To obtain the right to buy diapers, Franshesca had to bury herself. The price of milk was a dead man’s name.
The signature on the registry document read Jesús Romero. It was the name Franshesca had spent years trying to erase—a buried ghost that the Venezuela of 2016 forced her to dig up. In a state of hunger, identity is a friction the government does not tolerate.
To the National Guard officers patrolling the supermarket lines, Franshesca does not exist. They don't see a mother-to-be; they see an ID card that says "Sex: Male." She grew tired of the fight. Tired of explaining her transition to men with assault rifles who only authorize two packs of diapers per week. To feed her child, she made a pact with the bureaucracy: she would resurrect the man the system demanded.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE BODY
- Yucca peels — washed and fried until they crunch like pork rinds.
- Green plantain skins — boiled and shredded to mimic beef.
- Fried ripe mangoes — served in place of sweet plantains.
Erlinda, Franshesca’s partner, spends her days managing these scraps. She is seven months pregnant, but even her body is a territory of dispute. At the government stores, the military guards looked at her belly and reached a verdict: she wasn’t pregnant, just "fat." They slammed the door.
For the State, Erlinda was a liar and Franshesca was Jesús. The truth was an obstacle to the ration.
One June afternoon, the couple stood before a local official. They played the role of a traditional heterosexual couple: Jesús and Erlinda. A concubinage certificate, a medical report, and an ultrasound became the only safe-conduct passes to buy milk.
"Wake up, you are going to do what you have to do," Franshesca told herself. That day, she buried her name so that Jesús Enrique Romero Franco could walk into the store.
In a nation of yucca and sardines, minority rights are a luxury for the next century. Today, the only thing that matters is the 80% shortage rate.
The money is worthless and the fear is constant. They wait for their son, Joshua, while calculating how many hours of work equal a single set of baby clothes.
But the deepest fear isn't the hunger; it's the future conversation. Franshesca wonders how to explain to the boy that he arrived in a world where his mother had to wear a mask of ink and a dead man’s name just to buy his first meal.
The ghost of Jesús Romero now walks the aisles with a bag of diapers.
Franshesca stays home, waiting for the dead to bring the food.