belliboneone re-blog on transgender vulnerability

Remembering our Dead, February 2018

 

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Earlier today I received a call from a dear friend, another transgender woman. Some weeks back, two trans women she knew went missing. Their bodies were recently found and have now been identified.

THIS is what happens to people like me in this country based on hatred and violence.

THIS is what happens to people like me in this country where it is just fine to treat my existence as a joke.

THIS is what happens to people like me in a world where I am not entitled to dignity, where my most profound inner experience of who I am is blithely brushed aside as a whim or a lifestyle choice.

THIS is what happens to people like me when my life has no value whatsoever.

We wind up murdered in garbage bags.

You want to know why the real murder rate of trans women is much, much higher than the numbers cited on Days of Remembrance? Look no further.

One of the victims, who was also very definitely a trans woman, was identified by the police and the press as a man and called by her dead name, which I refuse to write here. They are using an old picture of her, one that was probably provided by her family.

I imagine that her family is insisting on the misgendering and the use of  her dead name and the use of an image she would have found profoundly abhorrent in ways that cisgender people can never understand.

I suppose her family won in the end.

Even in death she is not allowed to be who she was. The friend who called me, who has good reason not to trust her relatives, says she is going to burn the remaining pictures she has from her old life.

I have a request. If I am murdered, please let me be me.

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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2 Responses to belliboneone re-blog on transgender vulnerability

  1. bethanyk says:

    Oh these poor souls who had no one to protect their honor to be who they were born to be. Discarded by a society that thinks normal is victoria’s secret half naked anorexic women on billboards and yet judges a woman for nursing her baby in public or a transgender women friend of mine using the same bathroom as me. Disgraceful is a lot of what I see and not a lot of grace

    Like

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