Love Letters to Trans People: Part 2

Delivery! We have love letters, written just for you, from people who love you, purely because you’re you. The holidays can be some of the hardest times of the year for trans people. We hope these love letters from Autostraddle readers and friends help you feel less alone. Some of the letters have accompanying recordings, so you can hear the love through each person’s voice.

If you were touched by these letters, join us in writing a letter of your own—or recording one—and sending it to a trans person you love. Read the rest of the series here.

I look for you often wanting to offer you warm eyes, a loving smile and a gentle nod that says, “I see you.”

I look for you often wanting to offer you warm eyes, a loving smile and a gentle nod that says, “I see you.”

For me, building liberation is to build belonging. That is my commitment to you wherever I am, wherever I go. For I am crystal clear, when Black trans lives are centered and deeply cared for, the rest of us can consider our lives centered and deeply cared for too. What a win.

I continue to look for you…

— Shikira

Listen to Shikira’s Letter:

Dear family (my trans family),

It took more than 40 years, but I finally got to be happy. There is the darkness, we all have it, yet in 2016 the darkness finally left me. In 2016, after the passing of my last obstacle (my mothers passing), I took the first step to transition. I loved her dearly but sadly she was my last obstacle. The darkness is gone. The daily darkness has not once come back. Now, every day I feel joy about being alive, and about who I am. Many of us have obstacles, reasons to wait, reasons to hold off, but have faith in yourself. Even if you end up transitioning later in your life, the JOY you will experience will be worth the hardship. Have faith in yourself. Just take it one day at a time knowing your Joy will come. x

— Nanette, California

Listen to Nanette’s Letter:

I just started transitioning this year. I couldn’t have done it without those comfortable enough to be visible and vocal. A huge thank you to queer family, everywhere, and those who came before me. I’d like to be an inspiration to those who come after. Much love and strength.

— Alex

Listen to Alex’s Letter:

To the young trans people, like myself, you will find people who love you as you are. And to the older trans people, thank you for fighting for a better world. I know that fight isn’t over, but your progress has given me so much already.

— Kayla

​​Dear trans folks,

I am transgender and we are some of the kindest people I know. We come from all walks of life but we still manage to have the resilience to thrive in life. We should not have to feel fear or less than just for existing and being ourselves. We are worthy and deserving of peace, love, joy, prosperity, good health and wellness. We belong here. We are divine beings of light authentically expressing as ourselves. We need to walk in our truth as much as possible in order to truly be alive and experience life in its beauty and fullness.

I love all of you.

— JJ, Arizona

Listen to JJ’s Letter:

We belong here. We are divine beings of light authentically expressing as ourselves.

The Watch List for Trans People Who Need a Smile This Holiday

Each year, many trans people enter the cycle of anguish that is family time. We have complicated relationships with our family—but not always because there is malice or harm being done. Our families deal with the cultural pressure to produce sameness. The same kind of cisgender, heterosexual children who live and love the same ways they were taught to.

While we can’t control the behaviors of our families, we have at least a little bit of control over how we cultivate our peace. To balance out the often stressful home environments that bring up childhood wounds, we are tasked with finding the rituals and sometimes distractions that bring us back to ourselves.

This watch list of trans-affirming content is sourced from many places. If I could, I would box all of it up along with a big teddy bear and some of your favorite treats to remind you that you are loved by this world. You are a blessing to your family, whether they know it or not.

Jules and Rue’s Intimacy in Euphoria

I almost didn’t believe it when I saw Jules’ bulge in Euphoria. I don’t know if I’d ever seen a feminine person on national television who visibly presented as having a penis. The image sent the message that girls with bulges are not objects of repulsion. In fact, in every scene where we see her visibly trans body is a scene where she receives intimacy from someone she loves. Her body was not something to be hidden. It was something that deserves closeness and reverence.

Electra Reads a Transphobe for Filth in Pose

There are many moments in Pose that display the fire in its female characters. This scene, where Electra tells off a cis white woman who clearly was trying to preserve a white supremacist space, sits at the top of the list. The scene illustrates the legacy of segregation. These Black trans women have just as much right to be here as cis white woman. Even while there may not be many explicit “white-only” signs anymore, we know that the spirit of white supremacy continues to operate in most public spaces.

Electra reminds of the way trans woman are often “self-made,” that we’ve had to fight hard to be who we are in a world that denies us our womanhood every day.

Kids Meet a Trans Athlete

Legislators have consistently sought to limit the freedom of young trans athletes to live their lives with freedom. These legislative attacks have placed a burden on the hearts of our community. So many trans children already lose their chance to truly be carefree kids in the home. In this video by production company Cut, Olympic athlete Chris Mosier speaks to kids about his training and what it like growing up trans.

The results are adorable, honest conversations that show that transphobic legislators do not represent the interests of children — whether they’re trans or not. Children know what it’s like to be left out or dealt an injustice.

Caretakers on PBS

“Caretakers” is a PBS series created by trans model and activist Geena Rocero, spotlighting the people who provide vital care to their communities. The series demonstrates the strength we have when we foster healing connections among each other, so we all can thrive. One episode of the series highlights Aleksa Manila, a genderqueer therapist and healthcare worker who is also a drag queen.

Few people recognize that trans and gender nonconforming people have been each other’s families and support systems for so long, because we’ve been rejected by our birth families. Aleksa Manila is carrying forward the beautiful legacy of community care that has sustained us.

Janet Mock Interviews Laverne Cox on MSNBC

Back when Janet Mock was hosting her MSNBC show So Popular!, she introduced us to brilliant minds like Zeba Blay, Ashley C. Ford, and Lauren Duca. For many years, Janet Mock and Laverne Cox were the two most visible trans people in the public eye. To have them sit in front of one another and have a conversation felt almost surreal. Laverne was on the show to discuss Orange is The New Black, a series that marked the beginning of an era where more trans characters were written as multidimensional people and actually played by trans actors. Watching them support one another felt like the kind of trans love we needed to see.

Trans in Trumpland

A series directed by Tony Zosherafatain, four trans people speak to how the Trump administration impacted their lives. The series illustrates the harm caused by medical bans and athletics bans, among other policies, but more importantly, itIdemonstrates the fierce tenacity of trans people and their families. We witness a young trans boy who receives the exact kind of love we all deserve, as his mother navigates healthcare for her child. We also have the opportunity to learn more about two-spirit communities and the way Indigenous people continue to embody and carry forward the wisdom in their lineage.

The Story of Sisterhood in Tangerine

There’s an inexplicable magic in sisterhood, especially between two trans women. We often rely on sisterhood to crawl out of our loneliest moments. Tangerine, a feature film shot entirely on an iPhone, throws at us the widest range of experiences and emotions that happen in the container of a trans woman’s life: fear, betrayal, desire, desperation, joy, and peace. But what we always return to is sisterhood.

Kids Meet a Gender Nonconforming Person

“Do I look like a girl to you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what if I told you sometimes I feel like a boy?”

“That’s okay!”

Another gem from Cut, this video showcases a conversation between a group of children and a nonbinary person named Nanta. Often times, conversations about gender can feel so weighty. But the way these children approach the conversation with an open heart reminds us it doesn’t have to be so nerve-wracking.

Love Letters to Trans People: Part 1

Delivery! We have love letters, written just for you, from people who love you, purely because you’re you. The holidays can be some of the hardest times of the year for trans people. We hope these love letters from Autostraddle readers and friends help you feel less alone. Some of the letters have accompanying recordings, so you can hear the love through each person’s voice.

If you were touched by these letters, join us in writing a letter of your own—or recording one—and sending it to a trans person you love.

I will always fight for you, support you, share the joy of your victories, celebrate your uniqueness.

Thank you for being my sisters and brothers, friends and lovers, a huge part of my life to be honest. I will always be in solidarity with you. I will always fight for you, support you, share the joy of your victories, celebrate your uniqueness.

Each of you makes the world a better place and makes me stay in it. You are important. I love you now and always.

— Anna, Ukraine

Listen to Anna’s Letter:

As someone whose coming out came at the age of 33, I’m familiar with feeling like there’s a person I could have been, a life I could’ve led that’s never felt possible. I want to tell you that it’s never too late to be you, and that the joy that comes with embracing your true self is empowering and uplifting, and you deserve to feel that. You will always have family here. You are not alone. Much love to you xx

— Susie, Bristol UK

Listen to Susie’s Letter:

Hey, you! Yes, you transgender girl. I’ve been where you are, and survived. Yes, it’s hard. I wish it weren’t, but it is. Those of us who have gone before have done all we can to smooth the road for you, but there will always be bumps and hazards. Just know that you aren’t alone—we are with you. Find us. We are in organizations, on campuses, and on help lines. We wait for you to ask us for help, as we are glad to give it.

We are a special group. We KNOW who and what we are. Not many people can say that. We live as truthfully as we can, and is our Joy. We have a beauty that few others experience.

YOU are special and YOU matter. Be you, and live your best life, helping others as you can.

— Sophie, Pennsylvania

Listen to Sophie’s Letter:

Every trans person is the universe in action, resplendent with the power of creation. You are the storm and the fire, whole and joyful in yourself. Your kindness changes the world. Your action makes history.

— Arlo

I have a trans daughter. I am sending love and acceptance to all who need it today and every day. You are enough and exactly who you are supposed to be. You deserve all the good things life has to offer. Xo mom

— Danyale, North Carolina

Every trans person is the universe in action, resplendent with the power of creation.

A Creature of (Bourgeois) Habits: A Day of Work

A Day of Work zooms in on the daily routine and work habits of Autostraddle team members. Read about the coffee, the cats, the Slack meetings, emails and minutiae that makes Autostraddle go.

Every morning, there are 10 minutes where I’m half-awake, where I straddle dreamworld and real life. I can hear the sounds of birds and cars rushing, but it’s unclear if the sounds are happening in my dreams or if they’re actually outside my window.

Lately, I’ve been in a funk. I’ve slowed down a bit to really listen to myself, understand what I need to be well. I brush my teeth and stare at myself, or I look out my window until the electric toothbrush says it’s done.

The biggest thing I care about, as a person living with Eczema™ and as someone descended from the tropics, is moisturizing. So I apply about 36 serums from The Ordinary, Cerave lotion (cream if it’s fall/winter), and La Roche-Posay SPF 60.

On days where I have the time, I take the 20-minute walk to my favorite cafe, order a latte with macadamia milk, fresh orange juice, and a grilled chicken sandwich with avocado and smoked bacon. I get this almost every single day. I am a creature of obsession.

The neighborhood flowers are definitely queer.

Similarly, I go through phases where I listen to the same artist or song every day. Right now, it’s Britney Spears’ “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman (Metro Remix).” The repetition of the beat is somehow soothing, and the lyrics speak to the feeling of experiencing a womb period in one’s life. A crossroads. A juncture. A pivot point. A transition, if you will. (Also, #FreeBritney.)

I make my way to my three email inboxes, mostly responding to media requests, meeting requests, pitches. I have to build momentum to bigger tasks, so watching unread emails dwindle is a great warm-up.

This was totally candid, I promise.

At some point, I pull out my yoga mat to do cardio and lift weights, shower, and then begin to edit pieces from trans writers. I do my best to be as thoughtful as I have time for because so few of us get opportunities for feedback and training in our craft. This is where Autostraddle differs from other publications. A key part of my position is helping trans stories make their way into the hearts of the public. I want you to support trans writers today by joining A+.

Join A+

My favorite thing about my studio apartment is the light. Sunlight is so important for my productivity and my mental health. The way my window is positioned also makes sure I’m well-lit for meetings and interviews with trans creators, like when I spoke to the folks behind Trans in Trumpland!

This is where I enter the part of my day that is The Void. Where I have back-to-back Zoom meetings for sometimes up to five hours. I try to stay hydrated and make it to the evening, when I reward myself with a cocktail. My go-to right now is Yola mezcal, Harmless Harvest coconut water, and a whole star anise for fragrance. (This article is not sponsored, but if you’re a brand representative, reach out to me.)

This bottle of mezcal really said “gay rights.”

In the evening, I feel more creative. This is when I’ll work on writing articles or on my screenplay. I’ll do this until 9 or 10pm, before I repeat my skincare routine and lull myself to sleep with a book or a YouTube rabbithole.

We have spectacular content coming soon about trans disabled folks, how body size creates healthcare barriers for trans patients, and a video of trans youth reading love letters to themselves. Join A+ so you never miss out.

Join A+

The Right to Breathe

Welcome to Autostraddle’s AAPI Heritage Month Series, about taking up space as our queer and Asian/Pacific Islander selves.

I’m struggling. More so than usual. What over a year of grieving through a pandemic has given me: the courage to let go of the stories I told myself as coping mechanisms.

I am not okay. Most of my life, I thought I would be okay if I got pretty enough, successful enough, had enough friends. If I looked like I had myself put together, maybe it’d be real somehow. But I’m not okay. I am scared. And many days, I think happiness is impossible.

The average person, at rest, breathes 12 to 16 times a minute.

A few weeks ago, a Vietnamese man in Indiana offered two men a ride home. He was then killed and dismembered in his own car.

“Did you hear what happened to Shane Nguyễn, Ba?” I ask my dad. “Don’t talk to anybody. Don’t let anyone near your car. Don’t go outside alone.” He’s the type to be generous to strangers. There are many people who want to see my father dead more than anything else. I tell him I’ll be ordering self-defense keychains for the family.

Babies cry when they’re born in order to expand their lungs and eliminate fluid blocking their airways. They cry to breathe. “Your baby will cry as long as he needs to in order to start breathing normally,” pediatrician Ana Machado told Romper.

I cry at least once a day, sometimes wailing. I think of the moment I was born, how I must not have cared at all how loud I screamed. I needed to breathe. I needed everyone to know I was here. At times, I wash my face before bed and the sight of my face, so exposed like I’m seeing myself for the first time, brings me to tears.

It’s been six months since I decided to download a dating app. After being in a relationship for two years, I forgot how bleak romance is for trans women. I am distorted, bent into different shapes by the whims and fantasies of men. Some men find trans women repulsive. Some just want to know if I have a dick. Some want to experiment to see if they’d like what they see. I am a sex toy expected to have endless customizations. And all I want is someone to hold me. All I want is to know what someone out there will hold me. I admit to myself, wholeheartedly for the first time, that I want a storybook romance.

At the moment, there are over 100 bills restricting access to public life and healthcare for trans youth in U.S. state legislatures. They don’t even want us to have healthcare, let alone experience love.

I walk home, my thumb on the trigger of the pepper spray. I stroll past a family playing music on the sidewalk, the children’s giggles making the air lighter. Then, two bikers speed along my left, the rush of air from their bodies brushing across my cheek.

I turn the dark corner, and here is my light-strewn block. My relief ends quickly when a man also turns the corner. I look back at him and he says, “Hey, baby.” My breath quickens.

I start to walk a little faster. Sarah Everard‘s name crosses my mind. In March, she was walking home from a friend’s house in London. She was last seen on a main road at 9:30pm before she was reported missing and later found dead. I pull out my phone: 9:42pm.

His voice feels close, “You’re so beautiful. Come talk to me.” He says other things I can’t make out. I pretend to be observing something to my left and try to catch how far he is from me with my peripheral vision. I’m only about 20 feet away from my building. I observe how far a bystander might be. There’s someone on the next block who’d hear me if I screamed.

“Let me get your number, beautiful,” he continues, even though I have yet to say a word in response.

I turn into the entryway of my building and sprint, scrambling to get the key fob to scan. I’m frantic now, I can hear my heavy breathing. I look back to make sure he hasn’t caught up. The door buzzes and I crack it open just enough to slip inside quickly, so it can close and lock.

It’s been shown in studies that marine mammals, like bottlenose dolphins and pilot whales, synchronize breathing to reduce tension and stress. The synchronicity increases in highly social situations where many whales are present.

