My Day Of Remembrance...
This really ought to be backdated, but screw it.
I can't tell you her name, or the details of her story. She was sitting in the chair, slumped over, exhausted, staring at her hands. On each wrist was a six-inch bandage. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely a whisper. Her skin was much paler than it should have been, and her eyes had been burned red by hot tears. On any other night, she would have been cheerful, strong, laughing. Tonight, she was just the near side of the grave.
The skin of her wrists will heal, given time. I hope her spirit will knit as well. Two years ago, she was living on the street. Now she's fighting her way to a GED and also starting a halfway group for trans people like herself, to give them a chance to transition both out of the trap of their gender and of the gutters. I admire her enormously, and so do many other people.
She has more than just transsexuality to wrestle with, but being transsexual makes it easier to ignore her, to write her off as "just nuts," rather than ask her "Are you okay, dude?" She might not die as we often do under hostile fists, but she nearly died at her own hand.
The Transgender Day Of Remembrance on November 20th is held each year to mark the year's dead, those taken by violence. I find it agonizing that someone so vital, so strong and valuable and even emulable, was almost lost. How many others like her might there be who we almost had to light candles for this year? Will they avoid the list next year?
I hugged her desperately, trying to squeeze love and strength into her, enough to see her through the week. "I'm at the end of my rope," she whispered. "I have no strength left to climb back up, and I'm so scared I'm gonna fall off!" With tears in my eyes, I said "All you need is the strength to hold the rope and call for help, hon, like you have. " Her best friend squeezed her shoulders from the other side and said, "And we'll haul you up. " Everyone in the room nodded solemnly, with a tangible and unwavering intent.
No more candles. Not when we can prevent it. No more mourning.
I can't tell you her name, or the details of her story. She was sitting in the chair, slumped over, exhausted, staring at her hands. On each wrist was a six-inch bandage. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely a whisper. Her skin was much paler than it should have been, and her eyes had been burned red by hot tears. On any other night, she would have been cheerful, strong, laughing. Tonight, she was just the near side of the grave.
The skin of her wrists will heal, given time. I hope her spirit will knit as well. Two years ago, she was living on the street. Now she's fighting her way to a GED and also starting a halfway group for trans people like herself, to give them a chance to transition both out of the trap of their gender and of the gutters. I admire her enormously, and so do many other people.
She has more than just transsexuality to wrestle with, but being transsexual makes it easier to ignore her, to write her off as "just nuts," rather than ask her "Are you okay, dude?" She might not die as we often do under hostile fists, but she nearly died at her own hand.
The Transgender Day Of Remembrance on November 20th is held each year to mark the year's dead, those taken by violence. I find it agonizing that someone so vital, so strong and valuable and even emulable, was almost lost. How many others like her might there be who we almost had to light candles for this year? Will they avoid the list next year?
I hugged her desperately, trying to squeeze love and strength into her, enough to see her through the week. "I'm at the end of my rope," she whispered. "I have no strength left to climb back up, and I'm so scared I'm gonna fall off!" With tears in my eyes, I said "All you need is the strength to hold the rope and call for help, hon, like you have. " Her best friend squeezed her shoulders from the other side and said, "And we'll haul you up. " Everyone in the room nodded solemnly, with a tangible and unwavering intent.
No more candles. Not when we can prevent it. No more mourning.