There is Freedom in Truth
“First, I must confess that over the last few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Council-er or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I can’t agree with your methods of direct action;” who paternalistically feels he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by the myth of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait until a “more convenient season.”
Shallow understanding from people of goodwill is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.” — Martin Luther King Jr., Letter from a Birmingham Jail, 16 April 1963
Growing up, I felt like there was this unspoken understanding. Like some panel I didn’t know about got together, decided a few things for me and I had no say in the situation. Everyone and everything I saw reinforced these expectations. It was a self-fulfilling cycle. As someone with lighter skin, I was told I was white; as someone who was born in a male body, I was told that I was a man. I’ve been grouped and labeled my whole life. Somehow, still, I have rarely felt truly accepted.
So, I stand before you today as merely myself. And I can no longer be silent.
Our lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans and queer family are being murdered. And I. Will. Not. Stand for it.
I write this from the booth of a friendly local establishment in emotional disarray. I am ashamed of myself. Today, I saw violence and I did nothing to stop it.
The incident occurred near the end of a well-known community forum. Of all places, we were in a church. A panel had been convened to bring dialogue regarding the experiences of LGBTQ+ people of color to an audience of older folks. The panelists spoke of the discrimination they experience and the violence others have endured. Audience members asked questions and listened. I was moved to tears as a Black elder shared their story of being labeled “peculiar” and sexually molested by aunts and uncles.
And, then, before the program was over, the microphone was handed to a church member for a closing prayer. As they began to pray, I heard: “hate the sin … but I love you.” Some words were unclear, but others could not be ignored. This person spoke of “being with the devil” and “coming back to god.” And, everyone was silent.
Then, from the back of the room a young Black woman raised her voice. “Shame on you,” she began and she didn’t stop there. Refusing to be silenced she chided those in attendance.
Two days earlier, I stood amongst a throng. A group of trans and differently identified folks packed a room for Trans Day of Remembrance, a tradition started in 1999 to recognize Rita Hester, a 35-year-old trans woman who was stabbed and killed in a Boston suburb. I stood silently and listened to the names of at least twenty-two people — most of them young Black women — taken from us by hate and violence, just in the U.S., just this year.
These people died because someone else did not like who they were.
Because just being themselves was too “threatening.”
And, so, someone took their life.
As the forum ended in confusion, attendees began to whisper about what had just happened. Some were very much in agreement with the young woman who spoke, saying groups must not only invite and involve LGBTQ+ folks but be more sensitive, and listen more closely. Particularly considering the emotional labor and stress that can be heaped on people with non-normalized identities. One woman said it shouldn’t have happened but added that there was “disrespect on both sides.” And others gathered outside talking about how the prayer was meant to “unite us.” One of those in the group compared gay, lesbian and trans people to drug addicts. Yet another older woman declared that when the young woman interrupted the prayer she was “doing the same thing they accuse us of doing.”
“Death is not always quick and those who wish to kill us do not always use a knife.”
The accusation that we do not adequately listen is patently false. The difference is my words do not invalidate your existence. I am expressing my truth. I am not demanding that you feel, or behave, the same. I am simply asking that you honor my life.
Instead, folks continue to make assumptions. The insinuation is that, somehow, we are not our true selves and, with some “tough love,” can return to who we were. Personally, I have just begun my journey of discovery, and there is much of which I am unsure. However, the one thing I can tell you for certain is that I do not wish to go back.
These words — and other speech — have been used over and over again to dehumanize and deny peoples’ lived experience. To “other” people who some folks can’t bear to look at, because they might be forced to ask, or answer, questions we have ignored for too long. It is these same words that justify the violence against us.
Simply put: we are not who you think we are.
We are beautiful. We are bold. We are magical. And, yes, many of us have been deeply wounded. Though we may be young, we have seen and experienced much. We write. We dance. We paint. We sing and make music.
THIS. IS. WHO. WE. ARE. And who we are is healing.
Rita Hester’s killer stabbed her twenty times. Twenty times.
When a Black trans woman on the panel was asked why, every day, she chooses to live in her truth, she answered plainly: “for me, the alternative is death.”
This piece was originally published Nov. 24, 2019