In humans, strong bonds produce what scientists call “interpersonal synchronicity.” Couples sitting together would unconsciously align their breathing rates and heartbeats. Dr. Pavel Goldstein’s study with the University of Colorado, Boulder found that when one partner experiences pain, it interrupts the synchronicity. But when the couple is allowed to hold hands, physical touch reduces the pain and allows them again to fall into sync.

“Aloha is not just a greeting,” my sister explains. “It means we’re exchanging breath, or what we call hā. Our breaths are connected.”

Derek Chauvin was a rare case: police officers are rarely convicted of the murders they commit. In his last moments, George Floyd said “I can’t breathe” more than 20 times. The final words he uttered were: “They’ll kill me.”

Mhelody Bruno was a Filipina trans woman who died of what the court called “erotic asphyxiation” in 2019. Her boyfriend at the time, a corporal in the Royal Australian Air Force, pleaded guilty to killing her by choking.

Five years earlier, in October of 2014, another Filipina trans woman named Jennifer Laude was killed by asphyxiation at the hands of a U.S. Marine. She was found slumped lifeless over a toilet.

Three months prior, in July of 2014, Eric Garner‘s last words, too, were “I can’t breathe.” Like George Floyd, Eric Garner was a Black father. The police officer who killed him with a chokehold, Daniel Pantaleo, was not indicted.

In November of 2020, my dad caught COVID-19. Luckily, I was home for the holidays. His condition worsened quickly. He spent all day in his bed, reading and eating the little bit that he could. We delivered food to his door and he’d hobble over to retrieve it. We started placing the tray of food on a high chair when it was clear he couldn’t bend down.

I bought a pulse oximeter to measure his blood oxygen levels. “Ba, can you breathe?” I asked him every morning, afternoon, and evening.

He didn’t have the air to speak. So he started texting me. “Oxygen level up and down today,” he’d write. My childhood nebulizer, a hulking machine that felt like a hospital’s version of hookah, was placed in his room. He spent 15 minutes inhaling vaporized medicine every night before bed. I remembered all the times he was the one preparing the medication for me, when my asthma was a daily pain.

The roles were reversed.

I wrote him letters every day. It felt urgent to tell him everything I wanted him to hear: I love you. I’m proud of you. I want you to forgive yourself.

The Complicated Nature of Sex for Asian Women

Welcome to Autostraddle’s AAPI Heritage Month Series, about taking up space as our queer and Asian/Pacific Islander selves.

Jayda Shuavarnnasri is a Thai-American cis woman. I am a Vietnamese-American trans woman. Certainly, our history and experiences are, in some ways, vastly different. But we both grew up in a country hellbent on telling us who we are. The sexual narratives surrounding Asian women end up introducing violence into our lives.

We are just two of many Asian women. We represent particular lineages. And this is a conversation that didn’t begin with us. This is us adding to the chorus of many Asian women’s voices who’ve demanded that we have ownership over our bodies and our stories.

As a sexuality and relationships educator, Jayda’s work offers a different vision for how we can relate to ourselves and other people, counter to what she calls the “scam” of who we’re told to be.

Jayda Shuavarnnasri: I’m the auntie that has like wild sex stories, but at the same time, like it’s just like chilling in her, you know, like, what is it? What’s the, like, people wore like mumus or whatever, and like shower cap on and just like, yeah, let me tell you about the Dick that I’ve had. You know, like that’s like the auntie energy that I would have loved growing up, like the, like the auntie that I would feel safe enough to ask questions, too.

Xoai Pham: You’re, you’re trying to be the auntie that we all needed, that you needed.

Hi everybody. Ladies and gentlemen, theydies and gentlethems, and all people of the human species, and all the ancestors watching. I’m super excited to be speaking with Jayda Shuavarnnasri today. Jayda is a sex, love, and relationships educator. Jayda goes by #SexPositiveAsianAuntie and hosts a podcast called “Don’t Say Sorry.” Her work revolves around unpacking and redefining cultural norms around what we consider sex, relationships, love and how they impact our lives on many levels. Jayda, do you want to introduce yourself?

That was a great introduction. Yeah. I am a sexuality and relationship educator. I am Thai American. That experience informs kind of why I’m here. Why sex positive Asian Aunty? So most of my work centers around just creating spaces for people to explore sexuality. The people that I work with the most are really trying to navigate sexual shame. A lot of it that we’ve grown up with as in the Asian community. Um, and then also learning how to have relationships that feel liberating and relationships that actually feel good for us. So, yeah.

I love your work because I think that there’s so few Asian people in this space and I feel like as a self-proclaimed hoe myself, I find it really refreshing to see another Southeast Asian woman in this space. I also think I said your name wrong, even though I asked you before this interview, if you could say it for me. It’s So-Wanna-See, and I think I said So-Wa-Sa-Nee before.

It’s like, “So you wanna see?”

Okay. That’s good. Um, I’ve gotten, I’ve gotten a Zoey at Starbucks before when I spell out my name and that’s always, to me, it’s giving me like Zoey 101, but it’s just so much of a stretch that I think is really funny. I feel like one thing I’m really craving is a space for Southeast Asian women within the context of Asian women in general, right? Asian women being impacted by this moment, who can speak to some of the ways that we’re different and some of the ways we’re similar as cis women and trans women. And it got me thinking about all the, all the layers that exist that so few people get to see, except for those of us that experience it, right? Those of us who were actually Asian women who are, who are experiencing these types of things to different degrees on a daily basis. I’m thinking about how, when people talk about Asian hate, within Asian hate, there’s so many layers of East Asians having colorism towards Southeast Asians and South Asians. And then West Asians hardly being in the conversation at all. And then the ways that patriarchy or Asian men hurt Asian women. I mean, among Southeast Asians, we have some of the highest domestic abuse rates. We have some of the lowest mental health wellness rates because of most of us experiencing war across generations with the war in Southeast Asia and American imperialism. And then for me, I feel like I constantly feel this pressure on myself as an Asian trans woman, as a Vietnamese trans woman, to be repping this little bubble in my community within this, these larger structures and feeling like cis Asian women are over there. And then it’s cis Asian men over there, you know? And I just feel like I really craved the bridge. Like I want, I want to cross the bridge and I’m ready to cross the bridge. And I feel like your side of the bridge is really fun, you’re talking sex and relationships and yeah, and I want to cross it. I want to eat with you over there. That’s how I view our conversation. But I wanna know more about, I want to dive into how you came to be the sex-positive Asian auntie, I’m sure that there was a journey to that. I want to hear the story from the beginning.

Oh, everything you just said. I appreciate you so much. And I’m so glad that we’re here having this conversation, um, how I became sex-positive Asian auntie. I think a lot of it has to do with several things, but one is titles. I don’t feel good or great about any of these like “sex educator, sex coach, sex therapists” kind of titles, because so much of me coming into this work is from personal experience, right? I’m a child, I’m a survivor of child sexual abuse. And that in itself, I think positioned me as a person who was always thinking about my body in relationship to the world. So some of the things that we talked about right, of like the violence that Asian women face, um, violence that Asian children, young, Asian girls face living in this world like that, that was always a question I had without really having the vocabulary for it. And so I think that experience in itself has really shaped, like all the questions I had about the world. Like why was I being treated in this way? Why are the things that I’m seeing in the media also like telling me that this is what it means to be an Asian woman, that our bodies are exploited, that our bodies are fetishized, you know, that our bodies are used and devalued in this world. And then interacting with different types of men. White, non-white. And so that in itself is like, Oh, okay, well, this is just all around. And so that’s one layer of just like personal experiences that I’ve had growing up.

And the other layer is like, when I was doing my own healing work around my trauma, I didn’t have anyone to really talk to about it. Like I didn’t have other Asian sex educators that I could learn from. The few sex educators I did follow, like on YouTube and stuff, it was like Lacey Green and like Shannon Boodram. And they were amazing. But they, you know, definitely different experiences than my own. I think at some point I just said like, all right, I should just do it myself. Like I should just, you know, and it really just started out with like, I talk really openly with my girlfriends and we have thankfully cultivated a relationship where we can tell each other hoe stories, there’s zero shame in us sharing our experiences and what that came with us. Also asking questions of whether or not our experiences were normal. And that I think was the light bulb for me. We just need this, we just need to talk about what is going on in the world. We need to talk about what we’re confused about. We need to be talking about what has harmed us. Right. And make that normal, just make that an everyday thing that we do, particularly as Asian women. So I just started doing like workshops here and there talking about sex and it resonated with people. And, you know, I think a lot of people now are realizing how important it is to have conversations around sexuality that also center like the Asian experience. And for me, the like, I’m, you know, a lot of other sex educators that I also see in the world or saw in the world as I was kind of entering this space were very sexual themselves, you know, like beautiful boudoir photos, which I find stunning, but it wasn’t like my style. Like that’s not the energy that I feel like I carry in general.

Um, and so I think my energy is very like humorous, I want to sit in the awkwardness and then laugh about it, and I want to be able to talk about sex in a way that it feels like you’re sitting with your auntie, you know, at the table or in the kitchen and you’re cooking together and just kind of have it be fun. Very informal without this super sexy image. So yeah, so the auntie energy is like, that’s what I try and bring. I’m the auntie that has wild sex stories, but at the same time, it’s just like chilling in her, you know, what is it? What’s the, like, people wore like moomoos or whatever, and shower cap on and just like, “Let me tell you about the dick that I’ve had.” You know, like that’s like the auntie energy that I would have loved growing up, the auntie that I would feel safe enough to ask questions too. So, yeah.

You’re, you’re trying to be the auntie that we all needed, that you needed. I love that. I love that because I think that when it comes to families, families are so often the site of so much violence and suffering in our lives. And it’s so often the greatest source of joy and safety and, you know, the phrase “the revolution starts at home” comes up for me, just the idea that in these spaces where we’re really intimate with people, either by choice or by design, in some ways it ends up being either weaponized against us, or it becomes a really great opportunity for transformation. And that’s kind of how I see what you’re describing as utilizing that space, a family via the auntie figure as a space for transformation. I’m really curious though, in terms of the Asian part, right? It’s Asian Pacific American Heritage Month. And I think that I’m really curious what, what it is to you, how the Asian experience factors into your work, like what makes Asianness different in your experience when it comes to the sex and relationship world?

Yeah, that was a big one too, because I think I thought about like, am I not just sex-positive auntie, you know, to all folks, because I don’t actually work exclusively with Asian folks. I think it’s for me to name my positionality as an Asian person living in this world, right? As we mentioned, like for me, the Asianness is that we are sexualized differently. We are viewed differently as Asian people navigating sexuality and gender, you know, and also bringing the kind of historical context of Asian sexuality and gender in our histories is different than it is from like Western or European countries. Particularly as a Thai person, like sexuality and queerness there looks different than it looks like here. And so for me, I think it’s important to kind name that as a distinction. And just when I first was thinking about that question of what the Asian means in my work was just the fact that when I saw others, just to be perfectly candid, the sexuality space was very white and usually white women and the way that they were, uh, providing advice around like navigating sexuality just looked so distant from what it felt like my experience was.

I also think that there’s, there’s these elements in Western culture that talk about being direct and this direct communication in your relationships and your sexual experiences. And that is normal in maybe a Western context, but that’s not as accessible in a lot of Asian cultures. This direct communication, even when we talk about something like consent, not valuing something like non-verbal consent or kind of like learning each other’s cues. To me is still as valuable. And that’s such a big part of like moving about in Asian families and Asian communities. We’re not as direct communicators, but we still communicate with one another in these more subtle ways. I guess that to me is really ingrained in our culture. I don’t know if that makes sense, but yeah, just the style of the way these white women were teaching and were listening, not like, didn’t resonate with me a lot of times. Um, and to be honest, I’m still figuring out what that Asianess means for me as well, too, as I kind of dig back into my own roots.

What does it mean to you? I’m really curious, because for me, whenever I get asked, I say, “I’m Vietnamese,” If I am asked to broaden it, I say, “I’m Southeast Asian.” Because I just think it makes, I understand Asian-ness as an attempt to have this sort of cohesive identity that we organize around. But I think when people start to see it as a fixed identity with umbrella experiences, it’s not very helpful when we use it to describe ourselves with. I’m curious for you, how do you relate to the word Asian?

I’m glad you said that particularly around Southeast Asian. Cause I think I’ve had to figure out my feelings around being Southeast Asian, because most of the people around me that identify as Southeast Asian or at least that I grew up with learning about the war and conflict that happened within Southeast Asia, but then being Thai is so different from those experiences. So I really had to figure out as a Thai person. What does it mean to be Southeast Asian in the context of Thailand in the middle, as a “neutral” entity, you know. Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos, Burma, and everyone else around us experiencing so much war and genocide. Like what does it mean to be a Thai person amongst all of that? And so I feel like I’ve had to figure out, what does it mean to be Southeast Asian?

And to me it’s, we’re all of the same land, have such intricate histories with one another. And that’s, the important part about being Southeast Asian. Then being Asian to me is like, yeah, I use that here because I’m definitely not white. You know, if you were to ask, I don’t know what else to be associated with at this point. Um, and so yeah, when I say Thai-American, I definitely say American as a default, not like a “I’m American too,” nothing about that, that I’m proud of. It’s more like I’m American. I have these privileges of being an American, you know, because I was born here, but it’s not something that I’m going to, I’m not waving any flag by any means about the American part. And so the Thai part is really more honoring my family more than me. It’s just my parents and my grandparents.

Yeah. There’s definitely privilege when it comes to being American, but sometimes I definitely grumble the American part. I think that it’s really interesting because you mentioned imperialism earlier and you know, this work with sex and relationships can feel so interpersonal, feel so small in some ways, in terms of it being about individual relationships, one person dealing with another person, or maybe more people, if it’s a polyamorous situation or something like that. But there’s so many things that we carry with us as individuals from intergenerational trauma to just the lineage that we carry, whether it be good or bad, and studies have shown that it makes an imprint on our DNA through epigenetics and how we operate in our lives and it lives in the body.

And I want to turn to some research for a little bit, just get a little nerdy because I’m definitely a nerd at heart. I know that you’re aware of this as well, because I know that you’ve used it in some of your workshops, but the research of Dr.Sunny Woan has been so vital in this time in terms of detailing the sexualization of Asian women, as it relates to us imperialism. Dr. Sonny Woan is an attorney and wrote this pivotal piece in the Washington and Lee Journal of Civil Rights and Social Justice about the role of Thailand in the war in Southeast Asia. And when I say the war in Southeast Asia, I’m referring to what people call the “Vietnam War” that actually took place across many countries, including Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, and including many ethnic groups that are still persecuted in these nation-states, that are often forgotten. I mention this because there there’s little known about the fact that Thailand had “rest and recreation facilities,” facilities where over 70,000 men visited between 1966 and 1969 during the course of the war.

And they were offered sex with local women. And that was that’s just one example. I mean, the same thing happened in the Philippines where there was a sex industry that sprang up because the U.S. occupation and the soldiers there were offered access to women’s bodies as if we were materials, as if we’re like natural resources that they needed to survive. Dr. Woan wrote that “rest and recreation facilities are a vital component of the U.S. military policy with pervasive disregard for human rights. The military accepts access to indigenous women’s bodies as a necessity for GIs stationed overseas.” And I mentioned this because I think that in our lives, our sex lives are often the subject of so much aloneness, especially when the sex, especially when the sexualized things in our lives involve trauma. And they feel so insular.

And yet there’s this, there are so many events that happened in the world in terms of international politics and imperialist wars that actually shape our individual lives to this day. Right? I’m thinking about how you and I sitting here today are shaped in terms of who we are,, what we’ve experienced in our lives, because of the decisions of men who preceded our births, and made decisions that harm many people. And how to this day, as people in the U.S., as Asian women in the U.S., we face all of these violences and the legacies of this violence that happened so many years ago.

