Two hundred and thirty-eight people, that we know of, have been reported to have been killed this year for no reason other than that they were trans.
That we know of. That were actually reported. That we heard of.
Are you tired of it yet?
I said some things this day last year, and I don’t think I can better them today- it’s the same damn thing, just two hundred and thirty-eight more people killed because they existed. Because they were trans. Mainly, because they were trans and poor and women and POC, because as a society we sure do like to add insult to injury. Twenty of those people- again, that we know of- were minors. Kids.
I’ve got nothin’. I’m tired of it. Here’s a thing from last year:
Like most of us, I’ve said goodbye to people I love over the years. They’ve died in different circumstances. Some after long years of illness. Some after short months or weeks. Some expected, some unexpected. Some peacefully, some in pain. The loss of every single one of them tore- and tears- my heart apart. But there’s one thing that is common to every one of them that I will always take comfort from. Every one of them died knowing that they were dearly loved. Everything that we could do to ease their suffering was done. They didn’t want for a hand to hold. They were cherished as they died.
Nobody can tell how each of us will end our lives. But that one simple thing- that in our last moments we know that we are loved and cherished, and that if there is any way to ease our suffering it will be done- is something that we can hope for everyone we care for. It’s the one thing that we can do.
Too many of our trans* community are denied that.
So every year on November 20th we gather and we take time to remember the trans* people who didn’t make it this far. Whose last moments were hatred, violence, contempt. Whose deaths were nothing but sport for those for whom their lives meant less than nothing. The latest victims in our wars of privilege and oppression. The overwhelming numbers of, in particular, poor trans* women of colour, caught in the crossfire of too many intersections of hate. We gather together in the cold. Send short-lived, brightly burning lights into the darkness.
And every year I hold my loved ones closer.
Are you tired of it yet? Are you tired of this?