who studied there. She was in high school, much older than me. I never spoke to her, but I remember it was something that still scared people a lot, you know? It wasn’t really talked about. In my bubble, it was this weird thing, like, "Oh my god, people do that?" There weren’t many trans people around, really.
I was a really shitty teenager, I’d see a girl wearing short shorts and be like, "slut." These are things we shouldn’t be ashamed to talk about because, well, people change. We have to talk about it. I don’t need to hide the fact that I used to look at girls and call them sluts because I really did. But anyway, nowadays, thank god, I’ve changed a lot.
After I started therapy, I began to remember everything. I remember this one time when I was living in a condo, and I used to go downstairs around six in the evening to play with the other kids. We’d always play pretend games, like playing house, stuff like that, and I was always "the boys." I remember this day because I said I wanted to be the brother, and this little girl looked at me and asked, "Why do you always want to be the boys in the games?" And, like, that was so natural to me that it made me stop and think, "Huh, is there something wrong with me? Why doesn’t she want to be the boy, and I do?" And that one question from that girl started making me hold back from wanting to be the boy in the game after that. So I started forcing myself to be the girl, even though I didn’t want to. And that’s when I realized this is something you’re born with, that it’s completely natural—no one ever put it in my head that I should be the boy in the game, and yet I always saw myself that way. I always saw myself as a boy.
I also remember, a bit older, around 10 years old, when I would go to the pool with my dad. And since my imagination as a kid was way more vivid, I could play pretend much more and make it feel real. I would walk around the pool in a bikini, but when I looked at myself, my imagination would make me see a boy. I saw a boy in my body. My game in the water was pretending I was a boy. Later, I realized I had always been a boy. I was never not a boy, it had always been completely natural to me. And I only really understood that later, when I started reflecting on my childhood. All those cliché things—like throwing a fit whenever they tried to put a dress on me. Every birthday, my mom would spend like 300 reais on a dress, then try to put it on me, and I would take off running. She’d try to do my hair, and I’d start biting her hand. And that really stuck with my mom. Even in therapy, she said, "Natália never wanted to wear a dress, I always thought something was off."
My mom and dad talked about me possibly being homosexual—back then, that’s the term they used—since I was 7 years old. I was 7, and they were already discussing, "Do you think Natália might be kind of… gay? Might lean that way? What are we gonna do if she is?" Like, they were already debating it when I was 7. Look at that picture over there. A real queer kid, you know?
I’ve always been trans, that’s just how I’ve always been. Honestly, there shouldn’t even need to be a term to explain what I am—I could just be normal in society’s eyes. Because I was born this way. That’s how I see it today. But for cis society, this is being trans, this is being different. In reality, I’ve always been normal. Being cis and straight is so boring—do people still do that? (laughs)
Being trans in Porto Alegre… Well, I think it was a bit harder when I had breasts. I feel like I never really faced outright discrimination for being trans. I actually suffered way more when I was a lesbian. Back then, I was almost physically attacked on a bus—it was pretty rough. But when I came out as trans, things seemed to ease up a little, at least for me. Maybe it’s because I hid my breasts well… But my voice always gave me away, and now, thinking back to when my voice was high-pitched, before I started taking hormones, it was tough because the moment I spoke, people would invalidate me. So whenever I felt like I was passing, I would think, "Okay, I can’t talk, I won’t talk. Let’s work on my handshake… No talking, let’s use another method of communication." But now, things are much better. There are still experiences I haven’t gone through yet, but now it will become more obvious that I’m trans because of my scar. People might start asking about it. So far, I haven’t experienced as many difficulties as I thought I would, but I’m white. Given my social background, I don’t remember facing major struggles. Also, I move within a really supportive bubble—there are a lot of trans people around me, and we all uplift each other.
My biggest challenge was in terms of romantic and sexual relationships because I always identified as a lesbian and dated women who were lesbians. But when I came out as trans, I was like… okay, who do I date now? And now, as I appear more masculine, it seems to be getting harder. I wonder, do cis lesbian women even want me? For me, it has been much easier and more enjoyable to be with bi people—cis bi men, cis bi women, or even other trans people. And I really like dating trans people. I think being a bit more trans-centered isn’t a bad thing (laughs).
I feel like trans visibility is increasing a lot right now. Even in nightlife—many parties now have trans-free entry. I didn’t go out much before, but now almost all events have trans-free access. Even some restaurants are doing it. I think there’s a growing awareness, and people are starting to be more accepting. I truly believe 2020 will be the year of trans women because society is increasingly recognizing them, and that’s amazing.
More people are coming out, feeling safer. Keeping this inside for a long time is a burden, but letting it out is also heavy. It’s hard. And I think the more people come out, the more others will too, because they see that it’s not that terrifying. Since I came out as trans, I’ve met way more trans people. I don’t know if people are coming out now or if they were just hiding and, because I am trans, I started seeking out and finding these people. When I was coming out, I only had one trans person as a reference here in Porto Alegre. I remember following them, asking them questions, but beyond that, all my references were from the internet. And I think that’s why I was so scared—because everyone around me was cis. But now, I see so many trans people around me, like… you, for example (laughs). You weren’t trans when I came out. And that’s cool, you know? Being references for each other, all of us coming out together—totally wild (laughs).