Yeah. We say all the time that gender and sexuality is socially constructed. But we think of that as if it’s just like socially constructed onto the individual. But as you just said, right now, it expands across centuries, this construction of what humans, how certain human life is valued or devalued, how certain human life is exploited, is socially constructed. And we continue that pattern if we’re not able to see that those connections, if we’re not able to see those legacies and how they should continue to show up in the way we interact with one another, people talk about fetishization all the time, but they don’t go as often into the imperialism. And that factor, and then Asian, like Asian women who will talk about fetishization all the time, but then don’t look at the fetishization of trans women. These different layers, like people who aren’t able to kind of connect those dots. I think one of the reasons why we fail so often to move forward, because we’re not able to kind of see those throughlines between, between these identities. I don’t even know if they’re identities, but these experiences really. Between these experiences.

Don’t even get me started. So I was in Thailand for three months in 2016, and I was in Bangkok specifically for a job. And I was working for this organization that worked on sexual health. It was really interesting because I was able to observe firsthand the sex tourism that was happening in front of me. And sometimes I was asked to be a part of it, of course, because people just assumed I was Thai, because that’s how the world is, but I just thought it was shocking at first, I think I became a little numb to it, but I was just in all these spaces where I was, I was craving connection with other Southeast Asian trans women. But in those same spaces where we gathered, where in this case, Thai women gathered, there were always male suitors.

And usually they were white male suitors who had come from other countries to experience Southeast Asian trans women. And I know that that occurs like all across Southeast Asia. And there’s a really specific trope of Southeast Asian trans women being a specific type of experience. There’s the term ladyboys. And there’s all this history and these layers. I feel like there hasn’t been enough discussion about it. And I think that in order for Asian women’s experiences to be fully represented and meaningfully discussed towards some end, towards some road towards justice or liberation, we have to consider the vastness of what we experience. And that includes what trans women experience. So I’m happy that you mentioned that. I also know that you’re queer, and I feel like most of the sex educators that have become famous and have become really successful in recent times, you mentioned Shan Boodram. A lot of folks are straight and I just feel like, I feel like maybe I’m biased, but I think that straightness limits the scope of what people get to see about the human experience. So I’m really curious, you talked about the Asianness, how do you think that your queer experiences factor into your work, but also your life?

Yeah, that’s a good one, you know, to go back on like what other sex educators that are exist out there, to be honest, like even us having this conversation around the politics of sex, one of the things I was frustrated with with a lot of other sex educators is that it felt very apolitical. It felt like it didn’t have that layer of understanding that the way we move about in the world, in our sexuality and in our gender is absolutely political. And that the relationships that we have to other people are political as well. And that to me, was a piece that was like missing for a very, very long time. I definitely don’t think that’s as prevalent now, at least with other sex educators that I’m connected to, but I think that’s, that was part of my frustration and then queerness, right.

You can’t remove the politics around queerness when you’re moving about in this world. To me like how my queerness informs, my work or being sex-positive Asian auntie that like, yeah. The outlook and the frameworks that I have are it, it wouldn’t be exist without that queerness. I came into my queerness, like later, whatever that means where I’ve had to learn that my heterosexuality before was completely compulsory and that I just live in a society that assumed that’s the norm for everybody. And I was like, yeah, cool. There was never anything in me that like, you’re gay.

And I don’t think I came into my queerness until I started exploring non-monogamy actually, they kind of both happen at the same time for me, where I just had these moments of realizing that everything is a scam. All of it is a lie. I’ve been told to live life in this way, because this is what good Asian daughters do. This is the mold that you live by to survive. This is the mold of thriving or what it looks like. And so it took, it took me a minute, and it wasn’t until I was really exploring non-monogamy and starting to dismantle all the risks, like stories I had about relationships in general, that was also coming into my queerness and also just like completely unlearning everything that I was told around love, relationships, care. So that’s kind of how I came into that and that absolutely informs all of my work.

You mentioned non-monogamy and I think that is, I’m sure you have a pulse on it, but there’s a growing conversation about it. There are so many myths surrounding polyamory. I’m curious in your work, what are some of the biggest myths that you tackle with the folks that you work with?

Yeah. I talk about this one. Often I talk about this with my partner often, one of the biggest misses people think that polyamory or non-monogamy is about the sex. And it’s really ironic that how people automatically sexualize monogamy or non-monogamy and polyamory when it’s so far from it. And it makes it feel like, I think just the culture that we live in is so obsessed with sex as part of relationships. And I’m like, so when people kind of argue, “Oh, you just want to all these people. You want to cheat on your partner. Blah blah blah.” Like can’t “commit.” And it’s like, actually it’s about having multiple commitments and sex is not really on the table for all of them. There are asexual people who practice non-monogamy right. And it’s actually the world that we live in that cannot separate sex and relationships. And so that’s one thing that I find really, really fascinating when I talk to monogamous people about non-monogamy.

What came up for me when you were speaking about it is how much of it has to do with fear in terms of how people respond to non-monogamy. Because I think in relationships in general, when you’re in a vulnerable state, fear naturally comes up and we’re either going to make friends with fear, or it leads us to reactions that end up hurting us and our partners. And I think what happens is in these situations, the responses I often hear are, basically under the surface, someone is saying, “I’m afraid that I can’t handle this much intimacy or this much vulnerability,” or they’re afraid that the other person who desires non-monogamy, isn’t actually in love with them or they aren’t enough for people. There’s always this sense, this doubt about enoughness. Which is why I think this work around sexuality is also very much so spiritual work, around the soul and how we feel in their hearts and minds.

I’m curious for you, so Autostraddle‘s Asian Pacific American Heritage Month theme is taking up space and refusing to compromise different parts of ourselves. Because so much of what we hear about Asian-Americans, as people often say, they don’t feel Asian enough and they don’t feel American enough, or they feel like they are too queer to be in an Asian-American experience, or they have to choose different parts of themselves and what we’re trying to get at within our team. And what we’re trying to put out into the world is what happens when we stop compromising and we start reconciling and we take up space as our whole selves. What have you refused to compromise on recently and how are you taking up space in your life?

Oh, that’s a good one. Well, I mean, so our podcasts that I cohost is called, “Don’t Say Sorry.” That in itself is, we are here exactly the way we are, often confused, often very opinionated, definitely anti-capitalist in our episodes. We’re really unapologetic about the opinions that we have. And I think that in itself, for me, it’s I don’t always know what I’m doing and I’m still going to move through it. And I’m not really apologizing for the fact that I’m still learning and I’m still growing and I’m still being in the world. And I think before it would have been, I’m not apologizing for being vocal or I’m not apologizing for being opinionated. And I think because I was resisting so much of that Asian identity of being quiet and not taking up space, now for me, it’s like, I actually, I feel so good in my knowing now.

Like I feel so good in my, so grounded in who I am, that I don’t even feel the need to yell as often as I used to. You know? And now I’m like, actually I’m still learning and if I’m learning, I don’t actually have to be loud about it if I don’t want to. And I’m still growing. And so I think that’s where right now I’m taking up that kind of space. I’m okay not having all the answers. I’m okay still blooming. And I’m still I’m okay still cocooning sometimes when I need to. And I think more of us need that. I think we also live in a, because of everything that’s happening, we’re encouraged to have such instant formulated opinions. Like we’re expected to react to all of this trauma and news and that’s coming out. And what I feel from the collective right now is we actually need to take this break of not feeling the need to share opinion instantly and not feeling the need to be reactive to, to what we’re experiencing and just giving ourselves the space to not know, and giving ourselves a space to just sit and be with it. 

The State of Trans Lives in the Birthplace of the American LGBTQ Movement

This is the fourth piece in a partnership between Autostraddle and Transgender Law Center to provide data and reporting on why anti-trans violence occurs. Read more of the series. You can also find more data compiled by Transgender Law Center here.

New York has long been heralded as a progressive place, especially for LGBTQ issues. Many youth born elsewhere come here looking for a space to define themselves on their own terms. I was one of them.

The history of the Stonewall uprising, the ballroom scene, and the extravagant Pride parades are just a few historical examples of why New York City has become an LGBTQ touchstone. But each year, New York state ranks among the highest in the country when it comes to anti-trans homicides. Between 2017 and 2020, at least nine trans individuals were reported murdered in New York state, making it one of top five states that are most hostile to trans people. It’s possible that more murders went unreported.

The numbers contradict existing stereotypes wherein the South is discarded as hotbeds of conservatism. One could argue that the way New York has branded itself as progressive allows it to conceal the violence that is inflicted on marginalized communities like trans people.

Cecilia Gentili has witnessed the true nature of New York’s violence for the past ten years as a community advocate. Prior to that, she was a long-time undocumented sex worker who had been incarcerated in a migrant detention center.

“We as a state like to be portrayed as the progressive state, but in reality, part of that equation comes from keeping conservatives from upstate content,” Gentili commented. “And that means not passing legislation that is supportive of sex workers or trans people or LGBT rights or women’s issues.”

Indeed, when examined more closely, the Stonewall uprising—which has now acquired international recognition as the impetus for the LGBTQ movement in the U.S—occurred because of the brutality of the New York Police Department during its raids of queer gatherings. Similarly, the underground balls were a response to widespread family rejection and poverty. Queer families became a source of abundance when LGBTQ youth were denied basic resources that anyone would need to survive.

The policing that forced a response from icons like Marsha P. Johnson, Miss Major, and Sylvia Rivera is still a marked presence in the city. The NYPD is the largest police force in the country today, and is unique in that it has what it calls a “counterterrorism bureau,” something typically reserved for militaries. In 2011, former mayor Michael Bloomberg boasted the following: “I have my own army in the NYPD, which is the seventh largest army in the world.”

There is a history of NYPD targeting trans people for arrest, disrupting their lives and contributing to a cycle of poverty that entraps trans people in a web of violence. And state laws long supported the NYPD’s abusive behavior. Up until recently, Section 240.37 of the New York Penal Code allowed officers to arrest trans people if they suspected them of “loitering for the purposes of prostitution.” Community organizers called it the “walking while trans” law because of the way it criminalized trans people simply for existing.

“This is just another case of how much the lives of trans people are decided by cisgender people who have no idea of our experience. And it’s all a power game,” Cecilia Gentili told me.

As a response to ongoing violence against trans people and sex workers. Cecilia Gentili founded DecrimNY, an initiative helmed by a number of organizations working to end the criminalization of sex work altogether in the state.

As an effect of the heavy police presence, Black residents have historically been more likely to be entangled in the criminal legal system than their white counterparts. While Black people account for about a quarter of the city population, they make up nearly half of all arrests.

Black trans women face compounded violence, as they’re targeted in more ways than one. A legal case that rose to national recognition in 2019 was that of Layleen Xtravaganza Cubilette-Polanco, who was arrested on misdemeanor charges. Some of Polanco’s charges had to do with sex work. Her bail was set $500, an amount she couldn’t afford to pay. She was consequently jailed at Rikers Island, famous for stories of cruelty that occurred within its walls. The jail has in the past been nicknamed “Torture Island” and “Gladiator School.”

On June 7th, 2019, Polanco died from a preventable seizure while in solitary confinement. Video footage surfaced last year showing guards laughing at Polanco as she lay unconscious in her cell. Staff did not provide proper healthcare that may have prevented the seizure, nor did they fulfill their obligations to keeping her alive while she was unconscious.

Her death was one of the many that were commemorated in the Brooklyn Liberation March, on June 14th, 2020. The event is reported as having the highest turnout for trans lives in U.S. history, and it occurred during the ongoing Black uprisings. The thousands of attendees, all wearing white, showed up to listen to Black trans activists speak to how violence against Black trans people occurs from both police and civilians.

For many, the march was a return to the roots of Pride month, as a protest against state-sanctioned violence. But the event couldn’t have happened without the momentum built by Black trans leaders who’ve forced the mainstream to acknowledge the margins. While many point to the Trump administration as the source of violence, many Black trans people have been decrying their plight for many years.

“I think that they keep using Trump as the problem. And Trump was only a problem that they allowed to be a problem,” said LaLa Zannell, who has been a crucial figure in Black trans communities and has devoted over ten years of work to ending violence. LaLa’s comment speaks to the way Trump was an embodiment of a national culture that is bigger than any one president — a culture that disregards the value of trans lives.

Chin Tsui has experienced this throughout his incarceration after immigrating from Hong Kong as a child. After being kicked out of his family home for being trans, Chin was left vulnerable while living on the streets. Chin was repeatedly a victim of human trafficking, wherein his life was threatened and he was coerced into performing illegal activity for his traffickers. Eventually, Chin ended up in immigration detention. He was put into solitary confinement for 19 months, often 24 hours a day, because he is a trans man.

According to Transgender Law Center, “LGBT people are rarely screened for human trafficking and until an expert asks the right questions, victims suffer in silence and fear.”

“Being an immigrant and trans, you’re a big target,” Chin told me. When Homeland Security Investigations confirmed his convictions were tied to him being a victim of trafficking, ICE reconsidered his case. Chin was released in March of 2020, after over two years in immigration prison.

Chin’s life illustrates what happens when trans people are denied the resources they need to thrive: housing, employment, and adequate identification documents, among other things. The poverty rate in 2015 for NYC was 19.9 percent, but trans people experienced poverty at a rate of 37%, according to the U.S. Transgender Survey. When seeking housing, 27 percent of trans people found themselves homeless, and almost one in three avoided a shelter for fear of being mistreated for their gender identity.

“We’ve seen that for public shelters, when we sent community members to public shelters in the city, they experienced a lot of violence,” said Cristina Herrera, who founded the TransLatinx Network in 2007 to address the needs of transgender immigrants. “And some are at women’s shelters and we’d see that there’s a lot of violence coming from cis women.”

Herrera’s two decades of advocacy work has led her to witness how trans communities develop shame and self-doubt as a result of countless barriers in their lives. These internal battles become their own additional obstacles that trans people must overcome.

“Many times they choose not to report [attacks] because dealing with violence, being a survivor of violence, it creates a lot of shame. You feel a sense of guilt in a way, because you blame yourself for not putting yourself in better situations and better economic opportunities,” Cristina explained. “But our communities are set up to fail.”

In 2019, community members celebrated the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall uprising, with New York City being chosen as the year’s site of World Pride. The resilience of trans communities had reverberated all around the globe. But it wasn’t without loss.

Trans communities shouldn’t have had to build resilience through suffering, through mourning.

I asked LaLa Zannell what gives her hope. “Every day I get up, I have hope. Because I know that somebody is not here no more,” she said. “I’m able to wake up and catch that first breath in the morning. There’s hope because I’m still here. It’s another day for me. I am honored to be here, still have another 24 hours. And there’s hope for me to get something done, to leave something here, to push something, to advance something, to combat something.”

Zannell’s words echo the signature exclamation from Miss Major: “I’m still fucking here.”

The cycle of loss makes it easy to forget that trans people have long thrived before the first police raid on Stonewall Inn, in cultures all around the world. And many years, from now, trans people will continue giving birth to social movements, families, artistic innovations, and more.

Just as Chin Tsui said to me, “I’m not asking the whole world to accept us, but they need to know we are here, we’re not going nowhere.”

The Roots of Anti-Trans Violence

This is the introduction to a partnership between Autostraddle and Transgender Law Center to provide data and reporting on why anti-trans violence occurs. Read more of the series. You can also find more data compiled by Transgender Law Center here.

Year after year, journalists reported the ongoing murders of trans people — the majority of them Black trans women — demonstrating the “epidemic of violence.” The reports of community members’ deaths caused continuous ripples of grief and fear.

Under the legal system, these homicides were interpersonal acts: one individual committing a crime against another. In reality, these deaths are not singular events. Rather, the theft of trans lives is made possible by the neglect and violence of many institutions. Murders are the result of multiple incidences over the course of a trans person’s life: every time we’re abandoned by our families, every time we are refused healthcare, every time we are denied access to a homeless shelter, every time the police profile us as sex workers and incarcerate us.

