She loved to shop and made fashion and hair trends her own

Anjali Enjeti

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Nov 20, 2019 · 5 min read

Dana Martin was a movie fanatic. She was interested in a wide range of genres but gravitated toward dramas and thrillers. Her all-time favorite film was Tyler Perry’s Temptations: Confessions of a Marriage Counselor, a 2013 release about a therapist facing enormous consequences for her infidelity. Misery, the 1990 film based on the Stephen King novel of the same name, was another movie in Dana’s rotation of favorites. So was 2002’s Enough, starring Jennifer Lopez. A fan of edge-of-your-seat suspense, Dana was intrigued by the gravity of what women wrestle with in movies, as well as the redemptive spirit of others.

Dana’s regular film companion was her best friend, Cruz Burnett. The two met in 2007 and hung out almost every day. They shared a nearly identical taste in movies. “We watched Misery one thousand times,” he says. Dana and Cruz trekked to the local theater together sometimes. But more often than not, they’d watch movies at Cruz’s home in Montgomery, Alabama, not far from the suburb of Hope Hull, where Dana resided with her parents.

Though Dana loved her screen time, shopping was also a favorite pastime. At malls, she’d enlist Cruz’s help to assist in her purchasing decisions. “Dress me up like I’m your Barbie doll,” she would tell him. Dana loved to dress sexy. A white Apple Bottom–brand dress was among her favorite outfits. She also liked to experiment with different hairstyles — she’d don green wigs and blonde wigs — especially when she went out with friends.

She made trends her own to stand out from the crowd. About once a month, Dana and Cruz would drive two and a half hours to Cumberland Mall, on the northwest side of Atlanta.

Looking good was important to Dana. But so was feeling good and being active. She loved taking walks and exercising at the gym—anything to help her maintain her figure and nourish her well-being. Her fitness also came with feasts. “We went out to eat a lot,” Cruz says. O’Charley’s is where she typically ordered ribs, and other times she would hit up Outback Steakhouse and Texas Roadhouse, where she always ordered steak. Those were her favorites.

Over time, Dana grew close to Cruz’s family in Greenville, Alabama, and would tag along on trips when Cruz went home to visit them. “She got along with my whole family — my mother, my sisters, my aunts,” he says. “They all liked Dana.”

Dana didn’t just open up to anyone — she needed to get to know a person before she called them a friend. But when she did extend her friendship, she did so with her whole heart, recalls her friend Stasha Nicole. She and Dana first met in 2008 through a mutual friend at the Rose Supper Club, a local club that set aside the first Monday of every month for the LGBTQIA+ community. (The club eventually closed in 2013.) “We had a lot of fun together,” says Stasha, a licensed cosmetologist and freelance DJ.

One thing Stasha admired most about Dana was her work ethic. In the six years before her death, Dana was employed by Wind Creek Casino in Montgomery. She started out in customer service and eventually moved to maintenance. “She worked a lot and loved her job,” Stasha says. “She worked the night shift and had a good, strong work ethic.”

When Dana did extend her friendship, she did so with her whole heart.

What Stasha appreciated most about Dana was her laid-back nature and the easy way she fell into conversations. Though Dana didn’t have a large network of friends, she was very social and had a tight-knit group of friends.

Stasha has many fun memories of Dana, but her favorites are from the trips they took together with mutual friends to celebrate one another’s birthdays. “We went to Miami for my birthday in 2012. That was a favorite trip,” Stasha says. Their group of friends also traveled to Atlanta; Jacksonville, Florida; New York City; and New Orleans.

Though Dana was content with her job at the casino, she hoped to move away from Alabama. She set her eyes on Texas as a possible destination. She also wanted to become a model, according to Stasha. Dana entered a few model searches in Montgomery, but none of them panned out. She also hoped to get married someday, though she knew she didn’t want any children.

Dana’s life took a horrific turn three years before her death. She was shot in the head in 2015, losing sight in one eye. According to her friends, it took a long time for her to recover physically and to work through the trauma. The shooting “dampened her spirit,” Stasha says. “She wasn’t the same. She wasn’t as outgoing. It took Dana a while before she tried to get back herself again.” Her friends, including Cruz and Stasha, rallied to help take care of her.

And then the unthinkable happened. Dana was shot again, fatally this time, on January 6, one month shy of her 32nd birthday. Her body was discovered in her car on the side of the road in Montgomery. The Montgomery Police Department is investigating her death as a homicide. Further details are unknown.

Dana’s presence is missed. Cruz remembers Dana’s visits to his hair salon to keep him company while he worked. Even when Cruz worked late hours, Dana would stay until it was time to close up. “When I needed her, for whatever reason, she was there for me. Whether my car was broken or if I was having man problems,” he says.

For Cruz, Dana represented the epitome of a true friend. “If you needed her, she was there,” he says. “And if she considered you her friend, she was yours.”

She’d spend hours talking, cooking, and listening to gospel music

TatshaRobertson

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Nov 20, 2019 · 6 min read

When Adrianne Brown remembers her friend Jazzaline Ware, she can’t help but recall their phone calls. On Sundays, they had a particular routine. Jazzy, as she was affectionately known, would play gospel music while both of them talked, cleaned, and cooked in their respective homes. “Jazzy might just get the Holy Ghost and start speaking in tongues,’’ Adrianne says. “It was all genuine. She was very spiritual. A lot of Transgender women aren’t into church because of how the church treated them, but Jazzaline loved God. They said she was born with a veil over her eyes. When it comes to church, there was no scams, no schemes—only God.”

The phone was also used to indicate what mood Jazzaline was in. “We would spend hours listening to ‘I Gotta Find Peace of Mind’ by Lauryn Hill and ‘If’ by Destiny’s Child. When I called her and heard one of those songs on the answering machine, I knew she was in her feelings and to leave her alone,” Adrianne says. “She would put that song on her voicemail. That would be the intro, and then a long, drawn-out message. She’d say she doesn’t want to talk, but she has caller ID.”

The last time Adrianne spoke to Jazzaline, who was found dead in her Memphis apartment in March, it was Adrianne who couldn’t talk. Adrianne was attending to birthday party responsibilities for her son, who was turning two years old.

“Chance, my son, was born with a heart defect. Jazzy was one of the first people to raise money for my baby,” she says.

That Saturday, 34-year-old Jazzaline kept calling Adrianne, who was too busy to talk. “I knew something was wrong when I realized Jazzy had been calling all day long,” she says.

They spoke for a few minutes, and Adrianne promised to call her back.

But Adrianne couldn’t know that would be the last time they’d talk. “Usually she’d say, ‘Old fat bitch, call me back when your boyfriend gone,’ or something rude and funny,” she recalls. “But what haunts me the most is my friend called me and said, ‘Friend, call me back. I love you.’ I am proud of that part of it. Some people don’t get the opportunity to say ‘I love you.’”

Adrianne thought the calls were related to Jazzy’s beloved white poodle, but they weren’t. It turns out Jazzaline wasn’t feeling good; she couldn’t shake the feeling of being thirsty. She was worried and scared.

For weeks, Adrianne tried to get back in touch with her friend, but Jazzaline never returned her calls. Jazzaline was 34 when she died.

Another old friend, Kursandra Perkins, remembers the moment they became friends in high school. They met on a chat line long before Jazzaline transitioned. “I was 14,’’ Kursandra recalls. Jazzaline, who was about the same age, said she wanted to fight Kursandra. They decided to meet up at the local skating rink, but when they were face to face, Kursandra got a big surprise. Jazzaline had no interest in fighting. Instead, she told Kursandra that she just wanted to meet her and be friends. “That’s how we met,’’ Kursandra said.

Boys teased Jazzaline for being feminine. Kursandra protected her. When Jazzaline visited Kursandra in her neighborhood, she also looked out for Jazzaline. “[She] got teased by the guys. You know, dudes trying to fight [her]. [Jazzaline] wasn’t from the neighborhood I was from. The boys would say, ‘Get that punk away from me,’ and they would beat [her] up. You know how kids are, but that didn’t stop [Jazzaline] from coming to see me.”