The internet also creates an idealized image. You don’t see people in real life, so you start to idolize them without even realizing it. I follow some trans people from other countries, and sometimes I have to remind myself, "This person is real, I don’t need to put them on a pedestal." There are also trans people who follow me and send me messages really idolizing me, and I’m like… Chill (laughs).
I try to use my Instagram to document my transition. I know two Brazilian trans singers who post videos, but I never saw anyone doing monthly updates. Usually, people would just post a video after a year showing how their voice changed. That information was missing for me—I wanted to know what it sounded like month by month. So I decided to do it. I record a video every month, singing, so that trans people who follow me can see that it’s possible, that you can keep singing even if some months sound a little off-key. It’s been a really positive project for me, and I get amazing feedback. Some people even comment on my older videos saying, "I’m already waiting for the next one!" I have friends who joke, "I know a new Natê video is dropping on the 2nd!" The reach has been growing—my first videos got around 300 views, and now they’re reaching 1,000 or even 1,200. It’s been good for me and, I think, for the people following me too.
Music runs in my family. My grandmother was a classical singer and pianist—she could break glass with her voice (laughs). My dad also dabbles in music, plays multiple instruments, and always encouraged me. When I was seven, he gave me a little guitar. I don’t even remember when I actually learned how to play because he taught me from such a young age. I’ve always had a strong connection with music. My dad loves to tell this story about when he and my grandmother took me to an orchestra concert. When the musicians were tuning their instruments, I was restless, crying, and wanted to leave. But the moment they started playing, I just leaned forward on the chair in front of me and watched the whole thing in silence. My dad was so moved by that moment that he spent the whole concert watching me instead of the stage.
When I was around 10 or 11, I used to sing in the shower—stupid songs like Justin Bieber’s. I thought, "I like my voice, but do I actually sing well, or is it just the bathroom acoustics?" Then my school had a singing contest, and I decided to enter. I passed the first round, and my dad was surprised, "Wow, you’re really into this, that’s awesome!" He helped me record my audition video—he played the guitar while I sang "Só Hoje" by Jota Quest. I posted it on Facebook, and my friends were shocked: "Wow, you sing so well!" That’s when I started to believe, "Maybe I really can sing!"
After that, I took guitar lessons, and my teacher asked if I sang. I told him I wasn’t sure, and when I finally sang for him, he was amazed. He encouraged me to start writing songs. I had never really considered that before, but once I started, I realized I had a talent for it. Now, melodies just come to me—I’ll be walking down the street, humming something new, and suddenly I realize, "Oh, this is mine!" Music isn’t something I force; it just comes through me.
I don’t have any of my songs on Instagram. I never really shared them because, since 2018, I’ve been working on a project to record them as an EP. I’ve already picked them out—it’s going to be three songs. A friend of mine who used to play with me is going to record them for me, he’s a producer. Once I finish healing from surgery, we’re going to focus on that. Because first, I needed to be who I am in order to do what I do. I wouldn’t have been able to release my songs without first being myself. And they talk a lot about that, actually. The songs form a kind of narrative. One is from when I didn’t understand myself, the second is from when I was figuring things out, and the third is like, “Oh, I got it.” They build a story.
I don’t know many trans men in music. I know a lot of travestis, but trans men—I really don’t. And I think it’ll be really cool to put this out there. I hope I can make some money from it (laughs). I’ve thought about recording one of my songs for Instagram, just to see if people like it or not—and if they do, to leave them kind of like, “Hmm, I want more,” you know? But I haven’t decided yet. Maybe.
I’m also really scared of putting my songs out there and people starting to cover them, and then, since I don’t have much visibility in music yet, people won’t even know they’re mine. I wanted to record them professionally first, then release them, so people would know. It’s more about protecting my work, my authorship. Because it’s not just some love song for so-and-so. It’s me, you know?
[Natê released their first song, "Pressa", in September 2020.]
I don’t go through what a travesti goes through, even though we’re both trans. I think the experience is different. I think music brings up different conversations. I feel like there’s a lack of trans men in music, especially because of the voice change, the deeper tone. The whole thing about having had a high-pitched voice and now having a deeper one—for visibility, for being a reference for others—I think it would be really important if there were more of us.
I have a contact who lives in London, and I see him posting things—it looks like over there, even on buses, there are signs about respecting trans people. It’s surreal. I see that and I’m shocked because here… Never. You will never see an ad in the streets, on a bus, about respecting trans people. That just doesn’t exist. There are people here who don’t even know what “trans” means. It’s a really tiny bubble of people who actually know, respect, and understand. The cis people I know outside of that bubble see me as a freak. I think that’s why, here in Porto Alegre, we cling so much to this bubble—like Cidade Baixa, the neighborhood that "gets it." But if you go to another neighborhood, it’s already… “Oh my god, what is that?” You know?
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It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.
On the image: "Fight like a trans"
Natê.
1998.
Transman, he/him.
11 months on HRT, 1 month of top surgery.
@onatebr
*essay from February 2020, Porto Alegre (RS), Brazil.
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ser trans portrays and creates space for trans, travesti, and non-binary people to be the protagonists of their own stories, rethinking a Brazilian trans archive.
A project conceived by Gabz 404.
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