Trans people are trapped in a web of violence wherein the very entities charged with caring for us instead treat us as disposable.

Who has blood on their hands? Not just perpetrators of the homicide. The federal government, state legislatures, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, police forces, homeless shelters, prisons, healthcare providers, and discriminatory employers all contribute to making us vulnerable.

In order to end the violence, we have to understand its roots. We have to transform all the conditions that lead to the violence in the first place.

Autostraddle has partnered with Transgender Law Center to study how anti-trans violence is embedded in our society. We chose to feature four regions that are among those with the highest rates of anti-trans violence: Louisiana, Texas, New York, and Puerto Rico.

We’ll present data and reporting that features local community organizers who represent the possibility of a future of interdependence and mutual care among all people. We’ve also included resources, organizations, mutual aid funds, and collectives from each region, majority trans-led, for readers to donate and support.

We must plant new seeds. We must water them so trans people get to bloom without fear.

Tony Zosherafatain and Chella Man Discuss “Trans in Trumpland,” Collective Liberation, and Cool Moms

Tony Zosherafatain is the creator of “Trans in Trumpland,” a four-part docu-series on how the Trump administration has harmed trans communities. Among the executive producers is Chella Man, an artist and activist for both trans and disabled communities. Tony and Chella spent some time with me to chat about why the series is a must-watch, and how we’re still living in Trumpland, even with Trump out of the Oval Office.

You can read our review of the docu-series here.

Xoai Pham: Hi, everybody. I’m Xoai Pham, trans subject editor of Autostraddle. I’m super excited. I have the honor of interviewing two folks from the docu-series Trans in Trumpland. We have the creator Tony Zosherafatain and one of the executive producers Chella Man here with us. Thank you for chatting with me today. I’m super excited for this conversation. I want to start off by kind of grounding us in some context, right. So it’s not even been a month since the inauguration of the Biden-Harris administration. Trump hasn’t even been out of office for a month yet. And, and so I know that there are certain folks who are going to see this film would be excited to watch it. But question what it looks like for trans people in Trumpland when Trump is out of office? So what would you say to those people?

Tony Zosherafatain: Um, I think it’s a, it’s a good question. So I’m very happy that Biden won. And we’re about a month away, as you mentioned, and I think to what we’re seeing is, it’s, it’s really okay for people that are still in these, like, liberal parts of the country in New York City, LA, for example. But what I’m hearing from, like, the characters and trends in Trump land, and even just like friends that I have in red states, it’s still difficult. And why is it difficult is they still have these lingering state policies, for example, Ash in North Carolina, HB2, it’s still not formally like, it’s still a reality. So he’s dealing with that, the anti trans bathroom bill also, we’re seeing recently, I think it was Montana is trying to pass a bill that bars young trans athletes from participating on teams that align with their gender identity. And I think we’re seeing kind of still this incredibly bad momentum in these red states where trans people are this target, not a new target, but like, still a very strong target. And I think it’s a very hard reality still, for a lot of trans folks around the country. Because yes, we can have shift towards federal equality and inclusion. But what about the state level, it still is something that is, I think, going to be a strong focus for trans rights in the next four years. So it’s still really tough, a month away from the inauguration to be trans I think in a conservative state.

Xoai: That’s so true. In Montana, and in South Dakota, there are bills currently, that are meant to increase surveillance of trans athletes. And there are a couple other bills including in Kansas that are criminalize gender-affirming care for trans youth as well. So I’m curious for you Chella, what made you feel like you needed to sign on to this film, what, what really drew you to the message that the film was sending?

Chella Man: Well, during this time, you know, when Trump was first elected, I could not even vote. I was 17 at the time, and he actually came to speak at my high school in conservative central Pennsylvania. And that was just earth-shattering for me coming into my skin as a trans individual, queer individual, disabled individual, to see the kids that I grew up alongside for 17 years, just blindly walk by me while I protested outside of school. It just broke my heart. And I needed some kind of context, some kind of like solidified, condensed information of everything that happened to trans people over this time. And Tony, just, it was like this gift, like from heaven, you know, like he put into, he put so much work into this. It’s beautiful. The people that are highlighted, are articulate, are diverse. And I believe, like what they have to say is something that every—not only American who was under, you know, the Trump administration—
just anyone should hear because it’s just about human rights. It’s just about being a person that cares about other people. And so I mean, I wanted to sign on to this, because it’s, it’s imperative information, especially considering what we all just went through.

Xoai: What I’m really interested in is the fact that Tony, you are not only creating and, you know, running the show, but you are also in the film as a host and you’re engaging with all these folks from trans youth to two-spirit folks all across the country. And I’m curious, what motivated that decision for you to be a part of the storytelling as a trans person.

Tony: I’m glad that you really enjoyed this series Xoai, and that’s great to hear and Chella saying it’s beautiful and like Chella’s a great artist. So hearing that as well, I’m like, yeah, because I wanted to, like really capture people’s like, heartstrings, like get attached to their heartstrings and be like, trans people are human, we’re like your neighbors and stuff. So like, what motivated me and Trans in Trumpland to, like, direct it. And also be part of it is, I really like traveling and connecting with people. So I wanted to like be in front of the camera and like guide people, because I thought to myself, like how is everyone gonna be weaved together? Like these four characters that are very diverse. They’re like, all around the country. I was like, you know, I talked to my producer, Jamie. I was like, should I just be the host? Like, connect everyone and like the, the series follows me and like a red car across the country. And he was like, “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” So I guess what motivated me was like that artistically. But also, like, on a personal level, I’m like, I’m a trans guy. I’m also first-generation. My mom was from Greece, my dad’s from Iran. And I’m Iranian-American. So Trump impacted me as a trans person, also, as a first-generation American and an Iranian American. So I was like, Oh, I was, like, impacted by this a lot. So let me tell a little bit of my story, throughout this journey in the series. So I felt like a really kind of like personal connection to the subject matter, which is like investigating what Trump has done to a lot of folks over the past four years, and just kind of like, wanting also to meet the characters and, like, go into their homes and like, see where they live and like, meet their friends and meet their family. And I like really like connecting with people. So that like, really, got to me as like an artist. I was like, Oh, I want to make it very personal and, like show people that I had a hard journey with my family at first coming out.

Xoai: That’s so beautiful. Thank you, Tony. Um, Chella, how did you feel like you saw yourself in that film? In what ways do you see yourself reflected by the different stories that were told?

Chella: Um, that’s a great question. I mean, going back to the first also, you know, while Tony was talking, another thing that another thing that I was thinking immediately when I got this email that it was about trans people in front of the camera, and behind the camera, I was like, sold, period, because that’s what we need! We need people not only in front of the camera, but behind the camera. Like, immediately, I was like, Oh, great. This is not tokenization, this is like real shit. This is the stuff that actually matters. They’re going to talk about things not on surface level, we’re actually going to go in deep here. So I already knew it was beautiful before…Oh, gosh, so many different… What initially struck me was ash, and how young they were. Because going back, you know, I felt the same way like the way they were discovering how hard and harsh the world can be as a really young person to see the world support a person like Trump and all that he stands for it was a whole lot to swallow. So to see that I felt, I felt very seen. And not only that, I feel so grateful and lucky because of, you know, Ash has a really great relationship with them, their mom, and I do as well. And to see that represented, I immediately actually sent it to my mom. And I was like, Look, this is this. This is like us. And that’s rare. You know, for someone like me, it’s not often I can send something to someone and be like, Look, I that’s me that feel represented. So immediately, that was episode one. And yeah, I was just sold, I felt just like Tony, even though I wasn’t even in it, I felt a deep personal connection as well.

Xoai: Yeah, I love that the film presents trans people not just based off of our gender identity, it’s, it’s about all of us, because we’re so much more than our gender expression. And I think that that was really important to show. It also feels like a lot of times trans people are having to plead to sis people, especially people in positions of power in government and institutions in order to maintain our rights and our dignity. And so in this case, who would you say the audience of the film is Chella? Who are you, who would you say that the film is trying to speak to?

Chella: I would hope this film speaks to everyone. Because I mean, everyone has something to learn, like trans individuals. This is just taking a step back. I mean, this is more a film about anyone who faces oppression or adversity at all. Yes, I’m sorry, I stumbled on my words. But um, it’s all about how to stay strong, stay true to yourself, especially when, like you said, the people in power who do not in any way identify with how to stay strong, and how to build community and a support system under that, that will allow you to persevere despite what the world looks like around you. And I think that that is a story that could help not just trans people, but anyone. I mean, so many people have something to learn from this, any, anyone that goes through any hardship in their life, which is, I would say all individuals in the entire world can learn something from the resilience of trans people.

Tony: When I was developing the series, I was like, who is my target audience? Who do I want to speak to? And I knew that like trans and queer people would be able to feel connected to the characters and the underlying, like civil rights issues and whatnot. But I thought to myself, like, I do want everyone to feel like they can relate to the series and the issues discussed. And I want to say ditto to what Chella said, like, I think the target audience is like, is everyone in a sense, because it explores themes of like, not fitting in high school, bullying, feeling racism, and I think a lot of folks can relate to that all kinds of people, Americans, or even people abroad. And so I think it’s like the target audience is like, is everyone because it’s very heartwarming stories. And there’s also this big underlying theme of motherhood, that really connected everyone. And so I think, like, who doesn’t like cool moms? Um, so yeah, I think like everyone can get something from from this series. And I hope that especially people that may be more moderate or conservative will watch it too and learn something from it.

Xoai: I love that this is coming out now because there’s also there’s been a lot of discussion recently about trans representation, especially since the release of another documentary-style film Disclosure by Sam Feder and executive produced by Laverne Cox, who we love. And so I’m curious for the both of you, witnessing the way that trans people have become begun to take more ownership of our stories in cinema and TV, and not just producing fictional works, but producing documentaries, that, that actually analyze the ways that we’ve been portrayed and, and proactively seeks to change the ways that we were portrayed. How are you feeling about the state of trans representation today?

Tony: Disclosure really went in and analyze like how we were portrayed in the past how we are presently, and I think it’s kind of interesting to even just like bring it back to like these anti-trans state bills are coming through. It’s like, the double-edged sword I guess, I would say like increased trans visibility can also lead to increase like discrimination because the more we’re coming out and asking for rights and owning our power, the more people are like attacking us. And so I think that’s like interesting and I’m not going to say like that’s happening in every state or everywhere, there’s also, you know, a positive incline towards trans rights. But I think like, there is a big shift happening with, like kind of what I said earlier, where there are more trans people directing and producing things behind the camera, I think that’s powerful. Because in the past, we were more objects in front of the camera to be analyzed. And so now, when you can have trans folks telling their story in front of the camera, behind the camera, that’s incredibly powerful. And I think where we’re at is I do want to say, I think there can be more trans-masculine and non binary representations to be to be quite frank, I think we need more of that. And also trans people who are diverse, maybe trans people who are deaf maybe trans people like for me, I don’t see any Middle Eastern trans people. I’m like, where are you guys at? So I would like to see more diversity in the trans voices, less white trans people, and also just like trans people in everyday roles, like trans joy, not getting murdered, falling in love and getting married, but that, you know, like not getting broken up with ’cause we’re trans. So that’s what I would say is like, we’ve gotten to a good point, but we need we need more representation still.

Chella: I mean, I agree with everything that Tony said, we are taking steps forward, but we are also taking steps back. And I think that, you know, I often say if I were born in any other time period, I wouldn’t be where I am today, I’m so grateful to be on this surge of like social media and technology, technological revolution, because if it were not for my social media accounts, I wouldn’t be able to be my own representation in the same way. Like, of course, I could always look in the mirror and be like, you know, I know who I am, period. But I can broadcast that. And that changes everything, brings people together. And I don’t have to wait for someone to like, put my face on a billboard or like on a whatever, give me a platform. I was like, No, you know what, I’m just gonna speak my truth. And I know, I know, there’s people out there who feel exactly the same way. And of course, lo and behold, everyone’s on a continuum. And everyone suffers because of binaries, like not just gender binaries, but like disability binaries, and stereotypes and stigmas. And so it hurts everyone. So if you just build a platform, where you are authentic and you’re just like, guys, this shit sucks. What are we doing? Like, let’s just let’s have some space where we validate people who are on the continuum who exists outside of stereotypes. So many people feel that and are hurt by that and want to be free from that. And I think that this is, you know, this is the time.

Xoai: This is absolutely the time. I also wanted to ask, so in the past two weeks, there has been an ongoing, an onslaught of anti-Asian violence, especially against Asian American elders. Even in New York, there was a Filipino man who was slashed across the face on the subway while he was on the first while he was on the way to one of his two jobs. And then there have also been, there’s also been reported violence in the bay as well. And that’s only the violence that’s been reported and documented, right. And so, you know, in the last calendar year, we’ve witnessed, people become more and more invested in racial justice especially invested in ending anti-Blackness. How is this film connected to the uprisings for Black lives, the fights for Asian Americans, just racial justice in general? How would you connect this film with those causes?

Chella: For this film, I mean, I think I would go back to the people that Tony and Jamie chose to uplift. I truly believe in collective liberation. And I believe they chose people who face multiple cycles of oppression on a daily basis. And by uplifting those individuals, you know, we all benefit and we are all more empathetic and understanding of what people go through. So I think it’s just a matter of choosing marginalized people who are at various intersections of oppression, and fully allowing them to tell their stories unfiltered, without tokenization. And that’s what I that’s what I truly admired about about this docu-series is who was casting and who, who’s being uplifted and, of course, like the benefits of that we will all benefit from that.

Tony: Yeah, ditto to what Chella said, um, it really saddens me to see like the wave of anti-Asian violence. I actually have had a friend recently she’s queer, and went to college together and she’s Chinese. And she was actually had a guy come up to her face in Queens and he was like yelling at her. And she posted about on social media and I was just like, are you fucking kidding me? We used to be roommates. And she would tell me just about, like what she would experience daily in New York City in Queens. I’m so really upset about that. And I think like Trump for the past four years, has not only exacerbated transphobia, but also racism, everything every ism every phobia, and when I was like, thinking about kind of creating this series, I was like, how can I also kind of like highlight people who faced double oppression. So whether that be immigration status, um, you know, I want to say ageism, too, with ash or racism, like with Evonne, who’s a Black trans woman in Mississippi that we filmed? How can I kind of like, tap into these waves of anti-Blackness, anti-Asian sentiment, anti-immigration sentiment the past four years, and now, because that hasn’t gone away with Trump getting out of office. So I want to kind of, I wouldn’t call it a connect back to what Chella said, which is that I made sure to choose characters that aren’t just trans, but also face other isms and other levels of injustice. And I also, for me, personally, as a documentary filmmaker, I wanted to be a passive post, because I have privilege in the sense that I’m coming from New York City, traveling to conservative state, so I have legal privileges. And also, I’m a mixed trans guy, so I can have white privilege. So I was like, I want to be a passive host in the series and not take away from people’s voices in these states, who, you know, are Black, are Latina, are facing potential deportation, because that’s an incredible difference in privilege that I had. So I wanted to make sure I gave everyone proper time. And I think that’s the storytelling is the way that I’m kind of like highlighting these multiple injustices in this series.

Xoai: What I, what I also love about what you did, Tony, was that even though this film is about the present, and it is a, it’s a nonfiction account of the present, it also feels like it’s a capsule of what could be possible in the future, especially when you were speaking to the person who is to spirit and is still preserving all of their heritage and the traditions that they come from. And I it makes me think what the future of trans people could look like, in the US and also elsewhere. So I think a lot of times we’re caught up responding to the types of violence we face and trying to solve those issues. And I think it distracts from us being able to envision what kind of world we want to inherit. And I think it’s intentional that we are kept from that. So for the two of you, what would you say in about 50 years, in half a century and around 2071? How would you want trans people living?