“Jazzy was the type of person, no matter what people said or how they looked at her, she was still going to do what Jazz wanted to do.”

When Jazzaline came out as transgender, she never grew angry if someone called her by her birth name or by male pronouns, friends say. Although she preferred the pronoun “she,’’ Jazzaline knew who she was — a stylish brown beauty, stocky, with perfect teeth and a taste for the finer things in life, which is why Adrianne gave her the name Jazzaline.

“Jazzy was the type of person, no matter what people said or how they looked at her, she was still going to do what Jazz wanted to do,’’ Kursandra says. “She didn’t care about what people had to say or think. She loved fashion. She went to fashion school after high school, and she loved her Gucci bags, her Louis Vuitton bags. You couldn’t tell her nothing. She kept a nice house. She loved to have fun and check people.”

And she was filled with funny sayings. For example, when she didn’t like food someone served her, she’d say, “This is going to Mr. Can,” as in trash can.

Jazzaline didn’t finish fashion school in Chicago and struggled to make a real living, but friends like Adrianne say Jazzaline “was very street savvy and knew how to hustle up a coin.” She had recently started a new career as an eyelash technician. Kursandra says Jazzaline had gotten all her equipment but never had the chance to start up her home business. A black massage table and professional light fixture were set up in Jazzy’s apartment before she died.

The love of her life was her poodle, Bvlgari, whom she got in Chicago while in fashion school in 2006. “I wanted a dog so bad. It was the latest trend in fashion school. He has had his days of being Bossy blue, pink and every color you could think,’’ Jazzaline wrote in a Facebook post. The dog comforted her through the good and bad times. In 2014, Jazzaline was a victim of violence, Adrianne says. An acquaintance she met online robbed her of her minivan, iPhone, and Louis Vuitton bag while also shooting her in the leg. The man, who had been using a fake name and identity, was never arrested, but Jazzaline healed by leaning on Bvlgari.

“My lil baby is a soldier just like me, from various break ends, to every man that has walked in and out of my life, and moved state to state, coast to coast with me. At times, I look and say ‘damn lil baby must love me for real.’ Honestly this dog has taught me how to love,’’ Jazzaline wrote on Facebook. “Now he’s laying on my shot leg, rods, screws and all. He is so protective to be a poodle… Anybody who knows him knows he loves clothes and all just like me and he is a lil mean, but a sweet heart just like me.”

That day in March when Kursandra heard that her friend was dead, she waited outside the house for hours with other friends and family members as police searched the home. They prayed that at least Jazzaline’s beloved poodle was okay, but sadly, Bvlgari died too. The funeral program says Jazzaline died on March 25, but friends believe Jazzy had been dead in her home for weeks. Her death has been a mystery, though police were initially looking at it as a homicide. Jazzaline’s body was so decomposed when it was discovered that it was unclear how she died, according to an official at the Transgender Law Center. Repeated calls to the Memphis police department were not returned.

“Black trans women deserve to be supported and cared for while we’re alive.”

Friends believe foul play was involved, but Kayla Gore of the Transgender Law Center says the police believe Jazzaline may have died from natural causes.

“Black Trans women deserve to be supported and cared for while we’re alive. We face interpersonal and systemic violence that requires a community response,’’ Gore says. “All too often, people only pay attention when we’ve died.”

Friends still are not sure what really happened to Jazzaline. Kursandra says she’s heard almost nothing about her friend in the news. “I worry people are not concerned about what happened because of her lifestyle,” Kursandra says.

She found a way out of no way and was loved for it

Ashlee Marie Preston

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Nov 20, 2019 · 6 min read

Instead of practicing for her driver’s test, making plans for junior prom, or exploring universities to attend after her high school graduation, 16-year-old Ashanti Carmon was choosing authenticity over assimilation. At that tender age, Ashanti, brave and resolute, found herself resisting pressure to repress her gender expression.

She left home in order to become the woman she wanted to be.

The journey was difficult. Ashanti didn’t have much support in the way of family. Her mother was reportedly deceased and news reports later disclosed that she didn’t have a close relationship with her father. Others in her family drifted away from her for embracing her identity as a young Transgender woman.

But what Ashanti lost with her birth family at the age of 16, she found with her supportive chosen family by the time she turned 20, and later, as she approached 30, with a true love that sustained her.

“I would tell her ‘Girl you’re so pretty! You should be somewhere modeling or something,’ and she would just grin and laugh. That smile. It never changed. It was always the same.”

“Ashanti wasn’t on my caseload, but she would visit some of the girls at the drop-in center,” says Earline Budd, a case manager at HIPS, Helping Individual People Survive, a nonprofit organization that provides education, advocacy, and harm reduction resources for sex workers in the D.C. community.

Ashanti cared about the young girls at HIPS, says Earline, who describes Ashanti as “vibrant, young, and full of life.”

“She was beautiful and I used to always tell her that whenever she would come in,” says Earline. “I would tell her ‘Girl you’re so pretty! You should be somewhere modeling or something,’ and she would just grin and laugh. That smile. It never changed. It was always the same.”

That smile, back when she was 16, may have helped Ashanti find her friend Nialah Dash, who became the yin to her yang. As a teen living on her own, Ashanti eventually took to working on Eastern Avenue, a street on the border between northeast Washington, D.C., and Maryland, where many engage in sex work as a means to survive, according to the Washington Post. There, she found refuge among other disenfranchised Trans women as they worked the streets.

Ashanti and Nialah became inseparable, according to the Post. They even traveled together, and struggled together, to find affordable housing in a city known for its high rents. They grew up and grew older.

However, despite this friendship, and many others, Ashanti resolutely decided to take care of herself on her own terms. Ashanti worked at fast-food restaurants and other gigs but still sometimes returned to the streets to make ends meet.

“Ashanti was very independent and kept things to herself,” Ruby Corado, the founder of Casa Ruby, a Transgender organization and LGBTQ support center in Washington, D.C, tells ZORA. “I was upset when I learned Ashanti was looking for work. I wish she would have told me. She could have had a job at Casa Ruby.”

Even so, Ashanti tried to make it work by sticking with Nialah. “Some days we couldn’t pay for the room,” Nialah told the Post. “We were going through hard times because we didn’t know where we were going to live. We would sit together in the car and cry.”

The struggle of street life, paired with societal abandonment, finally began taking a toll on Ashanti. And that’s something Ruby intimately knows about. That’s why she is currently working on securing a building to create permanent housing for Trans women who share common housing circumstances with the teen.

“The housing vouchers the city provides don’t link to good housing,” she explains. “They put the girls in neighborhoods that are too dangerous, so good jobs are a better way to help.”

Despite her experiences in her formative years, Ashanti was described by close friend Donshia Predeoux as a beautiful, tall, jovial woman, with “a bright smile that would change the day you were having. She took every opportunity she could to lift up other girls.”

Donshia also recalls that occasionally, Ashanti reached out to her grandmother when she needed help. But getting help meant temporarily de-transitioning. Ashanti would have to wear a hat to cover her long hair and gloves to conceal her long, gel-polished nails — often embellished with glitter.

Outside of those fraught moments, the pair had fun.

“My most memorable time with Ashanti was when we went to Madame Tussauds wax museum, took pictures with all the actors, actresses, and singers, and pretended we were acting right along with them,” Donshia says.

And, when they had a bit of money to spend, they loved going to the beauty supply store to shop for hair. Donshia says Ashanti would always say, “Ma, I want my hair braided!”

While Ashanti sometimes received economic support from those who expected her to be who they wanted her to be, Ashanti’s social support came from community members and a special someone who would soon afford her the opportunity to experience a love she’d only dreamed of.

In 2013, sparks flew when a mutual friend introduced Ashanti to Phillip Williams. They fell in love. The Post reported that, in a Facebook status posted nearly two years later, Phillip professed his love for Ashanti, stating “it’s a good feeling for us because there’s someone out [there] for somebody.” More recently, Phillip spoke directly to Ashanti via a heartbreaking statement to WUSA-Ch.9, a Washington D.C., CBS affiliate: “I will love you forever.”

