06/04/2026
There were multiple points in my conversation with Ms. Wyn Marie Gallo (she/her) where teaching stopped sounding like a profession and began to feel like a practice of survival. Long before she claimed the role fully, it was something she had to grow into: “a long journey,” as she describes it, one that began with an entirely different dream of becoming a fashion designer. But somewhere between student organizations, exposure to communities, and the slow realization of what it means to guide others, teaching became less of a fallback and more of a calling. Even now, she hesitates to confine it to the four walls of a classroom. “Even if I’m not teaching inside the classroom,” Wyn says, “it’s still there. It’s a passion.”
That passion, however, was never met with ease. When Wyn began transitioning, the institution she was part of refused to move with them. Requests as basic as wearing a female uniform were denied, forcing her into a choice between authenticity and employment. She left the public school system soon after, entering a period of uncertainty marked by the pandemic and a turn toward part-time writing. It was only through Teach for the Philippines that another door opened—though not without negotiation. “Kung [ma decide] ang principal nga indi ako pagbatunon, indi nalang ko mag join sa fellowship,” she recall. What followed surprised them: an institution willing, at least in this instance, to listen, to adjust, to find ways of protecting her identity within a community still unfamiliar with it.
Still, these moments of progress exist alongside persistent gaps. Wyn points to how deeply embedded restrictions remain within educational spaces—from uniform policies to haircut rules—that continue to police gender expression. Their own experience as a student was marked by this kind of control: being told to cut her hair, being monitored for how she presented themselves, being made aware, constantly, of the limits imposed on her body. Years later, little has changed. “Until now, struggle gihapon,” she say of the same institutions she once hoped would evolve. The classroom, which should be a site of growth, becomes instead a site of containment.
And yet, within that same classroom, Wyn insists on possibility. Drawing from nearly a decade of teaching in public schools, she describe an approach that resists rigid modes of learning—one that recognizes students not as a uniform body, but as individuals with different ways of expressing thought. “You can write an essay, you can draw, you can do poetry,” she would tell her students, offering multiple pathways where the system often allows only one. It is a small but radical gesture, especially in overcrowded classrooms where individualized attention is difficult to sustain. Even then, the effort remains: to create space, however limited, for students—particularly the creative ones lingering at the margins—to see their ways of thinking as valid.
Outside the classroom, that instinct toward space-making expands into writing, such as with q***r writing collective Kinaiya, and finding community. Wyn speaks of trans artists not as rare figures, but as people carrying an abundance of stories—“enough… to be celebrated and be artists.” What she lack is not imagination, but support. “Wala kwarta sa pagsulat sa Pilipinas,” she say plainly, pointing to the economic realities that make full-time creative work difficult to sustain. For trans creatives, this is compounded by the costs of living authentically, from daily survival to medical transition. Support, then, must move beyond visibility; it must take material form—funding, opportunities, and networks that allow artists not just to create, but to continue creating.
This belief shapes how Wyn engages with others in her community. Every trans person who reaches out—whether to collaborate, to ask for guidance, or simply to connect—is met with a sense of responsibility. “Hindi lang istorya ang bit-bit niya,” she explains. Each individual carries not just a narrative, but the potential to contribute to a larger shift. It is why Wyn resists framing trans success through singular milestones; the “first transgender woman” in a field, as if visibility alone were enough. What matters more is accumulation: more people entering, more doors opening, more presence becoming normalized. “Damo-damo na,” she says with quiet satisfaction, noting how each new trans educator or fellow signals a widening path.
If there is a throughline in Wyn’s work, it is this insistence that no one moves alone. She speaks directly to younger trans artists with a kind of urgency softened by care: you are not the only one, you are not the first, and you do not have to navigate this in isolation. “We are here,” she says. “If you can’t reach out, we will find a way to reach you.” It is both reassurance and promise—a reminder that community is not always something one finds easily, but something that is actively built, extended, and held open.
In that sense, Wyn teaches far beyond any syllabus. Whether in a classroom, a workshop, or a conversation, her work returns to the same gesture: making space where there was none, and reminding others that they have a place within it.
via Lillian Rivera