Chella: Freely! No restrictions as they are, I just want them to fucking tell the truth and like, hopefully, the gender binary, doesn’t exist, or at very least, is like less strong than it is now. I just I want people to not be afraid to be themselves. I don’t want colors to have gender. I don’t want smells to have gender with the actual. I just like, I just want people to be able to be people. Like stop stop with the stop with the categories. That’s that’s what I would have to say. But 50 years. that’s a, that’s a long time.

Tony: 50 years, like the gender binary should like just not exist, like, ’cause for me, even though like I’m a binary trans guy, like when I was filming in North Carolina and met Ash, I was like, Ash came out at 12 as like transmasc, but now is like moving more non-binary. And then like, meeting his friends who were Gen Z. I’m like, y’all are really woke right? And they don’t even like believe in gender categories. I was just like, I’m like sitting around and here’s like this young trans mass youth with like, cis male and female friends and they’re like talking about all these issues, and they’re like on TikTok and whatever kids are doing these days. I’m like, wow, like, yeah, 50 years, I do feel like the gender binary won’t exist. We won’t have these like gendered parties and also just like, legally and politically like, it should not be even a discussion. Do trans rights exist or not, or do trans people exist or not in this country. Like we should not be having that conversation even now. That’s what I would hope.

Trans in Trumpland will be available on February 25th to U.S. and Canadian audiences on Topic through Topic.com and Topic channels through AppleTV & iOS, Roku, Amazon Fire TV, Android, and Amazon Prime video channels.

Support Independent Queer Media

We’re raising funds to make it through the end of July. 99% of the people who read this site don’t support. Will you be one of the ones who do? Joining A+ is one of the best ways to support Autostraddle — plus you get access to bonus content while keeping the site 99% free for everyone. Will you join today?

Support Autostraddle

Join A+

“Trans in Trumpland” Depicts the Past, Present and Future of Trans Lives

There is a point in the docu-series Trans in Trumpland where I’m forced to pause the film so I can cry. The mother of Ash, a trans high schooler who is the subject of the first episode, briefly interrupts a board game among the youth and says, “I made some veggie soup, and then I have plain pasta, Mitchell and Rowan, possibly…” It’s her soft-spoken dinner invitation to her son’s friends. In her voice and her eyes, I hear the temporary relief of seeing your child experience joy and friendship — a change from the everyday battles of raising a trans child in North Carolina.

I see my own mother in her eyes. I see the familiar apprehension of wondering if your child would live through the week. North Carolina has been an epicenter of trans rights battles for the past few years. In 2016, House Bill 2 made national news after being passed by state lawmakers, effectively determining that LGBTQ people aren’t protected from discrimination under state laws. It also restricted which restrooms trans people could use, and reversed any existing city ordinances that protected LGBTQ people. A year later, the law was partially repealed. As of last month, cities in North Carolina have begun passing nondiscrimination laws, affirming the rights of their LGBTQ communities.

The legislative back-and-forth confused many people. What the docu-series illustrates more powerfully than is represented in the news cycle is how an individual person’s life is changed. Even when a law doesn’t pass, or is repealed, it stokes fear among targeted populations. In Trans in Trumpland, Ash may go without water for the entire school day so he won’t have to risk going to the bathroom at all. “Because I’m scared of using the bathroom, I’ll often go weeks without drinking water at school,” he says. “I’m often so dehydrated that it makes it really hard to focus.”

The docu-series takes us through four red states: North Carolina, Texas, Mississippi, and Idaho. All four states voted Trump into office in 2016. They attempted to do the same in 2020. The series not only documents how Trump’s blatant anti-trans sentiments hurt trans communities; it illustrates the culture that is foundational to Trumpland.

Every person in the series had suffered at the hands of a transphobic culture, the very culture that allowed Trump to win a presidential election. That culture lives on, even without Trump working in the Oval Office.

But rather than simply presenting the culture of violence, the series’ creator Tony Zosherafatain delivered a resounding celebration of the relationships that sustain trans lives.

What Trump and his kin represent: exclusion, a reductive mindset, the few over the many, one-percenters, fear, binaries, and repression. Everything having to do with “making America great” was doing away with difference, serving a smaller and smaller elite, and having people believe there wasn’t enough resources to go around. As if trans people’s very existence was a threat to someone else.

Trans in Trumpland is a vision of a healed, unified United States: where differences add richness to our lives, where it’s about ‘we’ instead of ‘me,’ where there is such abundance in resources and community care that we generously spend our lives in the service of others.

Interdependence is the foundational message of the series. While two of the featured people in the series are filmed as the precious children of doting mothers, a third is a mother herself — Evonne Kaho is a trans mother to those who had been rejected from the families they were born into.

The emphasis on relationship-building as the key to trans livelihood is further emphasized by Zosherafatain’s choice to be the narrator and host of the series. He is in front of the camera, hugging the subjects, driving them in his car, sharing photos of his childhood self pre-transition. We witness trans people in conversation with one another. Some of the seemingly mundane moments become especially powerful, because they’re moments you wouldn’t witness in mainstream tokenizing portrayals.

As a trans viewer, I am validated by the impression that this was made by and for trans people. But the most powerful films can engage a specific issue while maintaining a universal audience. Trans in Trumpland does just that by depicting the space between trans individuals, the connective tissue, the conversations, the legacies carried forward. The docu-series highlights the thing that makes all of us human: the fact that we need love and care from one another.

Trumpland is a territory that all of us inhabit, whether we’d like to or not. And it is our collective responsibility to use whatever unique power we have to uproot the seeds of harmful ideologies. Because as the docu-series powerfully displays, we are all connected: every person, every community, every generation.

Trans in Trumpland is a much-needed reminder that trans people are the past, present, and future. That our lives are not a matter of political discourse but rather a matter of human dignity. That we are not only deserving of protection under the law — we represent the best parts of society. We create families where we have none, house one another when we’re shut out, give the love that we didn’t receive.

We are in a new wave of visionary trans filmmaking, with documentaries like Disclosure, feature films like Lingua Franca, and TV shows like Veneno. Remarkably, Trans in Trumpland is no exception.

Trans in Trumpland will be available on February 25th to U.S. and Canadian audiences on Topic through Topic.com and Topic channels through AppleTV & iOS, Roku, Amazon Fire TV, Android, and Amazon Prime video channels.

Support Independent Queer Media

We’re raising funds to make it through the end of July. 99% of the people who read this site don’t support. Will you be one of the ones who do? Joining A+ is one of the best ways to support Autostraddle — plus you get access to bonus content while keeping the site 99% free for everyone. Will you join today?

Support Autostraddle

Join A+

10 Times Trans and Gender Nonconforming People Destroyed 2020

For many trans people, 2020 just revealed to the general public the kind of inequities that they had always been facing. For others, the pandemic heightened barriers to important resources like housing and healthcare, which have long been withheld from trans people.

What 2020 has also shown us is exactly how bright trans people shine in a world that tries to dim us until we disappear. Trans people have been the leaders we need.

1. Modeling Mutual Aid Before It Became a Commonplace Term

Calls for mutual aid circulated widely at the start of the pandemic, when our families were losing jobs and wondering how to pay rent. Donations poured into mutual aid funds to support individuals who didn’t have the means to eat, while many elected officials and the rich fled to quarantine in their vacation homes.

But prior to the pandemic, trans people have long practiced mutual aid in order to keep their people alive. For the Gworls, run by Asanni Armon, helped keep Black trans femmes housed by hosting celebrations and redistributing entrance fees. Black and Pink, with local chapters across the country, made sure people who were incarcerated were not forgotten by fundraising for hygiene supplies. Meanwhile, COVID-19 rates were exponentially multiplying in prisons that had already jeopardized trans lives, contributing to the deaths of Layleen Polanco and Roxsana Hernandez, among others.

2. The Launch of the Trans Journalists Association

Started in February of 2020, the Trans Journalists Association (TJA) filled in glaring gaps within the reporting practices about trans lives. Both in life and in death, trans people have regularly been referred to by their birth name and assigned sex, rather than by who we say we are. Often, community members are left to advocate for our friends against a hostile press.

TJA has created a comprehensive guide for the media to combat insensitive reporting, covering correct pronoun usage, harmful stereotypes, and disinformation. It also has provided tools for employers to diversify their newsrooms and create equitable environments after trans reporters are hired.

3. Leading the Uprisings for Black Lives

Hours after George Floyd was murdered at the end of May, Black trans and queer organizers in Minneapolis mobilized to petition for the police to be defunded. This demand caught fire across the country, shedding light on the legacy of police officers as modern iterations of slave patrols and agents of genocide against Indigenous people.

Organizations like Reclaim the Block and Black Visions Collective in Minneapolis reminded the world to dream of liberation. They are not alone. Local organizers across the country had long called for the abolition of police and prisons, as they only exist to harm marginalized people. What grassroots power showed us during these uprisings is that our communities have long kept us safe and the solutions lie within our commitment to one another.

4. 15,000 Turn Out for Black Trans Lives

The Brooklyn Liberation March in June is speculated to have had the largest turnout for trans people ever. Black trans community organizers were at the center of the event, highlighting how Black trans women in particular were both targets for lethal violence and Black trans leaders were dismissed by movements for justice.

“I believe in Black trans power” is a phrase immortalized by Raquel Willis, former executive editor at Out and now communications director at Ms. Foundation. The march was a culminating event based on a legacy of interdependence. Generations of Black trans people like Marsha P. Johnson and Miss Major had been building the power that called on thousands of people this year to show up.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Raquel Willis (@raquel_willis)

5. Freedom for Trans Migrants

Two transgender migrants, Chin Tsui and Sza Sza, were released from migrant prisons this year, thanks to the work of Transgender Law Center and the Black LGBTQIA+ Migrant Project.

Faced with neglect from institutions meant to deliver resources to the public, trans migrants often creatively make ends meet with labor that is unjustly criminalized by the state. Some trans migrants are even profiled by police as criminals even when they aren’t engaging in any illegal activity.

Chin Tsui and Sza Sza had their lives on the line. They had to protect themselves against transphobic violence in addition to a virus that had been spreading in prisons. Campaigns that coupled legal strategies with public pressure led to their release.

6. A Supreme Court Victory for LGBTQ+ Workers

A monumental victory after a barrage of discriminatory rules unleashed by the Trump administration, the landmark decision over the summer ruled that LGBTQ workers were protected under the 1964 Civil Rights Act.

The ruling came as a relief. It meant that LGBTQ people had legal precedent to assert their rights when enduring the kind of mistreatment by doctors and homeless shelters that was openly encouraged by the government. But this couldn’t have happened without the brilliance of trans lawyer Chase Strangio and the advocacy of Laverne Cox, who created a media firestorm surrounding the case.

7. The Release of the Disclosure Documentary

Policy must be coupled with culture changes in order for trans people to truly claim liberation. Disclosure, another project helmed by Laverne Cox as executive producer, documented the media representations that contributed to the stigma associated with trans lives.

Starting with early portrayals of gender transition as uncivilized, the documentary takes us through to present day. Now, trans characters are onscreen more frequently than ever, but rarely played by trans actors. The title draws associations of the pivotal moment when cisgender people discover the assigned sex of a trans person, but in this case, the disclosure moment is a reclamation of power by filmmaker Sam Feder.

8. Hospitals Announce an End to Intersex Surgeries

In July, Lurie Children’s Hospital in Chicago put forth an apology and promised to end surgeries on intersex babies. As a community with little visibility and ongoing abuse from the medical establishment, intersex community organizers have had to build up public knowledge for decades.

Sean Saifa Wall (left) and Pidgeon Pagonis taking over a public train to protest against intersex surgeries at Lurie Children’s Hospital in 2018. Intersex Justice Project/Sarah Jane Rhee

Many intersex people are also transgender, as they do not identify with the sex they were forcibly assigned at birth. The campaign was won by two trans and intersex advocates who co-founded the Intersex Justice Project: Sean Saifa Wall and Pidgeon Pagonis. In October, Boston Children’s Hospital also issued an overdue apology and a commitment to ending certain surgeries on intersex babies. The momentum that’s building around the inherent dignity of intersex people cannot be overstated.

9. Mainstream Recognition for Artists

Trans and gender nonconforming artists have rarely been acknowledged as the cutting edge of artistic disciplines but much of mainstream art has been influenced by many of our communities. Pose documents the ballroom scene of New York that taught Madonna how to vogue. Icons like Big Freedia who helped popularize the bounce genre of music. Beyoncé, Drake, and Lizzo have all either used samples or collaborated with Big Freedia over recent years.

This year, Venezuelan trans artist Arca received the recognition she deserved with a Grammy nomination for best electronic/dance album. Prior to this recognition, she had collaborated with Kanye West, Bjork, FKA Twigs, and Frank Ocean.

Our community also rightfully took up space in magazine covers. After being snubbed by the Emmy Awards along with the rest of the Pose cast, Indya Moore took the rest of the year by storm with a cover on both Vogue Italia and Vogue India. Among those who worked with Vogue are also Chella Man and Aaron Philip, two trans disabled models of color who have been pushing the industry to meaningfully invest in trans and disabled talent.

10. Celebrating Electoral Victories

The year ended with a celebration. Many trans communities got to see their own friends and family members take on elected positions within government.

Among notable firsts, Stephanie Byers of the Chickasaw nation became the first trans Native American to hold public office in the country. She joins a record number of Native women who have been elected this year. Trans women took on races in areas without a large population of LGBTQ people and it paid off: Taylor Small became the first openly trans person elected to the Vermont legislature, Brianna Titone won in Colorado against a Republican who ran transphobic ads against her, and Mauree Turner became the first openly nonbinary legislator in the Oklahoma state house.

Sarah McBride—among the brilliant trans artists, service workers, caretakers, and community organizers who were our heroes this year—gave us the unapologetic energy we needed to take more power for ourselves next year. An anonymous person messaged her on Twitter asking, “I am confused, are you a boy or a girl?”

McBride responded, “I’m a senator.”

Hope that clears things up. pic.twitter.com/6JjBjG4QAO

— Sarah McBride (@SarahEMcBride) November 23, 2020

What Mattee Jim, Navajo Trans Elder, Teaches Us About Remembering

A month of convergence: the pandemic, ongoing uprisings to defend Black lives, Native American Heritage Month, Trans Day of Remembrance, and a presidential election. After what felt like a year of waiting to exhale, Mattee Jim celebrated the loss of President Trump with a symphony of honks and rejoicing voices. “I was cruising up and down for four hours. I didn’t even mind going slow,” she said. Many were dancing in the streets. She placed her trans flag on her dashboard so it could be on full display: as a Navajo trans woman, many parts of her were relieved.

Mattee Jim is of the Zuni People Clan and born for the Towering House People Clan. This is how she identifies as a Diné — the word that those in the Navajo nation use among themselves. She’s speaking to me from her office at First Nations Community Healthsource, where she’s returned, despite the pandemic, to ensure her Native communities have the resources for HIV prevention. She’s been doing this work for several decades.

She was born in Gallup, New Mexico, which lies near the arbitrary border that cuts through the Navajo nation, a line meant to indicate when New Mexico becomes Arizona. Navajo voters like Mattee were instrumental in flipping Arizona, a battleground state, blue. Yet, in many exit polls depicting voter statistics by race, Indigenous voters were forgotten, placed into the “something else” category.

Despite the Native words that are scattered across a map of the U.S. — Milwaukee, Oklahoma, Malibu, Tallahassee, Mississippi River, and Yellowstone National Park are just a few — the meanings of these words have been warped, assigned new values by colonizers. Few youth today are taught that both the American constitution and the Seneca Falls Convention of 1848, the first feminist convention in the U.S., were inspired by the laws and matrilineal traditions of the Haudenosaunee people. Indigenous knowledge has been the well of inspiration that colonizers have drunk from, only to poison the water later on.