That love is what brought them to make a home together, even if it was sometimes hard to pay the bills. And those bills — and issues attaining a safe job with a livable income in the United States — are some of the biggest hurdles that Black Trans people have to deal with today.

Black Trans women tend to experience severe poverty disproportionate to other race and gender identities within the LGBTQ community at large. This is largely in part due to their experiences with transmisogynoir, which exists at the intersections of racism, sexism, and transphobia. According to a 2009 report released by the National LGBTQ Task Force, the National Black Justice Coalition, and the National Center for Transgender Equality, 34% of the participants reported their household income as being slightly under $10,000 per year. Therefore, it’s not uncommon for Trans people to resort to sex work to avoid falling back into the bottomless pit of poverty.

“She was there for her survival,” Donshia recalls.

But more than anything, Ashanti desired safety, stability, and an opportunity to realize aspirations for her life. One of her aspirations was to be married. In the words of her favorite Beyoncé song “Single Ladies,” “if you like it then you should’ve put a ring on it.” Phillip did exactly that. Phillip asked Ashanti for her hand in marriage a month before she was tragically murdered.

Phillip told the Post that life had become much more stable for Ashanti, who was recognized for her exemplary hard work at Dunkin’ and named employee of the month. Phillip said Ashanti only returned to Eastern Avenue to pull clients on the weekends to supplement their combined income.

Such work, everyone knew, was fraught with peril. Her friend Nialah had already said she’d been robbed at gunpoint multiple times. But Ashanti needed to make ends meet.

Still, she put personal relationships before the hustle and just the day before, Phillip and Ashanti had gone out to dinner and a movie before he went to work. Ashanti later hung out with friends.

Within 24 hours, the streets claimed Ashanti for their own. She was shot multiple times and pronounced dead on the scene in the 5000 block of Jost Street in Prince George’s County — not too far from the edges of Washington D.C. It was Saturday, March 30, just one day before the Transgender Day of Visibility. Her murder rocked the D.C. community and many were inconsolable. Police are still investigating.

Phillip, her fiance, strongly spoke out against the tragedy.

“Until I leave this earth, I’m going to continue on loving her in my heart, body, and soul,” Phillip said in this interview with NBC4 Washington out of Washington D.C. “She did not deserve to leave this earth so early, especially in the way that she went out. She did not deserve that.”

She authentically loved helping people, and often

Shar Jossell

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Nov 20, 2019 · 4 min read

Claire Legato was young, but she understood the beauty of harmony. Claire, who would’ve celebrated her 22nd birthday this month, is remembered by her friend Fred Hunt as a welcoming conciliator. “I’ve seen her be peaceful and calm in situations that called for violence. A lot of the times she was the peacekeeper, but [she] did not hesitate to voice her opinion whenever she felt it was necessary,” Fred says.

Claire’s equanimity made her a delight. So did the solace she offered others, especially in times of need. “Once you got to know her, she was basically that best friend you always wanted when you were growing up. When you were going through something, she knew how to make you feel better,” Fred says. “Let’s say you were going through something with your parents and they kicked you out, she’d let you stay at her house.”

Fred first met Claire four short years ago when he was new to the St. Clair-Superior neighborhood of Cleveland, where she lived. He emphasized how she loved helping people — regardless of circumstances — and how she helped to bring him out of his shell. “I used to be a really shy guy. I didn’t feel comfortable being myself around people because of how judgy people were,” he says. “After I met her, we talked a couple times on several different occasions about opening up to yourself, being true to yourself, regardless of who’s around.”

That was Claire. She brought comfort to those close to her.

Claire was a practical jokester too. She aimed her pranks at friends but managed to charm her way out of any hard feelings coming her way. “It was my brother’s birthday, and I was asleep. I was just very tired because I think I was [just] getting out of work,” says Dajeanna Williams, Claire’s godsister. “She came and woke me up. She kept waking me up playing like pulling the covers off of me like ‘get up! Get up! It’s his birthday, get up!’ and I just couldn’t get up, I was just so tired. The next thing I know, I got water thrown on me.” Dajeanna goes on to say that once she finally got up from her nap she couldn’t even be mad at Claire about the water. “She was just dancing and I just had to bust out laughing.”

Pranks aside, Claire had vast interests and aspirations that spanned from cosmetology to reality TV to music. She was a gifted musician who knew how to play the clarinet, keyboard, and violin, according to her godmother Frances K. Crenshaw. Claire, who graduated from Collinwood High School, was also a talented dancer.

“She wanted to pursue dance. She wanted to go on the road. She wanted to travel.”

“I was actually trying to encourage her to go back to school, and she was persistent in pursuing dance. She finished high school and I wanted her to go to college because I wanted her to pursue the music interests,” Frances says. “She wanted to pursue dance. She wanted to go on the road. She wanted to travel, so going back to school wasn’t of interest to her.”

Claire didn’t get a chance to go after her dreams.

In the early morning hours of April 15, Claire was admitted to University Hospitals with life-threatening injuries after being shot in the head. According to reports, an argument broke out between Claire’s mother and her mother’s boyfriend about stolen income tax checks. Police reports say Claire confronted her mother’s boyfriend and then he shot her in the head. Claire succumbed to her injuries and died nearly a month later on May 14.

The Cleveland Police Department’s homicide unit reports that 62-year-old John Charles Booth was originally charged with attempted felonious assault in connection with the shooting, but the County Court recently dismissed those charges. He’s likely to be reindicted with murder charges in the coming months, according to police.

Since Claire’s death, friends have described the tone of the community as shocked and heartbroken.

“Nobody would expect that to happen to her,” says Roseline Vah, a high school friend.

Though Claire isn’t here to bring comfort to those reeling from this loss, she left an indelible mark on her loved ones. “Since she’s been gone, I can honestly say everybody has come together,” Dajeanna says. “Closer than what people are usually like. Anybody who knew her, it affected them in some type of way.”

She showed up for them whenever she was needed

Shar Jossell

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Nov 20, 2019 · 7 min read

The act of showing up was Muhlaysia Booker’s love language. It was important to her to be present, exhibit kindness, and extend compassion to family and friends who were in distress.

When her childhood friend Jessica Anderson dealt with the loss of her father, Muhlaysia showed up for her friend. Muhlaysia, who didn’t have adequate transportation to get to the father’s wake, walked miles on foot to show up for Jessica and stand by her side in a time of grief.

Jessica remembers Muhlaysia not only for the times she showed up for her, but also for the times Muhlaysia was there for others.

“I know that’s cliche but it’s the honest truth. She was a great friend, and mother to her children [LGBTQ+ family],” Jessica says. “She made sure they were fed, had a place to lay their heads, and that they stayed looking gorgeous. She took care of her granny when she could.”

Throughout their lives together, Jessica had a penchant and a talent for makeup. She eventually did Muhlaysia’s makeup for Facebook livestream videos, where Muhlaysia would sometimes amass thousands of viewers at a time, according to Jessica.

De’Evon Irvin, who met Muhlaysia around four years ago and hung out at the club on weekends with her, says Muhlaysia’s presence matched her glam — always vibrant: “She loved hair and lashes. She loved to get her hair and nails done.”

Broadcast journalism was one of Muhlaysia’s primary interests, Jessica says. She hoped to one day pursue a career in it and hire Jessica to keep her camera-ready.

“She loved being on camera on talking, hence the FB Lives,” Jessica says. “I was supposed to be her official makeup artist when she made it.”

Those hopes ended when at just 22 years old, Muhlaysia’s life was tragically cut short after a whirlwind five weeks following a violent and viral video of her assault in Dallas. On the morning of May 18, officers responded to a shooting call near a Dallas area golf course where Muhlaysia was found dead on arrival due to a gunshot wound. It took officials a day to identify her because she had no identification on her.

In April, a video of Muhlaysia being assaulted by a group of men in the Oak Cliff neighborhood of Dallas went viral. Edward Dominic Thomas, 29, led the charge as bystanders watched. According to media reports, the brutal attack stemmed from a fender bender gone wrong. She reportedly suffered a broken wrist and concussion.

