Losa Mi held her head up high as she walked into Menjos Complex on West McNichols.

With her shoulder blades pulled back and her chin raised ever so slightly, the 21-year-old swished past the bar and toward the dance floor with piercing confidence — a likely byproduct of shutting down taunts and jeers on a near-daily basis. A result of years defending her identity — "her truth" — as a transgender woman.

On this icebox cold Saturday — nine nights before Christmas — it was also an "I-don't-know-anyone-at-the-party-so-I'm-going-to-play-it-cool" tactic.

A few days earlier, Mi had been invited to the Christmas gathering at Menjos, the iconic and long-standing gay nightclub in Detroit's Palmer Park area. The evening, hosted by local transgender advocate Julisa Abad, was marketed as a holiday party for Detroit's LGBT community but specifically trans men and women — those who may have been kicked out of their homes, or faced other forms of adversity, and likely wouldn't have a "traditional family" to lean on during the holidays.

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For Mi, who only began outwardly identifying as a woman three years ago, the prospect was a bit nerve-inducing as she didn't know many people. It also felt incredibly necessary.

"Last Christmas, I sat in a corner and cried because there was nobody there for me," she said, sidling up to the bar, her platinum blonde hair changing colors as the party's strobe lights twirled.

As she detailed the struggles and isolation she'd felt over the years — at 13 she was kicked out of her home after coming out as gay to her parents — Mi was cut off. Bre Campbell, a co-founder of The Trans Sistas of Color Project, cruised by and almost on cue handed the newbie a holiday gift bag. Mi's shoulders relaxed a bit.

"I haven’t had a Christmas gift until probably this year," she announced, clutching the party favor.

A trajectory of prejudice

While the holiday season has long been wrapped in Hallmark-infused visions of family cheer and bonding, for many trans women of color like Mi it can be a bleak time. Often ostracized by family and friends and lacking money for travel, many in the transgender community have few places to turn.

That's why in 2015, Abad, 33, decided to rally as many resources as possible and throw her first holiday party for her trans sisters. Her then-boyfriend served as a DJ. Money was raised to pick up some platters from Boston Market for dinner. It was a low-key but well-attended affair.

"I wanted to make sure that they all had a space where they could come," Abad said earlier this month, as she sorted through coats that had been donated by Affirmations, an LGBT non-profit in Ferndale, for the event.

Abad, who works as the transgender director of outreach and advocacy at the Fair Michigan Justice Project, is well aware of the poverty — the cyclical struggles — ensnaring her sisters.

"A lot of them don’t have your normal daily essentials like just clothes to keep warm and they don’t have stable housing," Abad said, detailing how instead of necessities her sisters have obstacles. They face job and housing discrimination on a daily basis.

Researchers have found that many trans women, struggling to enter the formal economy and often without family support, turn to survival sex work to make money.

The irony, said Abad, is that in order to survive many trans women find themselves in untenable and dangerous positions, facing addiction, sexually transmitted diseases and physical violence. To survive, they almost have to gamble on their lives.

"If someone wants to do something to a trans woman, it's unfortunate but they know they can go on any given day to Six Mile and Woodward and find any of them," Abad told the Detroit Free Press last month after Sherita Maxwell, a transgender woman, was robbed and shot in the Palmer Park neighborhood.

The area along Woodward between McNichols and 7 Mile is where many in the LGBTQ community congregate and is also a known spot for johns to pick up transgender women.

It's where the seven transgender, or gender non-conforming people, that were murdered between 2011 and 2015 were also last seen.

It's just blocks from Menjos.

Breaking the cycle

As friends huddled on the leather couches two Saturdays ago, eating chicken wings and trying on new coats and sweaters that they had just received as gifts, it was easy to forget about the struggles that existed beyond the cozy bar. But then the name of a friend who has been robbed or assaulted would come up.

"I miss Chocolate. I’ve heard that she’s doing much better, I am praying for her daily," said Gia Broner, 35, using Maxwell's nickname.

"That impacts all of us, because that could have been any of us," she continued. "The same street she was standing on, I stood on that street. I am from there. I know exactly — I have been hurt out there, so I know what it is to be hurt out there. Anything that hurts our family as a whole, hurts us all."

Broner said she has been in rehab for more than two months and is working to turn her life around after "hitting rock bottom." Yet she understands the mindset of those — like her — who have turned to the streets.

"When you’re out there you don’t think about it. You think about ‘getting this money,’” she said, clapping her hands to emphasize the urgency.

“Because if I don’t get this money, I won’t be able to get my hotel room fare. If I don’t get this money, I won’t be able to eat. What makes it even worse is if you’re an addict," she said.

It's a cycle, but also, Broner believes, a breakable one, if you're able to commit to finding help.

"Get into treatment, try to get into school and try to get some type of employment, because opportunities are starting to open for us, doors are starting to open," she said. "They’re opening slow, but they are starting to open."

For years after moving to Detroit, Abad bounced from apartment to apartment, turning to McNichols and Woodward when things got rough. It was painful. For some "the stroll" — where women walk to pick up dates — could feel empowering; a way to make one's own money. For others, there was camaraderie in the shared experience — something to gossip about and discuss. For some, there was some thrill in the attention — a validation in one's attractiveness. For Abad, however, there was just shame. She knew she wanted more. She knew she wanted choices.

After clamoring to get into a housing and work arrangement with Cass Community Social Services, Abad made the decision to continue to fight for her trans sisters as well. In 2015, a year after getting the job, she joined the LGBT Advisory Board spearheaded by the Detroit Police Department. Months later she threw her first holiday party, and by the spring of 2016, she had been selected by Fair Michigan to work as an outreach specialist.

Flashforward a year and a half later, and Abad is finally settling into a life of stability; something she has not experienced since her early 20s when she lived in Florida pre-transition.

In fact, this year she had to throw her annual holiday party a week before Christmas. For the first time in years, she had the financial means to travel home for the holidays.

"Isn't that crazy," she said, with a laugh as she prepped for the party.

For those who have been watching her transformation from unofficial trans advocate to professional advocate, the evolution and maturation come as no surprise.

Officer Danni Woods, Detroit Police Department's LGBT liaison, who has been attending the party each year, said he's proud of Abad. "As Julisa get further in her advocacy she builds more relationships, reaches more people and is able to bring more resources," said Woods.

As Mi sat at the bar, Abad scooted by. "Do you need a party bag?" the hostess asked.

Mi had already received one, but agreed to come find Abad later to "network." A possible "Julisa" in the making, Mi was eager to share her own plans for an organization to help trans women of color: PUSS, which stands for People United Safe and Sound.

"I want to bring people together and unite them," Mi said.

As the 21-year-old spoke two other women from the party walked by. They gave rushed hellos but didn't pause to talk. It was slightly awkward — Mi's status as a "new girl" was obvious. It also didn't seem to perturb her.

"It’s because we were hurt. We were hurt. We got hurt. And so our guard is still up against everyone," she said, sympathetic to momentary cold-shoulder.

Even if some of the girls who didn't know her well were distant — giving a finger-heavy wave or a rushed and stiff hug — they were family, she reasoned. The discomfort of being new to a party was outweighed by the joy of at least being invited.

Slipping off the barstool, her head still held high, Mi grabbed her party favor and made her way back to the dance floor. The night was young. There was still plenty of networking to do. And most importantly, there was a holiday party to revel in. This year she wasn't alone.