A map of precolonial nations and tribes provided by native-land.ca.

Mattee was one of the Native youth whose life was shaped by the American neglect of Indigenous populations. Her decision to become sober at the age of 24 was the turning point. Three years later, she began identifying as trans, after she started working with the Coalition for Equality in New Mexico in the late 1990s, an organization that works towards a “reality of equity, full access, and sustainable wellness for LGBTQ New Mexicans.” Prior to that, she had never even heard the word “transgender.”

While Stephanie Byers of the Chickasaw nation has made history this year as the first Native trans person to be elected to office in America, Native trans youth rarely have the stability to become politically engaged. “Getting into politics wasn’t our priority,” Mattee explained. “How to get to the hospital, how to go to the grocery store, how to get transportation, our livelihood was first and foremost.” Due to high rates of homelessness, food insecurity, and unemployment, many Native LGBTQ people cannot afford to get involved in politics.

Over the last few years, Native issues have reached greater visibility, especially after the fight against the Dakota Access Pipeline began in 2016. Columbus Day in many cities has been renamed Indigenous People’s Day. Meetings and rallies, particularly among community organizers, begin with an acknowledgment of the original stewards of the land.

That work took decades of pressure from marginalized communities. After centuries of erasure, evident in the loss of languages, Native culture is still being preserved by protectors like Mattee. Despite the dual layers of invisibility being both Navajo and transgender, Mattee proudly proclaims her sacred role in community spaces she enters. While trans issues have become a national discussion only recently, gender-variant people from Indigenous communities have been historically accepted and revered for their contributions to society.

Diyingo ‘Adaanitsíískéés (We Are Sacred)

“From what I’ve learned growing up, the elders would tell us that we’re special people,” Mattee recalled. “A family was blessed to have someone in their family who was LGBTQ. The riches were the knowledge they knew, the roles they played, the tasks they do.”

Trans people in Indigenous communities, across the world, added to the abundance of knowledge about the human soul. As with the Navajo nation, trans people in Vietnam, called chuyển giới, were traditionally mediums who helped people speak to their ancestors. In India, the gender-variant community of hijras were revered as having the ability to bless or curse marriages through fertility rituals. Among the Zapotec people of Oaxaca, transfeminine muxes are often artisans and craftspeople. The city even celebrates gender diversity in a three-day festival called Vela de las Intrepidas. In Hawai’i, the māhū were people who could embody both masculine and feminine spirits, and they were traditional healers, caretakers, and teachers. Since the beginning of the fight for Mauna Kea, a sacred mountain threatened with destruction through the construction of a telescope, māhū leaders have been among those at the forefront of the battle.

From left: Vogue Mexico features muxe communities for the first time. The Kinnar Akhada community of India prepares to dip, in ritual, in the Ganga. Hinaleimoana Wong-Kalu, māhū leader and teacher, raises her fists in ceremony.

Through her advocacy work, Mattee educates on Native trans identity and has been viewed by her friends to exhibit cultural roles and characteristics of historical Native trans individuals such as Osh-Tisch. The name, which means “finds them and kills them,” refers to the two-spirit person from the Crow nation that earned her moniker through her fierceness in battle in the late 1800s. Osh-Tisch later was imprisoned by an American federal agent, who forced her to cut her hair, wear masculine clothing, and perform manual labor. The Crow nation stood by Osh-Tisch and found a way to remove the federal agent from their land. Chief Pretty Eagle called their treatment of her “unnatural” — a word often used today to disparage trans people rather than, in this case, the abuse of trans people. Since the time of Osh-Tisch’s life, the perils set up by colonizers have continued to plague Native trans people.

Mattee explains that for Native trans women, there are two overlapping phenomena: the ongoing genocide of Native people and the attack on trans bodies. The two are demonstrated through community-led initiatives meant to track the disappearance of these communities, one being Trans Day of Remembrance and the other being Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, and Two-Spirit People (commonly shortened to MMIWG2S). In the face of heightened danger, many Native trans communities end up tracking their own community’s survival, not being able to rely on the government or media. “We have Native trans women who’ve been murdered in the State and in our tribal communities…I’ve had conversations with other Native trans women. Within our Native communities, we know where the girls are. If someone was missing, we’d know.”

Her work has been bridging the worlds of trans justice and Native sovereignty. Speaking at the United States Conference on HIV/AIDS last year, she asked a crucial question: “A lot of Native communities, especially trans communities… at a lot of the meetings, trainings, and national tables, we’re not included whatsoever. How many of you are including Native populations in the work that you do?”

Her demand for inclusion isn’t simply about weaving Native people into advocacy spaces. Mattee embodies the world that colonizers have tried time and again to eliminate. She is the manifestation of the trans wisdom her ancestors had celebrated. Each time she commands respect, she invites us onto the bridge with her: the bridge between binary genders, the bridge between trans and Indigenous movements, and the bridge between our past and the future. She invites us into that world where we’re allowed to be our whole selves without limitations, whether we know it or not. It’s our job to accept the invitation by giving her and every ancestor before her what they’re due. It’s our duty to remember.

Monica Roberts Remembered Us. Now We Remember Her.

Monica and I weren’t close, but every time I crossed paths with her, I was always surprised by how tight she held me as we hugged. Now I can’t stop thinking of the hug we shared back in January at the Creating Change conference. It’s the last time I saw her before her passing last night.

My mind is running a slideshow of every lucky moment I got to observe her refusal to be modest about her excellence. The way she’d relax into a chair, her arm slung over its back. The way she spoke like she knew exactly what she was talking about — because she did.

Before mainstream publications began reporting about the murders of trans folks, Monica was singlehandedly tracking violence against our community on her blog, TransGriot. The blog started as a column in a Louisville, Kentucky newspaper called The Letter in 2004 and went online on New Year’s Day in 2006, as reported by them. She was a pioneer, a trailblazer. Without her, many of us wouldn’t ever know when a member of our community was stolen. She was working to fill the abhorrent gaps within industry-wide neglect of trans lives in the media. Most publications either chose not to report on the regularity of murders against Black trans women, or they’d misgender and deadname the victim, which disrespected the trans community and delayed news of who had been taken this time. She fought to remember us.

What do you say about someone who gave life to the stories of Black trans folks, with dignity, long before so many others did?

Monica Roberts did it for herself, her community and all Black people. What a gift @TransGriot gave us all.

— Charlene been gone for a while, over on bsky now (@CharleneCac) October 8, 2020

And while she was the first in many ways, she knew she came from a lineage. The name of her blog refers to the West African griots, who were oral storytellers, historians, and cultural leaders. She memorialized Black trans women before anyone else would.

Trans lives wouldn’t be taken as seriously as they are today without Monica’s tireless work — work she often did without compensation or recognition. It wasn’t until years later that organizations began showering her with awards.

When she accepted GLAAD’s Special Recognition Award in 2016, she told the story of a young Black transfeminine child named Trinity who she had met just a few months prior. Monica wrote an open letter to Trinity telling her that “she, too, could be a leader in our community — and she has a proud legacy of Black trans leaders to emulate like Marsha P. Johnson and countless others.” Trinity responded in an email written by her mother: “Miss Monica showed me my history, now I’m going to make my own.”

Now, so many young Black trans people can look to Monica Roberts as an ancestor. Every trans journalist is indebted to the space Monica has carved out for us. Every trans person owes Monica a great deal for forcing the world to see us in our unmistakable worth.

What I’ll remember most about her is her unshakable faith in her impact. We begin to honor her by never being modest about our own significance. She saw the beauty and value in herself, and it allowed her to see the beauty and value in us. Monica documented much of our history. And now, she’s the one being memorialized by local papers in Houston and national publications. She is the history. She’s a part of us. We will never forget.

What This Trans Survivor Wants J.K. Rowling to Know

I told myself I wouldn’t write this article. There’s enough vitriol against trans people in the world. I didn’t want to give more energy to the “toxicity,” as J.K. Rowling has dubbed it. There are so many beautiful stories about trans people that deserve attention.

And then I remembered the Sunday I spent in bed reading the last installment of the Harry Potter saga. I was a twelve-year-old queer sissy who spent much of my adolescence wondering why the world was such a hostile place for me. I drifted into novels as an oasis. For many years, Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger felt like my only real friends. I was a snobby know-it-all, just like Hermione.

Now, as an adult trans woman, a survivor of violence, someone who’s worked in the sex industry — many of which are identities named in J.K. Rowling’s letter defending sentiments that have been called transphobic — I still feel a responsibility to stories.

My life is a trans story in the making, as are the lives of my trans sisters. And to let the ignorance of a celebrity author fuel violence against me and my people under the guise of feminism isn’t acceptable. This is about me honoring my childhood self, the me who didn’t have a protector.

One of J.K. Rowling’s original tweets that stirred up a response from trans activists and allies.

Rowling and I actually have much in common, our commitment to stories being one. We care about the state of women. We think about the world future generations will inherit. We work to change the material conditions that lead to violence.

And yet, the difference between us is which stories Rowling and I choose to fixate upon.

The primary narrative emphasized throughout Rowling’s controversial words is the fear that welcoming trans women into cis women’s spaces will invite violence. Rowling admits that she believes the majority of trans women to be unproblematic, but that the potential of violence alone is enough to reconsider expanding women’s spaces. This scenario, removed from context, could draw fear out of anyone. Violence against women is terrifyingly commonplace. And it’s been normalized to the point where Donald Trump was still elected after the world listened to a recording of him encouraging people to assault women.

And yet, the scenario of men harming women is very different from the scenario of trans women harming cis women. One has become part of the fabric of our society. It’s the reason why almost every parent of a young girl is hypervigilant — because violence against women is expected all across the world. The other scenario is an incredible anomaly, which has yet to have any backing. To use a hypothesis with no evidence and suggest that policies be made around it is absurd. Pushing a hypothesis that actually counters reality indicates that there may be biases at play.

Rowling conflates the two scenarios — she says that men who enter women’s shelters posing as women will use the opportunity to commit violence. What this does is reinforce the message that trans women are indiscernible from men with an ulterior motive, posing as women. This is not an apolitical statement. The brutality inflicted on women continues unabated because our society implicitly has made it acceptable. We hear it in the victim-blaming language, in the way women are made to feel ashamed of what they were doing to provoke an assault. Similarly, trans people are subject to cruelty because false narratives make it seem like trans people are a threat — by spreading myths of the menacing trans person, violence against trans people in the form of physical or legislative attacks could be framed as protective measures rather than bigotry. This is evident in the trans panic defense that allows murderers to receive more lenient sentences by claiming they were in shock after learning an intimate partner was trans: they position themselves as victims to the sinister, deceiving trans person.

Our personal sentiments influence the culture of society and the policies that govern us. In fact, the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development recently proposed a rule that allows homeless shelters to discriminate against trans women. In the proposal, the government itself admits that there is zero evidence suggesting such a proposal is necessary because there have been no known cases of trans women posing danger to other women. There is evidence, however, indicating that trans people are the ones that are more likely to be victims of violence.

The widespread fear of men posing as women in public spaces is a relatively new phenomenon. It wasn’t until trans people received unprecedented visibility in North America and Europe that people began voicing concern. It’s become a topic of discussion for every parent, schoolteacher, athlete, activist, and more. But what isn’t new is trans people.

Trans people in fact have been living among us since the beginning of time. Trans people weren’t always struggling to be accepted. Our stories weren’t always dramatized on television. Violence against us wasn’t always a weekly news story.

This is the story I want all of us to focus on: that trans people have been shamans, priestesses, teachers, healers, and cultural leaders for generations. And we still are.

And for the amount of time we’ve been wielding our magic, with or without the public’s knowledge, there hasn’t been the fear of violence from us until the modern day. In fact, trans people are more likely to be the ones enduring violence — that’s another thing Rowling and I agree on. There is much evidence indicating that trans people are terrorized starting in early childhood and throughout our lives. So why is that well-meaning feminists seem to focus on us as assailants rather than survivors?

The story we choose to fixate upon holds meaning. It’s a political decision, even if we don’t know it.

Amber Harrell (left) and Jessica Fowler were reported by NPR as being charged with sexual battery and second-degree kidnapping of a trans woman in the bathroom of a North Carolina bar in 2019.

The reason why trans people have been among us all along, but have had to blend in seamlessly in our times is to avoid the very violence that Rowling fears. Among us trans women, we know that if we’re public about who we are, people call us “men in dresses.” We lose loved ones, suffer abuse by doctors, endure assault by civilians, and are left to die in prisons. There are many more trans people in the world than people even know. It’s likely that Rowling has encountered many of us without her knowledge. In fact, she could have easily run into me on the street, without it crossing her mind at all what genitals I might have. She might wash her hands beside me in a public restroom and not think twice.

While many cis women enter a women’s bathroom with the simple intent to pee, I walk in a women’s bathroom with my chest tight, my stomach clenched, because I am waiting for what feels like the inevitable moment that a cis woman thinks I’m a man who’s pretending. I have prepared to defend myself against the cis woman who, unbeknownst to her, has the same fear in her heart as I do. We are mirrors to one another.

We are survivors, sometimes stumbling through trauma, not recognizing when we might be doing harm, ourselves. I have deep empathy for Joanne Rowling. And I have witnessed what happens when survivors tap into that empathy and create wondrous stories of triumph and friendship. Those are the stories Joanne has written for people like me.

Now is the moment we must reflect on which stories we’ll choose to emphasize. I tend to like the ones with happy endings. And in that story, cis and trans women alike remember that we’re stronger when there’s space for all of us to express our unique magical abilities, when we’re not stifling one another. But when we proliferate the stories that are not based in reality, that actually increase harm for those already at high risk of harm, it’s time to reassess. Spreading narratives that undermine trans women’s well-being does not make cis women more safe; it just makes all women more fearful. If our ultimate goal is to protect women, we should be fostering solidarity among us, so we protect one another, rather than emphasizing unfounded ideas.

Maybe the reason why so many people have a combative reaction to hearing Rowling’s words is because they’ve spent their lives in pain, or because they’ve watched their trans loved ones in pain. Maybe we’d be able to discuss all of this with more generosity of spirit if all of us weren’t so used to protecting ourselves from each other.

As a trans survivor, I want to propose to you, Joanne, that we focus on the right stories, the ones that solve violence rather than unintentionally reinforcing them. What if we pooled our efforts collectively at transforming the circumstances that lead to violence? What if we were so committed to protecting one another that assailants were deterred altogether from doing harm because they knew they’d lose to fierce resistance? What if we didn’t have to protect women in the homeless shelter, because the shelter was empty? What if those women were instead in loving homes where they didn’t live in danger?

The founders circle of House of Tulip, a housing initiative building permanent housing solutions for trans people in New Orleans, with Yves Mathieu. Via their Instagram.

That’s something we both want. That’s a world that is possible when we give our energy to the stories that transform, the ones that are born from our childlike inclination towards abundance and expansiveness rather than our fear of what we don’t know. That’s the world survivors deserve.

What if the woman who intended to attack me in the bathroom saw the fear in my eyes and realized that we’re both incredibly tired of being wary of peril at every turn? What if we acknowledged each other as mirror images, even with distinct lived experiences? What if we turned our focus towards addressing that fear and recognized that, in the case that a threat presents itself, it’d be much easier for the two of us to take it on together than alone?

Trans Love in Pandemic Times

Since the COVID-19 pandemic began, many people were left with odd circumstances surrounding their love lives. While some had relationships jumpstart through a quarantine with a new partner, others felt the weight of the crisis exacerbate the issues they already had with an existing partner.

Many publications have reported on the landscape of romantic pursuits in the time of the coronavirus. None have captured the beauty of trans love in particular. Trans people had already been experiencing issues finding partners who affirmed our whole selves. Many trans people find ourselves placating cisgender partners, attempting to perform according to the limited script laid out by popular media. Many of us experience violence at the hands of intimate partners.