Amongst community members, it is widely believed that Muhlaysia’s Transness is what fueled the assailant and a mob of about several other men to beat her. They kicked and punched her in her face, head, and body while shouting homophobic slurs. The video circulated quickly and garnered mass public attention. For perhaps the first time, the general public had a front-row seat to the harsh realities endured by Black Trans women.

Following the assault and a brief stint in the hospital, Muhlaysia addressed the media at a press conference. “This time, I can stand before you, whereas in other scenarios, we are at a memorial,” she said. “This has been a rough week for myself, the Transgender community, and also the city of Dallas, but I want to sincerely thank all you guys for coming out. For your support and fairness. And just as I am overwhelmed by your presence, your donations in support of my Transgender family, and allies who want to see justice served in this case. I will remain strong with your support. Due to the impending criminal investigation, I will not have any further comments today except for gratitude.”

Mieko Hicks is one-third of the Dallas-based TransFusion Radio Show. She first met Muhlaysia through her friend and co-host, Robyn “Pocahontas” Crowe (who served as Muhlaysia’s grandmother in the “house” scene). Mieko admits that initially, she didn’t think that Muhlaysia liked her, but in the wake of Muhlaysia’s attack, they grew closer. “She was one of those girls who you actually had to get to know before she opens up to you, but she was sweet as pumpkin pie,” Mieko says.

Mieko says Muhlaysia wasn’t sure how to feel about the media attention at first. Muhlaysia quickly realized the power of her presence and her decision to speak up.

“She saw how people were rallying behind her, she was like ‘I’m glad that this is coming out. I’m glad that something is happening now.’”

“When she realized that this was happening and that her name was spreading around the world, at first she had reservations because she didn’t want to be a spectacle,” Mieko says. “But then when she saw how much people were rallying behind her, she was like ‘I’m glad that this is coming out. I’m glad that something is happening now. I didn’t think that anyone gave a shit, but now I see people actually care.’ Then she was ready to be a part of it, and then she was killed.”

According to De’Evon, Muhlaysia didn’t see herself as a Transgender activist.

“This is what was told to me, she didn’t want to go public with everything because she’s not a Transgender activist, she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. [And people] tried to get her stand up for the Transgender community and that put an eye on Muhlaysia. Everybody knows who she is. Everybody knows the situation of what happened.”

Muhlaysia did what she usually does. She showed up, publicly, for herself and her community. De’Evon says the assault didn’t stop Muhlaysia from living.

“Even after that video of her going through that, she was still out and she was still trying to live through that because that could’ve brought anybody down. Not only did you get jumped but it’s all over social media, celebrities have seen and shared it. That would affect anybody, but Muhlaysia is just very strong, and she really just tried to do her best,” he says.

In October, Thomas’ trial began for the assault of Muhlaysia. Muhlaysia’s assault was viewed as a hate crime, but gender identity is not protected under Texas’ hate crime legislation. Thomas was initially charged with felony aggravated assault, but it took jurors just four hours to hand down the conviction of the lesser charge of misdemeanor assault. Despite community efforts, and a seemingly understanding judge—he ruled that Muhlaysia should be referred to by her chosen name during the trial—many view the verdict as a miscarriage of justice.

Thomas was sentenced to 300 days in jail, including the time already served since his initial arrest.

And still, Muhlaysia’s loved ones must grapple with another trial: This time for her murder.

In June, Dallas police arrested and charged 34-year-old Kendrell Lavar Lyles in Muhlaysia’s murder. The Dallas Observer reported that an anonymous tipster led to the arrest, and Dallas officials say there’s no connection between Muhlaysia’s assault and her murder.

Since Muhlaysia’s passing, the tone of the Trans community in Texas has been described as somber, but resilient.

“It’s a lot of strong Trans women, so although we’re sad and we’re devastated by this happening, we definitely find strength in each other. We actually have gotten closer,” says Diamond Stylz, who didn’t know Muhlaysia personally but sits on the board for the Texas-based organizations Black Trans Women and the Black Trans Advocacy Coalition. “It used to be we would only see each other online and sometimes in the club, but we’re seeing each other more often and really, really trying to work hard and be in communication with each other and set up survival mechanisms within our community to survive. It’s really made us closer.”

De’Evon says he last saw Muhlaysia at the club just two weeks prior to her murder. “She walked up to me and she gave me a big hug and I just kept holding her. I really didn’t want to let her go,” he says. “I didn’t know what that moment was about but I know I didn’t really get a chance to talk to her about what had happened. We really just chopped it up and we laughed and kiki-ed like we always do, and she looked like she was in good spirits, like she was doing okay.”

Muhlaysia’s memory and her authenticity will live on through the foundation, and through everyone who loved her dearly.

In late August, Muhlaysia’s mother, Stephanie Houston, announced the creation of the Muhlaysia Booker Foundation. The foundation’s objectives are to provide housing, emotional support, advocacy, counseling, employment resources, and training for Trans women.

“It is most appropriate that I honor the legacy of my daughter by creating this foundation, which can help young women like Muhlaysia to feel loved, be safe and be greater. I have chosen to be proactive rather than reactive in helping to save these young women,” she said in the announcement. “The brutal assault and murder of my daughter will forever leave a hole in my heart, but it will also serve as motivation for myself and others to fight the current government agenda against Transgender women and the increasing acts of violence.”

Muhlaysia’s memory and her authenticity will live on through the foundation, and through everyone who loved her dearly.

“There’s never going to be another Muhlaysia. She really made a name for herself, and she stuck to how she was. She was real,” De’Evon says. “She didn’t sugarcoat nothing. She just brought everything to the table and either you liked it or you didn’t, but you were going to respect her. That’s why I loved Muhlaysia because she just kept it 100 all the way through.”

She had big plans to mentor the next generation of Black Trans women

Lori L Tharps

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Nov 20, 2019 · 5 min read

“Life is a gift, I accept it. Life is an adventure, I dare it. Life is a mystery, I’m unfolding it. Life is a puzzle, I’m solving it. Life is a game, I’m playing it. Life can be a struggle, I’m facing it. Life is beauty, I praise it. Life is an opportunity, I took it. Life is my mission, I’m fulfilling it.”

Michelle Tameka Washington posted that quote on her Facebook timeline in early 2013. She was 34 years old at the time. Nobody can know for sure if that quote was a reminder of a New Year’s resolution or simply something that caught her eye. But it seems like the mantra she followed for most of her life.

Michelle Tameka went by many names. Online, she was Michelle Simone. In professional spaces, she went by Michelle. Some friends referred to her as Ms. Tyra Banks because of her beauty. But to her close friends and loved ones, she was just Tameka.

Born and raised in Philadelphia, friends say Tameka was a regular girl next door who valued relationships with friends and family above all else. The eldest of three full siblings and a handful of half siblings, Tameka built families around her. She informally adopted those who needed guidance and was known to be a nurturing and caring individual.

“Tameka was all about coming together,” said Crystal Davis, her sister, at Tameka’s June 1 memorial service.

One of the ways Tameka connected with people was through humor. Friends say her ability to make folks laugh was one of her most distinct qualities.

“She loved being a prankster,” says Sharron L. Cooks, a friend who met Tameka when the two were teenagers. Sharron recalls a lifetime of laughs with Tameka, as could almost everyone else who shared personal stories about Tameka at her memorial service. In fact, laughter was heard far more frequently than crying during the service, as people shared stories about their life with their friend. Even if you didn’t know Tameka, an image was quickly painted in those services of a smart, strong-willed woman with a sharp tongue and quick wit. She was someone who knew how to have a good time, but at the end of the day, she also wanted those around her to be happy.

But there was more to Tameka than laughter. Like most people, she had her fair share of struggles and pain. It never appeared to stop her, though.

“[Tameka] was resilient,” says her friend Mikal Woods, who referred to Tameka as his “gay mother” while speaking at the memorial service. “She fell down many times, but she [always] got up.” What’s more, she was able to find a way to use her pain to help others. It was like she lived the mantra that nothing is a mistake as long as you learn something from it.

