I'm spending today in a bit of a funk. Trans Day of Remembrance is always a hard day for me, because I just can't stop thinking about it. I think most holidays are about celebrating something,...
I'm spending today in a bit of a funk. Trans Day of Remembrance is always a hard day for me, because I just can't stop thinking about it. I think most holidays are about celebrating something, right? Christmas, Thanksgiving, they're about family, community, life, joy. Labour Day celebrates the successes of labour movements, even if there's more to be done; Memorial Day is dedicated to fallen soldiers, but in the American ethos there's this vibe that 'it was all worth it, so we can grill our hamburgers in peace and freedom' even if in reality many of those soldiers died for the gas powering your grill more than any high-minded ideal. But what is there to celebrate today? Highlighting the names of dead and murdered trans people is important, I guess, because maybe it can lend some meaning to their sensless deaths at the hands of unyielding systems and radicalized bigots, but I can't help but think, "what about all the trans people who can never be remembered?"
I tried to kill myself a half-dozen times even before I came out as a woman. What if I had succeed? What if no one had ever known me as I really am, as a relatively happy and fulfilled person? And I've made it so much farther than so many trans people, often kids, who find that hiding themselves, or even suicide, is preferable to exposing themselves to the maelstrom of hate awaiting them if they leave the closet. Who's going to remember them? Hundreds, thousands of nameless people who only saw a world that despised them and who are not here anymore? How do you mourn when there are so many new victims, when you can't even know their names? Beyond the fear of genocide, the exposure to bigotry, the lost childhood, the self-hatred, this is, for me, the real pain of transness: a constant sense of loss; the inescapable knowledge that so many people who feel the same pain I do will never find the cure, will never be allowed happiness because of the family they were born to or the government they live under. So, for today, in lieu of remembering them, I try to remember that.
I mourn with you. And I'm so happy you're still here, even if I'm just a random internet stranger voicing support. I wasn't alive, but I imagine that this pain is not dissimilar to the pain during...
I mourn with you. And I'm so happy you're still here, even if I'm just a random internet stranger voicing support.
I wasn't alive, but I imagine that this pain is not dissimilar to the pain during the AIDS crisis - a government turning its back, families turning their backs, people afraid to even touch others who were sick and give comfort. Queer and trans folks survived by building community, being family for each other and working to let it not happen again.
I try to be that family for my trans students, my closeted students, my students so in fear of family finding out their pronouns at school that they take 9 months to trust me. I try to pass it on.
I'm spending today in a bit of a funk. Trans Day of Remembrance is always a hard day for me, because I just can't stop thinking about it. I think most holidays are about celebrating something, right? Christmas, Thanksgiving, they're about family, community, life, joy. Labour Day celebrates the successes of labour movements, even if there's more to be done; Memorial Day is dedicated to fallen soldiers, but in the American ethos there's this vibe that 'it was all worth it, so we can grill our hamburgers in peace and freedom' even if in reality many of those soldiers died for the gas powering your grill more than any high-minded ideal. But what is there to celebrate today? Highlighting the names of dead and murdered trans people is important, I guess, because maybe it can lend some meaning to their sensless deaths at the hands of unyielding systems and radicalized bigots, but I can't help but think, "what about all the trans people who can never be remembered?"
I tried to kill myself a half-dozen times even before I came out as a woman. What if I had succeed? What if no one had ever known me as I really am, as a relatively happy and fulfilled person? And I've made it so much farther than so many trans people, often kids, who find that hiding themselves, or even suicide, is preferable to exposing themselves to the maelstrom of hate awaiting them if they leave the closet. Who's going to remember them? Hundreds, thousands of nameless people who only saw a world that despised them and who are not here anymore? How do you mourn when there are so many new victims, when you can't even know their names? Beyond the fear of genocide, the exposure to bigotry, the lost childhood, the self-hatred, this is, for me, the real pain of transness: a constant sense of loss; the inescapable knowledge that so many people who feel the same pain I do will never find the cure, will never be allowed happiness because of the family they were born to or the government they live under. So, for today, in lieu of remembering them, I try to remember that.
I mourn with you. And I'm so happy you're still here, even if I'm just a random internet stranger voicing support.
I wasn't alive, but I imagine that this pain is not dissimilar to the pain during the AIDS crisis - a government turning its back, families turning their backs, people afraid to even touch others who were sick and give comfort. Queer and trans folks survived by building community, being family for each other and working to let it not happen again.
I try to be that family for my trans students, my closeted students, my students so in fear of family finding out their pronouns at school that they take 9 months to trust me. I try to pass it on.
💜 If you need to talk, I'm an ear