And some of us find love in other trans people. Our hearts find a new kind of warmth. Love without a blueprint leaves room for unknown possibilities. I spoke to seven trans people about how the pandemic has changed their relationships and how trans love has changed their lives.

Malaya and Lotus 

From left: Lotus and Malaya.

Malaya: Our relationship began as a long-distance online friendship as we were still learning about each other and getting to know each other. When NYC first began responding to the pandemic, and millions of New Yorkers were preparing for lockdown/shelter-in-place, one of my darkest fears was if I were to get sick with COVID, and not having anyone to help me or be with me in the hospital. As a person living with HIV I felt extremely vulnerable and I was afraid of dying alone. There were days and weeks that I felt sadness, loneliness, and hopelessness at levels I have never felt before. My depression and anxiety continued to get worse. Over time, having someone to text with & check in with more and more over time was very comforting. Lotus was so emotionally supportive and virtually present for me when many of my friends and family weren’t able to provide support to me. I’ve never felt so loved and cared for by anyone else before. Lotus is the man I have always dreamed of finding and more. I have been reflecting on the heartbreak, sadness, and disappointment from when I was looking for love in all the wrong places; mostly with cis men who were not capable of loving me in the ways that I wanted and needed. I’ve never been in love with another trans person before. My favorite moments so far have been: waking up to his kisses and cuddles in the morning, laying in his bed together watching the trees outside his window dance in the wind, and listening to the birds singing.

Lotus: These pandemics have invited more tenderness into our relationship. Before I asked Malaya to be my girlfriend, I prayed and asked myself and my ancestors if I was ready and able to treat her like the Queen that she is. With so many things that are uncertain in our lives, I am letting go of giving and receiving Maybe’s. I am at peace arriving into our relationship with the certainty that Yes, I can treat Malaya like the Queen she is. I shower her with roses with every opportunity that I can. I cherish her and, especially now, every moment we share together. To love and be loved by Malaya feels like the first time I floated on my back in a body of water. As I took a deep breath and surrendered to the immense power and calm of the ocean, I was lifted and held. When I close my eyes and connect with our love, I feel the ocean wash over me and harmonize with the fire inside of me. I see the sunsets that we have shared together. I see into the future, Malaya in my motherland, Việt Nam. During these times of crises, to love and be loved by Malaya feels like nothing is impossible. The future is infinite, and everything will be alright.

Mickaela, Desi, and Cris

The first photo depicts Desi and Mickaela. The second depicts Cris and Mickaela.

Desi: Mickaela and I were facing changes in our relationship with us moving in together for the first time a month prior to COVID-19. The effects of the global pandemic changed the ease of access to variety in our lives that wasn’t always related to our relationship. Coexisting during quarantine offered me an opportunity to gain a greater understanding of Mickaela as an individual, which gave me better insight on nurturing their spiritual growth, our relationship’s development, and the intimate space we share respectively. We carve out time for us by practicing yoga/meditations before bed, taking an occasional trip to Lake Alatoona to swim and picnic, hiking the local trails in our area, playing Naruto Shippuden/Soul Calibur V, watching anime, and creating recipes for infusions. The Black trans love Mickaela and I share and practice continually proves to me a world can exist beyond our current. I’ve always felt our connection weaved a pattern creating a cosmic link between us and our local trans and queer community and how we’re consciously keeping each other in our hearts and supporting one another as we venture this world. Loving Mickaela everyday is a conscious commitment that’s parallel to my beliefs and who I strive to be as a Black trans person devoted to protecting and upholding the livelihood of all Black people.

Cris: Mickaela and I were already long distance, so that COVID hasn’t changed that aspect of our relationship. What has changed is how often we’re able to see each other. We’ve experienced more virtually together, from yoga sessions, to mindfulness circles for BIPOC folks, to virtual poetry readings, we’ve done a lot. While it hasn’t been great to have to go longer without seeing them, COVID has been a push for us to go deeper into our conversations so that we can continue growing even when we’re apart for longer than we had ever planned. COVID has also made the time we are able to spend together in person, like when we traveled to North Carolina to visit beaches in June, that much more special, important, and cherished. I can say my love and appreciation for Mickaela has grown more than I could’ve imagined during this time. I visualize us truly living out Black joy and liberation when I think of our love. To be Black, queer, and trans and loving another Black queer trans person is wealth. When I think of my love for Mickaela, I feel at home and at peace. When I’m with them and even when I’m talking to them, my body relaxes so much that I sometimes forget that we’re living through a pandemic. Trans love allows me to envision a world where every trans person is able to live a life of pleasure and access to whatever they desire. If we can find love with each other, in a world aimed at making our lives more difficult because we don’t prescribe to social gender norms, we can do anything.

Mickaela: Desi and I moved into a house together in February, and barely a month later decided to quarantine together. We had been dating for a year and had no idea we’d be getting to know each other in a crash course Professor Rona intimacy training. Desi suggested protecting our quality time by scheduling a “golden hour” each week, just for us to check-in with each other about our relationship. Structure and certainty with partners forces us to slow down, smell the roses, and water them as needed. And since Cris and I are long-distance, we spent all Spring scheduling virtual hangouts, watching “Insecure” at the same time, and talking every day.  However, video conferences are not a virtual substitute for human touch. I cherish the memory of us lying on a different beach each day, melanin soaking in sun, eyes and ears on the ocean waves. We were often the only Black people on the beach, often the only people wearing masks. Still, we found some summer fun even though the shadow of uprisings loomed over our cities back home. Black rest is necessary for Black unrest.

I feel safest knowing that I am loved and protected by two Black trans partners. My partners and I are unearthing the exciting possibilities of love that doesn’t rely on monogamy for security, support, and satisfaction. My partners and I share visions of the world we want, where Black joy and trans liberation replace police & prisons. I feel supported dating two Black trans partners because they are willing to be transformed in the service of the work by organizing in Black-led political homes like SnapCo & BYP100. I envision a future sitting around a large dinner table with our families and boo thangs laughing about living through 2020 and glad we fought for the right to grow old together. I feel warmth in my chest remembering that window of time right before COVID-19. Cris, Desi, and I were watching the original “Candyman” in my room, and I realized how blessed I am to be loved by my boifriend and my boyfriend.

Nico and Asa

Nico: Our relationship started out long distance so we’re quite literally the closest we’ve ever been and maybe we’ll ever be! Yet I get the sense that we’re not just learning about what closeness is or can be (the daily social reproduction things of maintaining a home together) but the totality of separation. Two people, in love: our own subjectivities; discourse of love;  dependencies; unconscious hopes, dreams, wishes, fantasies; separating into work; into analysis or therapy; and of course separating into sleep. I love love. I love being in love. I love to be the subject of love! Hell I even love being the object of love! I love bodies in love! I love surgery, I love organs, I love stitching together and making meaning in and out of love.

Asa: It’s hard to write and speak about love even when you write and speak about it all the time. Nico and I have moved through multiple waves of writing and speaking. We are both speakers and listeners, which is foundational to our love and our relationship, we used to talk on the phone for three or four hours, each in separate places. We are learning how to be separate and together. We have been navigating infrastructural rupture and collapse, contamination and loss, uprising, work and work stoppage, surgery and recovery, mania and depression, the end of a therapy and the beginning of an analysis, material difference; deep fears, projections, insecurities, disappointments, wishes. I am learning and growing so much, it can feel enormous. I am re-learning trust. How support is sometimes uncomfortable and challenging. Learning again how to listen and speak. I have felt held and throttled, and am grateful that we’ve been able to hold and throttle each other. I am excited to visit the place where Nico is from and to meet her grandmother, I have fantasies about what that will feel like in my body, to be there together.

Principles of Pride: We Owe Our Lives to Trans Elders Like Ceyenne Doroshow

As part of our No Justice, No Pride programming, our trans subject editor Xoai Pham has curated a four-part series called the Principles of Pride. The series unpacks the foundational values that clear a path forward for the LGBTQ movement, values that would make our ancestors proud. This is the fourth in this series; you can read the first three here. 

“At any moment you could be put into isolation because someone was having a bad day. You could be beat up because the [corrections officer] is having a bad day. Your life is in other people’s hands,” Ceyenne Doroshow tells me while recounting her time incarcerated for thirty days.

She’s taking time out of her day off work to speak to me about her lifetime of service to marginalized communities. Just yesterday, she had attended an event in support of her friends donning high heels. “I’m so sore! I can’t wear heels all day and be okay like I used to.”

A quiet day was rare for Ceyenne growing up. Much like her experience in jail, Ceyenne’s childhood was regularly defined by those around her. Her parents were not supportive of her gender expression. She was sent to all kinds of psychologists and religious leaders who repeatedly reinforced the message that there was something wrong with her. At one point, she was forced to live with a minister’s family so he could attempt to fix her. “I felt the pressure of their shame… There were no terms for transgender. All of the slurs that could be fed by a parent — I got them all.”

Ceyenne fantasized about suicide regularly as a young person because she felt there was no way out of the hell she was living in. That desperate need to escape led her to run away many times. She lived on the streets, where she’d meet people who became the family she needed.

“I kept running away because I felt safer. I felt at peace. Even though I was homeless and had all the elements against me, I felt safer out there than I did at home,” she remembers.

She experienced homelessness sporadically all throughout her teenage years. Even before she became an adult in the eyes of the law, she had lived through so many of the circumstances and statistics that advocates regularly cite when describing the plight of Black trans women. Ceyenne’s life illustrates the trap that Black trans women are born into — a web of violence from family members, institutions, and government agencies that confines a person into a cycle of neglect and abuse.

Since the ongoing uprisings for Black lives began in May, Black trans people have declared their frustration with how they’ve been sidelined despite how much violence they face. Moreover, many Black trans activists have shed light on how Black trans activists’ commitment to all Black lives is rarely reciprocated back to them.

After the deaths of Tony McDade, Riah Milton, and Dominique “Rem’mie” Fells, the frustrations had reached a boiling point. A march was organized for Black trans lives in Brooklyn on June 14th, where Ceyenne was a featured speaker.

“For every girl that died, the police should be ashamed of themselves. For every time we had to bury one of ours, they need to be ashamed of themselves.”

“For every girl that died, the police should be ashamed of themselves. For every time we had to bury one of ours, they need to be ashamed of themselves,” Ceyenne said to a historic crowd of about 15,000 people. Many have noted that this was the largest turnout they’ve ever seen for Black trans lives. At the march, Ceyenne was able to announce that the organization she founded — GLITS, Inc. — had almost reached their goal of raising one million dollars to buy property to house Black trans women, especially those who were exiting prison and with nowhere to go. She has since met her goal. She signed the papers for a building with twelve units on June 18th.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Ceyenne Doroshow (@doroshow)

A million dollars is no small sum, and it all started with a dream that Ceyenne had for Black trans people to be able to take ownership of their lives. She has become the parent that she desperately wanted as a child. She is imagining futures that so many thought impossible. Like so many of the Black and Brown trans women who organized the first rally and march that became what we know as Pride, she is building a world from scratch because she was given nothing. As a hostile government continues to encourage discrimination against trans people, even reinterpreting laws in the latest attempt to sever trans people from their healthcare, Ceyenne is doing what mothers should do: protecting their children from harm. 

Ceyenne’s advocacy reminds us precisely why abolition of the police and prisons is not only possible, but absolutely logical. If billions of dollars went into Ceyenne’s dreams rather than police departments, we’d all be much better off.

While many people grow up being taught to view the police as heroes saving neighborhoods from violence, Black trans people and sex workers have long seen the cops as the origin of violence, itself. “Keeping prisons the way they are is the worst thing, but you throw policing into that — the people that bring us to jail? So many times I’ve heard of girls who’ve been molested or raped while being arrested… and nobody is doing nothing about it,” Ceyenne reminds us. Earlier this month, a new video was released depicting the moments before Layleen Polanco died of a seizure while in the custody of Rikers Island jail. In those last crucial moments that determined whether she’d live, corrections officers are seen on video laughing among themselves.

As the movement to defund police continues to evolve, we must look to Ceyenne as the answer to where we could be without police and prisons. She makes the criminal justice system obsolete through her work to save her people. She reminds us that trans elders have always been caring for our community without the need for police. She reminds us that we already have within ourselves what we need to protect and care for one another.

She reminds us that trans elders have always been caring for our community without the need for police. She reminds us that we already have within ourselves what we need to protect and care for one another.

As trans people who are so accustomed to losing our chosen family before they become elders, Ceyenne is setting a blueprint for what it means to live fiercely and claim a stake on your life. Because of her advocacy, more of us will be able to grow into the elders that we see in her.

I ask her, “Twenty years from now, how would you like your ideal day to start?”

She smiles immediately and says, “Music.” She chooses “Deliver Me” by Le’Andria Johnson as her morning song: So I’m speaking for all of you listening / Starting here, starting now / The things that hurt you in the past won’t control your future / Starting now, this is a new day.

Artwork by Glori Tuitt. You can follow her on Instagram at @glorifice_ and Twitter at @glorituitt.

On Juneteenth, Heed the Calls of Black Trans Freedom Fighters

Feature photo of Joshua Allen can be found on their Instagram. More images from the recent Brooklyn Liberation March for Black Trans Lives can be found here.

Earlier this month, on June 4th, Joshua Allen was out protesting the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Tony McDade — in addition to the centuries-long destruction of Black communities at the hands of the U.S. government. Joshua is a Black trans femme and a community organizer, artist, and public speaker who’s been devoting their life to Black liberation since they were a teenager.

Now, as more and more Black people’s murders are gaining visibility though they’ve always been happening, Joshua is once again protesting and fighting for their people. Joined by their friend Mani Chirse, a Black transmasculine person, they went out knowing that the New York Police Department was out for blood. Moreover, the police were actively preventing people from being able to make it home before the curfew, which now now been lifted, in order to make more arrests. As Mani noted, “I can still picture a woman along with her son crying to go home, as she repeats ‘I live up the street, I just want to take my baby home.’ The police officers did not care, she was trapped along with the rest of us.”

Joshua and Mani were arrested that day. While they joined the protest together, they were separated by police. Joshua explained the imminent danger they were in simply for demanding justice for their people: “I feared that they would take us a roundabout way to the detention center and beat us up while our hands were tied. I was afraid I’d be pepper sprayed with my hands tied behind my back and I wouldn’t be able to breathe.”

Meanwhile, Mani had to make a split decision: maintain their gender identity as a transmasculine person or go with the women on a bus to a Queens County detention center. Many urged him to temporarily identify as a woman so as not to be split up from the group of protesters with whom he had gathered. But he maintained his truth, instead. These high-stakes decisions are not something that cisgender protesters have to endure.

While detained, Joshua was placed in a men’s cell. At each stage of the night, from protesting to being arrested and detained, their safety was at risk — but their life was especially in danger as a transfeminine person detained among mostly men. And that is something the cops would have known.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Joshua Allen (@joshuaobawole)

We know that Black people are targeted for criminalization and incarceration, as an extension of chattel slavery. Even our laws, the 13th amendment of the constitution specifically, indicates that slavery is abolished except when it applies to incarcerated people. For Black trans women and transfeminine people, there is the additional violence of being regularly placed in men’s units, putting them at risk for assault from staff and other incarcerated people. “A lot of people told me they were worried about me being placed in the wrong cell, but quite frankly if I were in the men’s, women’s, or an individual cell, it would still just be a cage,” Joshua reminds us. “It’s no place for a young person trying to make the world a better place at all.”

Joshua had to strategize their safety within the detention center. They looked to others detained alongside them for help, asking them to watch over them while they napped. The police were randomly selecting detainees to brutalize them before throwing them back inside their cells.

While Joshua and Mani narrowly escaped those beatings, they were left with bruises and lacerations on their wrists. They were able to return home thirteen hours later in the morning. Victims of brutality at the New York protests have since filed a lawsuit against the NYPD.