That’s how Amber Hikes sees things. The current chief equity and inclusion officer for the ACLU-New York City first met Tameka at the Office of LGBT Affairs for the City of Philadelphia in late 2018. At the time, Amber was the executive director there. Tameka reached out to Amber to see how she could be of service to the Trans community in Philly. From that point until her death in May 2019, Tameka worked with the Office of LGBT Affairs to learn how she could mentor young Trans women using her own life experiences as her guide.

“What was unique about Tameka is that she saw what we were doing and she already knew exactly how she wanted to plug in and what she had to contribute,” Amber says. “She was already a mother and an auntie to so many, and she wanted to extend that wisdom and expertise to the new generation of young Trans folks. She truly wanted to give back to her community and fill in the gaps that were missing.”

In her teens and twenties, however, Tameka “didn’t make her life about her gender identity. She just moved and navigated through life as the beautiful woman that she was,” Sharron says.

And that life was full of adventure and travel.

According to Sharron, Tameka always maintained a genuine love of learning and chasing new experiences. Though she called Philadelphia home, Tameka spent time living in San Diego, Las Vegas, and Dayton, Ohio, over the years. She was always motivated to learn new things and then share what she learned with her friends and family. Most recently, she was learning about and investing in cryptocurrencies, like bitcoin. She even started making YouTube videos about what she was learning about financial trends so she could share her knowledge and empower her friends and family.

Tameka was always sharing.

“[Tameka] would give [someone] the shirt off her back and walk home if need be,” said her friend Mikal. “I never saw her turn her back on nobody.” Even animals felt Tameka’s loving heart. An animal lover since childhood, Tameka had different pets, including birds she would “rescue” from the pet store. She would take the birds home and let them fly freely around the house. Eventually, she’d release them back into the world, because she said birds didn’t belong in cages.

“Tameka was a safe harbor for so many folks. That was her unique gift. She was going to find a way to bring up your spirits, to remind you that your darkest days aren’t your only days.”

On May 19, Tameka was gunned down on a North Philadelphia street. She was 40 years old. While some of the details about Tameka’s death are still unknown, both Amber and Sharron believe Tameka’s identity had little to do with the shooting. Just days after her death, a man named Troy Bailey was arrested for her murder. He eventually confessed to the killing, claiming the shooting was over a gun sale gone wrong.

“[Tameka] was a safe harbor for so many folks,” Amber says. “She was the person you could call to support you on your process. That was her unique gift. She was going to find a way to bring up your spirits, to remind you that your darkest days aren’t your only days.”

Surrounded by a supportive community, she always gave back

Emmanuelle Emani Love

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Nov 20, 2019 · 6 min read

Paris Cameron was a force — vibrant and full of energy. According to her loved ones, she was very sensitive, compassionate, protective, and loving. She loved to dance, cook, and study cosmetology. Paris also loved a good time. She would go to the club, frequenting the Woodward Bar & Grill, a bar in Detroit’s New Center district and a hub of Black gay and Trans culture.

Voguing was Paris’ jam. She vogued what is known in ballroom culture as Dramatics, which is a style of vogue that is very high energy and entails harder movement. Although she was not active in the ballroom community, there are clips of her appearances and battles on social media. “She was flying across the room ever since I taught her how to corkscrew,” according to Jordan Banks, Paris’ ex-lover and best friend.

Born on July 17, 1998, Paris grew up on the East Side of Detroit with her biological family. She attended East English Village Preparatory Academy and took dance classes there. She later graduated from Martin Luther King Jr. Senior High School in Detroit.

She was also a member of the Ruth Ellis Center, which is a community youth space dedicated to supporting at-risk, runaway, and homeless LGBTQ+ youth in southeastern Michigan. Paris and her close friends visited the center often to dance and enjoy each other’s company.

Paris was shot and killed on May 25. She was 20 years old. In the same incident, four other people were shot, including her comrades Alunte Davis and Timothy Blancher. Police arrested and charged then-18-year-old Devon Robinson with three counts of first-degree murder and two counts of assault with intent to murder. According to news reports and the prosecutor, Paris and her friends were targeted and murdered because “they were part of the LGBTQ community.” The killings sit at the intersection of cissexism, heterosexism, transphobia, and transmisogynoir. Paris’ family is still fighting for justice.

Paris lived with her ex-lover, Jordan Banks, and his mom, Patricia Sullivan, for a couple years. In an interview, they shared that she loved reality TV, like Bad Girls Club, RuPaul’s Drag Race, Black Ink Crew New York, and Little Women: Atlanta. She liked video games, especially Brawlhalla. They also shared that she was into cosmetology. “She was always changing her hair. She was very discontent without a new look,” Jordan says.

Jordan notes that “Paris was very sensitive, solitary, and [big-hearted]. She was unapologetic about anything and anyone she loved. The transition from her lover to her friend was easy. The love was always there, just the relationship looked different.”

He recalls that Paris yearned to be fully accepted by everyone in her biological family beyond her previous identity as a gay male. She wanted to have a family of her own.

Her immediate family loved her, but struggled with her Transness, in his recollection. “When she was with her family, everything was cool. They really only had an issue with Paris the woman… When she was a gay boy, they were fine. They loved her, but to her, their inability to accept her Transness didn’t translate as love,” Jordan says. “For her 21st birthday this year, she was supposed to go to Atlanta and start over as Paris. She had been talking about it and made up her mind that that was what she wanted to do.”

Patricia adds, “She was a sweet girl. She had a habit of leaving lashes in the bathroom, which got on all of our nerves. But other than that, I have no complaints. Between all of us living together, when one had it, we all had it [as far as socioeconomic resources were concerned].’’

Jordan says that Paris always had him listening to twerk music and Detroit rap. He knows some of Paris’ favorite songs and helped create a playlist for those who want to vogue and twerk in her memory.

“She taught all those she loved to have fun,” Jordan says. “I know she’s currently advocating for the legalization of twerking in heaven.”

Paris’ primary circle of chosen family included Amara Neal, her cousin Lemon Hudson, and numerous other young black LGBTQ+ Detroiters.

Amara, a known Trans activist in Detroit, says she and Paris were very close. “Paris, meant everything to me,” recalls Amara, who is still grieving the loss of her sister. “When I was going through something, I would call her, and when she was going through something, she would call me. Life is really empty without her.”

Amara goes on to say, “Paris taught me to love myself. I feel like I won’t ever have another friend like that. We had a regular friendship, but we also had the closeness of sisters. [This has been] the hardest [six months] of my life, [being] without her.

“Nobody understands what me and my girls [have] been through… It hurts me to this day that she was buried as a boy instead of as the girl I knew she was. Paris was energetic and loving. (That’s how we all are.) Paris was a real, bubbly person, very defensive of her friends, outrageously fun, and playful. All she wanted was for me to do the best that I could.”

“She was more than a person—she was a star, and no one can ever take that away from her. She was my best friend, the best sister, and, in my case, the best cousin a person could ask for.”

Despite the loss, the memories bring Amara comfort.

“We woke up kiking and went to sleep kiking!” she continues. “I remember when she first sprouted her hormone titty, she kept trying to go to the hospital because she thought something was wrong with her… I remember when we would vogue together, [we vogued until] our wigs would fall off and be cracking our heads on the wall. Paris was everything to us — a big piece of our circle is missing.”

Lemon also has fond memories of his cousin.

“She was more than a person—she was a star, and no one can ever take that away from her,” Lemon says. “She was my best friend, the best sister, and, in my case, the best cousin a person could ask for. She was so brave and very outspoken, but that’s what we loved about her. The loyalty runs so deep with her that everyone came to her for anything, and she didn’t hesitate to help them. She was the glue that held things together for so many people, mainly with her girls. She was beautiful inside and out and had the most lovely soul. She wasn’t scared to be herself and gave no fucks about what anyone thought or said about her. She lived in her truth!’’

On a personal note, I’m very grateful I get to uplift Black Trans narratives by telling Paris’ story. These anecdotes and quotes make it evident that Paris was authentic and consistent as a person. I remember the heavy wave of grief that blanketed our community when we found out about her murder. It was an intense blow to all of our hearts, not only because she was so powerful and so young, but because we loved her and because she loved us. #ParisCameronForever

Despite painful losses, she clung to her chosen family to stay focused on the future

Dara T. Mathis

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Nov 20, 2019 · 5 min read

At first, Chynal Lindsey was apprehensive about finding her birth family. “What if they don’t like me?” Hilliary Calhoun, a childhood friend, recalls Chynal saying. But anyone who knew Chynal would tell you she made it next to impossible not to like her. Her spirit pulled you into her light.

“Chynal was very adventurous, very fun, very loving,“ says Aamias Patterson, a member of her chosen family. Chynal embodied love because she was loved.

As a toddler, Chynal was adopted by Robert Louis Haslett and Beulah Simmons Haslett, an older couple who lived in the suburb of Chicago Heights, Illinois. The Hasletts doted on Chynal and her older brother, Demetrius. Hilliary remembers they gave Chynal “everything a kid ever wanted.”

In 2011, however, both of her adoptive parents died within months of each other. Just as Chynal — who attended Prairie State College in Chicago Heights to study computers but ultimately left the school — was about to embark on young adulthood, she had to bury her parents. “After Chynal’s parents died, we didn’t really have time to talk about [anything] in the future. She had to figure out how to survive,” Hilliary says.

Even as she dealt with the loss of her parents, Chynal was never without family. Her chosen LGBTQ family rallied behind her in support. Anthony Golden says he bonded with Chynal after her mother died because Anthony had also lost his grandmother a few years prior. Their matching honey-toned complexions and facial features led the family to call them twins.

A year later, Chynal invited members of her chosen family to live with her at the house on Bunker Street, sharing whatever she had with them — meals, money, space, and love. “None of us had real jobs,” Anthony says. “Some type of way, we always kept the lights on.”

They were all young — between 18 and 20 — and partied and found joy in their fellowship. They formed a tight-knit family that exists to this day. Older family members taught the younger ones about Black gay culture, social norms, and HIV prevention. “She basically raised me with the gay community,” explains Aamias, who considers himself Chynal’s “gay nephew.”

Despite deep misgivings, Chynal still wanted to connect with her biological kin. Hilliary suggested that she contact the adoption agency. Chynal balked at first, then initiated the months-long process with her friends’ encouragement.

Chynal invited members of her chosen family to live with her at the house on Bunker Street, sharing whatever she had with them — meals, money, space, and love.

In 2013, Chynal boarded a plane to Dallas with Hilliary to meet her biological family. Upon arrival, a birth cousin took them to see another cousin, Tamaya Seaphus, to whom Chynal would later become close.

The cousins traded family photos and anecdotes, filling each other in on the family tree. Chynal felt at home, at ease. The visit sparked an idea. Before returning to Chicago Heights, Chynal told Hilliary, “I think I want to move down here,” to get to know her long-lost family.

A few months later, she did.

Chynal’s decision to relocate was abrupt but characteristic of her free spirit and ability to plan on a whim. She had an endearing way of talking herself — and others — into spontaneous ideas. Like the time she forgot her wallet at home before skipping out of high school to go to the mall. She dialed Hilliary with instructions for a wallet heist that involved sneaking into the house past Chynal’s parents and shimmying under the garage door.

“Go through my parents’ room, all the way down the hallway. Go in my room and get the wallet,” Hilliary remembers being told. Mr. Haslett almost caught Hilliary, but she was quick. Hilliary threw the wallet out the window to Chynal, then climbed out. The girls eventually made it to the mall, proving that Chynal made unexpected journeys more interesting than the destination.

By all accounts, however, she was no stranger to putting her best foot forward once she arrived. Chynal spent much of 2014 making herself at home in Grand Prairie, Texas, a suburb between Fort Worth and Dallas. She found a job in retail, then nabbed a position at a car dealership after her first gig ended. Things were going well enough for her to get an apartment with Tamaya and buy a car.

Socially, Chynal felt the Dallas LGBTQ community gave her more freedom to be herself fully as a Black Trans woman, though she started living her authentic life before leaving Chicago. She met new friends, like Kimberly Brashear, who admired “the way that she could just brighten up a room.” Kimberly recalls Chynal “was always trying to help somebody out if she could,” just as she did in Chicago Heights.

But according to both Tamaya and Hilliary, by November 2014, Chynal also met someone in Texas who introduced her to crack cocaine. Chynal’s alleged substance abuse set her on a spiral of loss: her job, her car, and her apartment.

“[She] would tell me, ‘Every time I take some steps forward, I take some steps back,’” Tamaya says. She says Chynal desperately wanted to recover from her drug use before meeting her younger brothers and sisters for the first time.

In the final four years of her life, Chynal experienced homelessness and engaged in survival sex work. Tamaya remembers telling her cousin, “When you’re ready to stop, you have somewhere to go. You are not homeless.” Although her loved ones in both Illinois and Texas tried to reach out to help Chynal, sometimes they couldn’t locate her.

“I said, ‘How do I know that this isn’t the last time I’ll see you?’” says Tamaya of their final encounter in April 2019.

She never saw Chynal alive again.

On June 1, 2019, according to Dallas Police Chief U. Reneé Hall, Chynal Lindsey’s body was found in White Rock Lake with “obvious signs of homicidal violence.” The Dallas News reported that the Dallas Police Department arrested and charged Ruben Alvarado with murder in Chynal’s death in late June after an investigation. Further details are unknown.

Chynal’s friends recently struggled to commemorate what would have been her 27th birthday on October 30. “We know the [Chynal] that she should have been and wanted to be. It’s just unfortunate what happened to her… It wasn’t supposed to be her,” Aamias says.

More than anything, Chynal’s chosen family will remember her vigorous presence. “Everything my girl did was extravagant,” Hilliary says.

She dreamed of becoming a makeup artist and clothing designer

Gabrielle Bellot

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Nov 20, 2019 · 7 min read

Looking at photographs of Chanel Scurlock, it’s difficult not to get lost in her eyes — deep and piercing yet playful. The false eyelashes she particularly loved to wear only intensified her stare. Her cheekbones, already naturally high, seemed even sharper with the contouring of her makeup, a subtle champagne stream of illumination shooting up toward her ears. In one of Chanel’s most eye-catching looks among the photos she shared online, she wore a striking blonde-tinted chin-length wig with the ends softly curled, her lips pouting and glossy. When she posed for a picture, she often looked like a modest Instagram model — not trying too hard, makeup natural, but her softly curved dark brown face was memorable all the same.

That she looked so put together in her photos was unsurprising, as Chanel for years had desired to be both a makeup artist and a clothing designer. She spent hours on her computer at home, conjuring up different sartorial designs, particularly dresses paired with high heels and jean jackets — the latter one of her favorite things to wear, along with designer handbags. Chanel hoped one day she would be able to formally study fashion at an institution — but perhaps not one too far from home, as she loved being near Brenda, her mother. Indeed, the two were together nearly every day, an inseparable pair.

One of Brenda’s favorite memories of Chanel is simple. Brenda was lying on her bed, facing the television, the remote by her feet, just beyond her reach. “I was just feeling lazy,” she says, chuckling over the phone, and Chanel “came into the room” without Brenda even needing to ask and handed her the remote. Chanel skipped out, then returned a minute later, grinning and carrying a drink for Brenda — again, before her mother could even request a beverage.

The two simple acts were exactly what Brenda wanted in the moment.

Chanel could easily intuit her mother’s wants, remembers Brenda with a gravelly laugh. It wasn’t the moment or the action itself that was striking—Brenda has many memories of her daughter just like that, going out of her way to be helpful. Instead, it was the accumulation of so many similar little selfless acts, the way Chanel was simply there for her, smiling and ready.

And Brenda was far from the only person to observe that impulse toward kindness in her daughter. Chanel seemed to carry an aura of love around the stretch of North Carolina where she grew up. She exuded a warmth that many of her friends, family members, and the customers at Sears in Cross Creek Mall, where Chanel worked, could feel if they didn’t already see it in her starlike eyes.