A week later, Joshua was among the speakers at the Brooklyn Liberation March on June 14th. They were among other Black trans leaders — including Raquel Willis, Ceyenne Doroshow, and Junior Mintt — who had a central message: Black lives will not matter until Black trans lives matter. Standing at the mic, Joshua galvanized a crowd of 15,000 people, shouting: “BLACK TRANS POWER MATTERS.”

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Joshua Allen (@joshuaobawole)

Many trans leaders have reported that this crowd is the largest that’s ever shown out for Black trans people. “It may be the largest gathering for trans rights overall in American history,” said journalist Imara Jones to Democracy Now.

Joining Joshua at the mic was Ianne Fields Stewart, the founder of the Okra Project, an initiative to feed Black trans people experiencing food insecurity. Reflecting on the unique struggles of Black trans people, Ianne explained the following: “The greatest violence that Black trans people face from every side is the violence of silence. Our people are brutalized and forgotten about or even worse, buried under names or truths we never claimed.” Like Ianne and Josh, leaders have challenged the Movement for Black Lives to heed the calls for placing Black trans people at the center of Black liberation.

The insistence that Black trans lives must matter comes after the deaths of Tony McDade at the hands of police, along with Dominique “Rem’mie” Fells and Riah Milton who were killed by civilians. Black trans people are not only in the crosshairs of violence by police but also by the general public. Earlier this week, the case of Tete Gulley was reopened; it was originally ruled a suicide a year ago, but only now is it receiving more attention as a potential lynching. Tete’s name is resurfacing in media as it’s tied to articles reporting on the deaths of Robert Fuller and Malcolm Harsch, who died under the same circumstances.

The impact of Black trans leaders has reached even Dr. Angela Y. Davis, the prolific Black feminist freedom fighter and scholar. She said during an event organized by Dream Defenders that “Black trans women constitute the target of racist violence more consistently than any other community — we’re talking about state violence, we’re talking about individual violence, stranger violence, intimate violence. So if we want to develop an intersectional perspective, the trans community is showing us the way… I don’t think we’d be where we are today encouraging ever larger numbers of people to think within an abolitionist frame had not the trans community taught us that it is possible to effectively challenge that which is considered the very foundation of our sense of normalcy. If it is possible to challenge the gender binary, then we can certainly effectively resist prisons, jails, and police.”

“I don’t think we’d be where we are today encouraging ever larger numbers of people to think within an abolitionist frame had not the trans community taught us that it is possible to effectively challenge that which is considered the very foundation of our sense of normalcy.”

For many years, Black women and Black trans leaders have been pushing for a defunding of the police and abolition of police and prisons as a whole. Many have also reminded us that abolition is a demand that helps us return to the roots of Pride, as an uprising against police brutality towards trans people and sex workers.

As the movement to #DefundPolice continues to gain traction, we cannot forget those who’ve paved the way for abolition to be the central demand of this uprising, especially because abolition is a means of survival for them. We must remember that Black trans people, Black women, Black migrants, and Black sex workers experience the very kind of harm from police that people expect the police to solve — murder, trafficking, and sexual assault.

On this day in 1865, commemorated as Juneteenth, Black people in Texas were told they were free from slavery. This day honors the freedom that Black organizers have been cultivating for many years. It’s fitting then that we, especially non-Black folks who all benefit from the liberation work of Black folks, recommit to freedom for Black trans people who’ve been waiting far too long.

This day honors the freedom that Black organizers have been cultivating for many years. It’s fitting then that we, especially non-Black folks who all benefit from the liberation work of Black folks, recommit to freedom for Black trans people who’ve been waiting far too long.

Ianne Fields Stewart describes a feeling that many share: “Many of the visions that I have for our future… are large dreams that I never thought I would see in my lifetime.” It’s time to bring Black trans dreams into reality in our lifetime. We all owe it to the visionary Black trans people who, as Dr. Angela Y. Davis illuminates, have been building us up to the current moment.

Abolition requires that we not only reinvest dollars spent on police and prisons into community infrastructure like healthcare, education, housing, and more. It also requires us to invest in our shared humanity. Police and prisons by nature strip the humanity of those who are victims to their grip, but they also foster a culture where we are encouraged to make inhumane decisions — like choosing to allow police and prisons to torture and end people’s lives. Abolition requires that we demand our collective humanity by unlearning the values — like transphobia, misogyny, anti-Blackness, and the convergence of all three — that make us complicit in the deaths of Black trans women especially.

Despite the ongoing assaults on Black trans lives, Joshua Allen reminds us that “Black trans people historically have been some of the world’s greatest contributors to social, political, and economic movements around the globe and this uprising is no different. By utilizing art, direct action, media, grassroots fundraising, and leading the cultural conversation, Black trans people have been making vital contributions to our movements for justice. It is for this reason that they must be resourced, to sustain this important work!”

On Juneteenth, donate and follow Black trans-led initiatives to ensure the well-being and liberation of Black trans communities:

• Black Excellence Collective
• The Okra Project
• For the Gworls
• Black Trans Femmes in the Arts Collective
• Black Trans Travel Fund
• Black Trans Media
• Black Trans Circles
• Black LGBTQIA+ Migrant Project
• Black Visions Collective
• Black Trans Prayer Book
• GLITS, Inc.
• Trans Justice Funding Project
• TGI Justice Project
• Brave Space Alliance
• BreakOUT
• Solutions Not Punishment

Showing Up For Black People Is a Duty, Not a Transaction

George Floyd was murdered on May 25, 2020, and we stand in unequivocal support of the protests and uprisings that have swept the US since that day, and against the unconscionable violence of the police and US state. We can’t continue with business as usual. We will be celebrating Pride as an uprising. This month, Autostraddle is focusing on content related to this struggle, the fight against white supremacy and the fight for Black lives and Black futures. Instead, we’re publishing and re-highlighting work by and for Black queer and trans folks speaking to their experiences living under white supremacy and the carceral state, and work calling white people to material action.

My life wouldn’t be what it is without Black people.

I am a Vietnamese trans woman. Without the Civil Rights Act of 1964, there wouldn’t be laws protecting my family from discrimination (though these laws are unequally enforced). Protesting the war in Southeast Asia, Black activists called out the hypocrisy of the U.S. government for claiming to free Vietnamese people while Black and Indigenous people were being murdered by both police and the public. My family wouldn’t even be in the United States without the advocacy of Black activists who fought for Southeast Asian refugees to be admitted into the country.

During the same period as the anti-war demonstrations, Black trans women were among those who famously rose up against police brutality after years of abuse, leading to the Compton Cafeteria riots in San Francisco and the Stonewall riots in New York City. Black and brown trans women subsequently launched the first Pride march, which sought justice for sex workers and incarcerated trans and queer people. Their actions laid the foundation for the LGBTQ movement. While the abuse of trans communities continues, their rebellion helped establish more resources for descendants of their legacy.

In more ways than one, my life as a trans child of refugees was made better because Black people chose to fight for freedom. But I don’t fight for Black lives simply because Black people have fought for me.

In more ways than one, my life as a trans child of refugees was made better because Black people chose to fight for freedom. But I don’t fight for Black lives simply because Black people have fought for me.

I choose to defend Black life because Black life is under attack. I defend Black life because Black people deserve to be safe, at the very least. Because Philonise Floyd should not have to mourn his brother, George. Because Breonna Taylor should have been blowing out birthday candles last week with her mother, Tamika Palmer. Because Wanda McDade should not have to be raising money for her son, Tony’s, funeral.

We shouldn’t need a personal incentive to show up. We should be there for Black people simply because of their centuries-long mistreatment that continues unabated today.

For many non-Black people, knowledge of what Black people have done for the world is scarce. We were raised in a system that deliberately downplays or omits the contributions of Black people. Many children grow up listening to music that originated from Black communities — almost every genre of American music had foundations in Black artistry. I went to public schools that wouldn’t have been desegregated without the work of Black movements.

We must educate each other about the countless ways Black people have transformed the arts, science, culture, and the law, itself. But we can’t do that without grounding ourselves in the simple truth that our care for Black people must be unconditional.

Our solidarity should be unanimous and absolute, without an explanation about what Black people contributed to our communities. Solidarity is not a transaction. Compassion should not be given only when we receive something in return.

Our solidarity should be unanimous and absolute, without an explanation about what Black people contributed to our communities. Solidarity is not a transaction. Compassion should not be given only when we receive something in return.

Conservatives have discredited protesters as violent looters and criminals, even while there have been reports of white supremacists hijacking protests, destroying property to frame the protesters — and the police actions that preceded these protests are far more violent and criminal. There are people committed to suggesting Black people don’t deserve the international acknowledgment they’re receiving.

Among progressive circles, people have shed light on the relationship between Black people and other communities of color as a call for unity. It’s true, Black people have devoted themselves to the struggles of all kinds of people, from Central American farmworkers to the fishermen of New Orleans, from Palestinian refugees to Puerto Rican revolutionaries. But when we share messages of our connection to Black struggles without rooting ourselves in unequivocal support for Black people’s right to live, we unintentionally make our support transactional. We end up creating conditions for why Black communities are worthy of our support.

While different from the anti-looting messages, narratives of Black worthiness diminish the value of solidarity: they communicate the idea that Black people are only worthy of defense because they have given us something.

In a country hellbent on individualism, unconditional solidarity is something we’re trained not to believe in. During our ongoing pandemic, the government blames the U.S. death toll on individuals’ health, rather than the canyon-sized gaps in the healthcare system.

We must work against the grain and shift our approach to solidarity, so we can begin to shift our culture, too. We should be able to rely on one another to hold up our dignity for no reason at all, being able to trust the interdependence among us.

Solidarity easily becomes conditional when a transaction is at play. The movement for Black lives has shifted the status quo to the point where people saw how much they’d lose by staying silent — in their reputations and their businesses. Corporations examined the transaction in front of them and saw that there was more to gain in speaking up on issues they would have been uninterested in prior. They knew this was their chance to rack up their diversity points and clean up their track record. We can’t operate like businesses that only act in their own best interest rather than in the service of a better world.

People are beginning to see their connection to Black communities, but they have yet to understand their stake in Black trans lives.

One question Black trans activists have been asking is why there hasn’t been due solidarity to the police murder of Tony McDade, a Black trans man killed in Tallahassee, Florida the same week of George Floyd’s death. Much of the public doesn’t even know Tony McDade’s name. Black trans deaths remain forgotten except in the margins of society.

People are beginning to see their connection to Black communities, but they have yet to understand their stake in Black trans lives. They have yet to learn what Black trans people have done for their people. The result is selective empathy. Real commitment to Black lives requires us to consider why we’re fighting and for whom. When our commitment hinges upon our own perceptions of what Black people contributed to our community, it becomes about us. Our support centers around our feelings and our history.

When our solidarity is about us, we fall into the harmful cycle of momentary outrage, wherein people speak out to join the momentum of the masses. When our solidarity is about our compassion for others, there is no rhetoric required, no convincing words shared with those who are on the fence. Our solidarity becomes about the undeniable humanity of Black people — all Black people.

It’s true that our liberation is connected as human beings. As many have stated, all lives can’t matter until Black lives matter. But it’s time we ask ourselves: if our liberation weren’t intertwined, if your well-being weren’t tied to that of Black people, would you still defend Black life? The answer to that question should tell you where your work lies.

Asian Communities Must Desert the American Empire and Protect Black Lives

George Floyd was murdered on May 25, 2020, and we stand in unequivocal support of the protests and uprisings that have swept the US since that day, and against the unconscionable violence of the police and US state. We can’t continue with business as usual, which includes celebrating Pride. This week, Autostraddle is suspending our regular schedule to focus on content related to this struggle, the fight against white supremacy and the fight for Black lives and Black futures. Instead, we’re publishing and re-highlighting work by and for Black queer and trans folks speaking to their experiences living under white supremacy and the carceral state, and work calling white people to material action.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CAq5ILsgZG8/

As documented by Vienna Rye on Instagram, Angela Davis reminds us that anti-Black violence is not a singular event. It is actively produced with malice by the white nationalist state.

A Small Needful Fact by Ross Gay. Ross Gay’s poem lovingly remembers Eric Garner, who was killed in 2014. Like George Floyd, Eric Garner was murdered by the police by choking, and the hashtag #ICantBreathe subsequently went viral.

Addendum (6/1/20): This article originally did not include the unique experience of Hmong people during the war in Southeast Asia. Hmong people have historically been oppressed by Southeast Asian governments, which continues today. The U.S. Army leveraged this dynamic to hire Hmong communities to fight alongside American soldiers, using incentives like schooling, since education was not something that was afforded to Hmong people. Now, the U.S. government is ramping up deportations of the Hmong diaspora back to Southeast Asia. They are being deported from one hostile country to another.

Like Aimee Stephens, We Await the Justice We Deserve

Aimee Stephens holding her cat with a slight smile. Photo by Charles William Kelly / ACLU.

By now, you may have heard news that Aimee Stephens has passed. It was just last weekend that a crowdfund was created for her end-of-life care.

For the past few weeks, my colleagues and I at Transgender Law Center have been monitoring Supreme Court decisions for the verdict on the case that brought Aimee national attention. She was fired from a job in 2013, after announcing her gender transition.

I didn’t know Aimee Stephens personally. Still, I sobbed into the sleeve of my jacket. The result of her case would be coming any day now. The timing of death felt like an injustice in itself: she was once again being robbed of her dignity. Aimee died before ever knowing the results of her case. She died before knowing whether she had obtained justice. She died without witnessing how she could have set a precedent for trans people like her, like me.

Before Aimee Stephens’ experience with discrimination was brought to the highest court in the land, she was a funeral director. She helped guide the ceremonies that put our souls to rest. She helped families process grief. Her line of work was the bridge between life and death; she oversaw the final days spent separating a soul from a body.

Now it’s our turn to collectively mourn Aimee, as she had done for so many families before.

Grief is something trans people know too well. Only a few days pass between murders and attacks on trans lives. Just this month, we lost Nina Pop and Helle Jae O’Regan. Yet, despite how often our community mourns, our grief rarely finds peace. When we die, our name and gender is slandered. We are remembered not as ourselves, but as a mere projection—the person we are in the imagination of those who wouldn’t accept us. We are shut out of the funerals of our loved ones; in the eyes of hateful family members. we might taint their legacies.

It’s not just her death that is a tragedy—it’s that she had been waiting for the justice that trans people almost never receive. The tragedy lies in the fact that I would have never known Aimee Stephens’ name if she hadn’t fought the discrimination she experienced. The tragedy lies in the fact that even with Aimee’s hardships, her experience is being treated with more care and attention than most trans people receive. So many of us die before we ever see our dignity reflected back to us.

Aimee’s case must embolden us to show up for the trans people whose names are forgotten, whose experiences will never be acknowledged nationally. We must commit to ending the anti-Blackness that fuels racist institutions who set up Black trans women for a life of abuse and neglect. We have to channel our resources into the Indigenous trans and two-spirit communities that are continuing to lose their land to both colonizers and climate change. We have to free the trans migrants that languish in prisons with no one to turn to. Justice for Aimee is interlocked with justice for all of us.

The case she brought before the Supreme Court was not just about her. If the Supreme Court ruled in her favor, the decision would determine that all LGBTQ Americans are indeed protected under the Civil Rights Act of 1964. It would cement the precedent that would safeguard us in all future discrimination cases. But what’s even more important than the legal precedent is the need for trans lives to be affirmed as worthy of protection from harm, not just within the courts but within our culture. Our well-being cannot be carelessly threatened, as it is every day.

Because Aimee died too soon, we wait for this decision as if we are her. We continue living in a world where our lifespans are deliberately cut short. And we fight for a world where we don’t have to wait any longer—when justice is finally here.