Brenda has many memories of her daughter going out of her way to be helpful — but it’s more the accumulation of selfless acts and the way Chanel was there for her, smiling.

She would “give [her] last shirt if [she] had it,” Tomeka McRae, one of her first cousins, told the Fayetteville Observer.

Chanel was gregarious and outgoing, even in a state like North Carolina, which infamously tried to pass a bill in 2016 that would force Trans people to use only public restrooms that corresponded with the gender marker on their birth certificates.

Despite the dangers, Chanel put herself out there. She was “eager to meet up” with people she connected with online, Brenda says. And although she didn’t like Chanel going to see strangers, Brenda didn’t always know when her daughter had gone out at all, because Chanel, for all her closeness with her mother, also had her own, more private life. She was “secretive” in that way sometimes, Brenda says.

“I know the lifestyle I live is dangerous,” Chanel told Shania Aguirre, one of her closest friends, according to an Associated Press interview. But she continued to try to live her life authentically as Chanel anyway, burning bright, as herself, even in the night of her home state’s respect for women like her.

Still, for a long time, she had kept Chanel to herself, perhaps not fully comprehending at first what it meant that she wanted to be known as this woman. But she knew, without question, that this was the person she wished to be, the woman she wanted to embody as she walked through marvelous dreams and mundane days alike. And Chanel had plans for this woman. As Shania revealed to the Associated Press, Chanel had confided to her that she wished to have reassignment surgery one day. “Chanel” was not some costume she put on; rather, she wanted to live as Chanel for the long term, in the way that allowed her mind and body to align the way she wanted.

Like some Trans women, Chanel found herself living two lives, symbolized by the fact that many of her friends and family members called her by her birth name. Yet she used a Facebook account under the name Chanel. When Chanel left home, Brenda says, she frequently wore women’s clothes, but at home with her family, she often as not presented as male, a kind of demarcation perhaps representing that Chanel was still coming to terms with how the contours of her identity might fit in with those of her home. A number of people, including Brenda, used male pronouns for Chanel, though Chanel requested that her friends use “she” and “her” when she was presenting as a woman.

Shortly after she turned 20, Chanel came out to her mother as queer. Brenda, ultimately, was accepting. She had become accustomed to seeing Chanel experimenting with makeup even before coming out, which Brenda says began after Chanel was finished with high school. But it took awhile for Brenda to acknowledge that her child was Transgender, rather than a gay boy. She was afraid, seeing her child presenting as a woman. Brenda knew it was dangerous enough in the United States for a Black boy to be gay, and to be openly Trans “was even more dangerous,” she says.

Still, she clearly loved her Chanel, regardless of how she perceived her identity. “That was my child. And I had to accept [her], whatever [s]he was — gay, bisexual, whatever,” Brenda told the Fayetteville Observer. “That was my child.”

Brenda wanted her child to be careful but also acknowledged that Chanel had her own life.

It was advice that has almost certainly come to haunt Brenda.

In June, at just 23 years of age, Chanel was shot and killed. According to Shania, Chanel had gone out that night, ostensibly to meet a man she had been talking with online. She told her mother that she was headed to a Chinese restaurant in the small town of St. Pauls, North Carolina.

Her final text to her mother was simple and tender, the kind of message that can seem at once neutral and—at least in retrospect — a kind of grim foreshadowing of her final hours alive. “Okay, Mommy,” the text read, in response to Brenda requesting that Chanel let her know when she was on her way home. It was 9:53 in the evening. “I love you.”

“It was the last I heard of her,” Brenda said in a rare media moment of gendering her daughter with a female pronoun. Hours later, she learned that her daughter’s body had been found in a field, riddled with eight bullets. After the shooting, Chanel had simply been “left to die,” according to Burnis Wilkins, sheriff of Robeson County. The man she had met, Javaras Hammonds, was arrested on suspicion of murdering and robbing Chanel.

In Brenda’s eyes, her child’s death was indisputably a hate crime. “It pisses me off,” she told the AP. “What else could it be?” It’s a story that has become all too familiar to many Black Trans women, where a meeting with a cisgender man ends with fury, if not fatality. And in a move that has come to be the frustrating norm, Chanel was misgendered and deadnamed in many news reports.

To mark her child’s passing, Brenda erected a small wooden cross, its poles wrapped in white ribbons, near the edge of the verdant field where Chanel’s corpse was found after the meetup with Javaras.

“[She’s] not here,” Brenda said in the AP interview, shaking her head. “And I gotta go on, so…” The cross — against which leans a red teddy bear, its vibrant hue a stark contrast from the green of the field — is subtle but beautiful, like Chanel herself. The marker bears Chanel’s birth name rather than her chosen appellation. The appearance of her deadname on the cross is one of those telling things — that, on the one hand, Chanel’s mother is allowed to remember her child the way she sees fit. But on the other, that Chanel, like so many other Trans women, doesn’t get to fully be remembered as herself, even at her own memorial site. She has been remembered yet also forgotten at the place of her death.

But those photos she so loved to take still show a snippet of who she was. At Chanel’s funeral, snapshots of her adorned the space where her loved ones reminisced about her incandescent warmth and beauty. All in all, around 125 attendees paid their respects to the woman they remembered in the pictures.

Even in death, it was hard to look away from her eyes.

Experts say it’s an epidemic. And yet violence against Black Trans women still goes unreported or underinvestigated.

Lisa Armstrong

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Nov 20, 2019 · 10 min read

The first time Candice Elease Pinky was shot was in the first few minutes of 2018. She had just finished a New Year’s Eve photo shoot at a hotel in Houston when she was shot in the face in what she assumed was an attempted robbery.

When the police arrived, they asked Candice’s then-boyfriend for her name. The bullet had seared Candice’s tongue and dislodged several teeth, and she was holding her mouth, trying to stop the bleeding. Her boyfriend gave them the name on her driver’s license.

“They was like, ‘No, not your name, her name,’” Candice, 25, says. “And he was like, ‘Yeah, that is her name. Marquise Henry.’”

Candice says that while the officers had initially appeared concerned, their attitude then changed.

“Once they found out I was Transsexual, it’s like they didn’t care anymore,” she says. “They said, ‘Well, he can go now, but he’s gonna have to walk downstairs and get on a stretcher himself because the stretcher can’t make it upstairs to the third floor.’”

The second time Candice was shot was this year, on January 24, was at a gas station on Richmond Avenue in West Houston. Video footage shows her running to escape the gunman. When she turns and puts her hand up to stop him, he shoots, striking her four times, shattering the bones in her left hand.

The shooting received media attention — Candice was again misgendered in some news reports — and she was afraid the man who shot her would try to find her. After several months of moving from one friend’s house to another, she decided she was going to move to Dallas to live with her friend Muhlaysia Booker.

“My bus ticket had actually been purchased, and when it was time to go out there, [Muhlaysia] was found murdered. So, you know, I’m now, I’m just…,” Candice’s voice trails off, as she can’t find the words. She sighs. “I’m numb to it all right now. I try not to think about it too much.”

The killings of Trans women has been declared an epidemic by the American Medical Association, and that is based just on the number of known homicides — currently 21 this year. Advocates say the number of actual killings is much higher, as is the number of actual versus recorded attacks, and the victims are overwhelmingly Black. Of the 21 recorded deaths this year, 19 were Black Trans women. The average American has about a one in 22,000 chance of being murdered, according to data from the FBI. For young Black Trans women, the odds are, according to an investigation by Mic, about one in 2,600.

So, why Black Trans women? What is it that puts them at so much more risk for violence than anyone else? And why do so many of these killings and attacks go unreported?

Black Trans women must deal with the same issues most Black women face — institutional racism and sexism — along with a host of other traumas. They face higher rates of intimate partner violence from men who feel shame about being attracted to them — a result of what Black Trans women say is widespread Transphobia in the Black community — and are often rejected by their families, the very people who are supposed to love them the most. With family abandonment comes homelessness — 51% of Black Trans women have been homeless, according to data from the National Center for Transgender Equality (NCTE). That and job discrimination force many Black Trans women into survival sex work.

In the NCTE’s U.S. Transgender Survey, 67% percent of Black respondents said they would feel uncomfortable asking police for help. When Black Trans women are killed, media and police often misidentify and misgender them, which means their deaths are often not recorded as anti-Trans violence.

“All this context leads Black Trans women into spaces that make them more susceptible to violence, and these fatal manifestations of misogynoir and Transphobia come to really horrific ends,” says Eliel Cruz, director of communications at the New York City Anti-Violence Project.

When they are attacked, many Black Trans women don’t feel safe going to the police because they say the police don’t take crimes against them seriously. In the NCTE’s U.S. Transgender Survey, 67% percent of Black respondents said they would feel uncomfortable asking police for help. When Black Trans women are killed, media and police often misidentify and misgender them, which means their deaths are often not recorded as anti-Trans violence.

“Some reporting issues come up with identification of the body. It’s not unusual to see a murder report of a man in a dress,” says Gillian Branstetter, an NCTE spokesperson. “It often takes local community, friends, and social media to correct the record.”

On July 30, the body of 55-year-old Bubba Walker was found in the ruins of a house in Charlotte, North Carolina, that had burned to the ground. It was an insurance adjuster, not police or firefighters, who discovered her body a day after the fire.

In response to a query about Bubba, the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department (CMPD) sent an email that referred to her by her deadname — the term many Trans people use for the name they were given at birth and no longer use — and stated, “His family has been notified of his death.” Detectives have a cause of death from the medical examiner’s office and are conducting a “death investigation,” but despite some news reports that state otherwise, they have not classified Bubba’s death a homicide. Still, Bubba’s friends and others in the Trans community believe she was murdered.

“She was from a generation when being Trans was a lot more hard and a lot more scary. She was just so knowledgeable about things, and she was just a teacher to the community.”

Clarabelle Catlin met Bubba at a Trans Day of Remembrance event in November 2018. She considered Bubba a mother, who shared everything from fashion to safety tips with her.

“She was from a generation when being Trans was a lot more hard and a lot more scary,” says Clarabelle, 20. “She was just so knowledgeable about things, and she was just a teacher to the community.”

Clarabelle and Bubba also bonded over shared challenges. Clarabelle says that being Trans forced them both to the margins — “I’ve done some risky things before to survive. I mean, a lot of Trans people have,” she says — and that they were trying to help each other find stable housing.

According to the CMPD, Bubba had been reported missing, having last been seen on July 26. Her remains were not identified until about a month after they were discovered, but when Clarabelle first saw news reports, she didn’t realize it was Bubba.

“They used her birth name. We don’t really talk about birth name and stuff,” Clarabelle says.

“There’s no urgency in figuring out what happened in her case. I knew I couldn’t get my hopes up, because with most of these Trans women of color, cases go unsolved or are forgotten about.”

Later media reports identified Bubba as a Trans woman and included photos, which is how Clarabelle discovered that her friend was dead.

“With all the other Trans murders and friends I’ve lost and a lot of trauma I’ve been through, it was really heartbreaking,” Clarabelle says. “It kind of took a little light out of me.”

Clarabelle says Bubba was not known to frequent the area where her body was found and doesn’t believe Bubba would have gone into the house, which was empty and under renovation, alone. She says she has called the CMPD to get an update on the investigation but hasn’t received any information. She doesn’t feel it’s a priority for the department.

“There’s no urgency in figuring out what happened in her case. I knew I couldn’t get my hopes up, because with most of these Trans women of color, cases go unsolved or are forgotten about,” Clarabelle says.

A Charlotte-based Trans advocacy group has asked Clarabelle to speak about Bubba at a Trans Day of Remembrance event on November 20. Clarabelle misses her friend but doesn’t want to speak.

“There’s a lot of trauma around that day,” she says. “I’ve been to too many vigils, and it’s death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, all my life. I just can’t do it again.”

Clarabelle has lost several Trans friends to murder and suicide and says she has been assaulted several times since she came out when she was 16. She’s in a group chat with other Trans women where they let each other know where they’re going. They keep the location services on their phones turned on so they can track each other. But while Clarabelle is cautious, she tries not to live in fear. She is an advocate and has planned conversation circles for young Trans women of color and uses social media to highlight the murders of Black Trans women and other issues affecting the community.

“I learned to not show my fear, because if I show my fear, it makes me even more of a target,” she says. “So, I have to put on that fierce face and go out into the world. That’s kind of what I’ve learned about being a Trans girl. You have to put on that brave face every single day, and don’t let anyone see you cry. You have to be fearless.”

On September 30, Clarabelle shared a post about Elisha Chanel Stanley, a Black Trans woman who was found dead in a Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, hotel room on September 16. As in Bubba’s case, people in the Trans community believe Elisha was murdered.

Ciora Thomas, executive director of the Pittsburgh-based Trans advocacy group SisTers PGH, wrote on Facebook, “Elisha Stanley was killed last week in Pittsburgh and her funeral was last Thursday. She was living in DC. Family still living in Pittsburgh where she was just visiting. No news coverage and allegedly Pittsburgh Police aren’t investigating this at this time.”

A spokesperson for the Pittsburgh Police Department said they are waiting on the medical examiner’s office to determine the cause of death.

On another social media thread about Elisha’s death, one person asked why police hadn’t been investigating. Another replied, “Because she checks all the boxes of people police don’t give a fuck about.”

Advocates say this mistrust many Trans people have of the police is warranted. A 2019 NCTE report on police department policies states that Trans people are disproportionately affected by bias and abuse by police and within the criminal justice system. It also showed that none of the police departments surveyed required officers to “respectfully record the name currently being used by the individual that is separate from the spaces used for legal names or aliases in Department forms.” This means that in following up on investigations, Trans women who do not have the means to get new forms of identification must deal with the trauma not just of reliving the attacks but also of using the deadnames under which they are listed.

Candice says that despite having called the Houston Police Department (HPD) to get updates regarding the January 2019 shooting, she hasn’t been given any information and has given up.

“I’m leaving it alone. No one is contacting me. The guy isn’t arrested. Obviously the police haven’t done anything about it,” she says.

In response to a query from ZORA, HPD spokesperson John Cannon said, “This is an ongoing investigation, and its investigator and victim believe that she was not targeted based on her Transgender identity.” He confirmed the January 1, 2018, shooting but could not provide details about Candice’s interaction with the officers who responded and said if Candice feels she was mistreated, she has the right to file an internal affairs complaint against the officers.

Based on information Candice has received from others in the Trans community, she believes the gunman in the January 24 shooting was looking for a friend of hers, who is also a Black Trans woman, and that he mistook her for the friend. She’s concerned because she says that friend has been missing for several weeks. None of her social media profiles have been recently updated, and Candice says her friend’s cousin says her family has not heard from her.

After Muhlaysia’s murder, Candice moved to Louisiana, then Houston, then Austin. “I actually moved to Austin to try to get a job, get in a stable state of mind, because in Houston, I really didn’t have a good state of mind, because the guy wasn’t caught,” she says.

In mid-October, Candice returned to Houston. On her second day there, she says she received threatening phone calls from people who claimed they were connected with the man who shot her. She called the police and says she was taken to the hospital for 24-hour mental health observation because they said she was suffering from paranoia.

While Candice says of the shootings and subsequent trauma, “The situation I had already been put in, it would basically make anyone paranoid,” she maintains that she did, in fact, receive menacing phone calls.

“She wanted me to embrace my scars and embrace my beauty.”

Candice has been applying for jobs but can’t work as a hairstylist, as she was doing before she was shot, because she hasn’t fully regained use of her left arm. She says she’s been staying with friends and doesn’t currently have permanent housing.

Candice’s body is peppered with scars from where bullets and fragments pierced her skin. She also has a long scar from the first shooting that wraps around the right side of her neck. She used to cry when she looked at herself in the mirror, because she no longer felt beautiful, but Candice did a photo shoot a few months ago with a photographer who wanted to focus just on her scars.

“She wanted me to embrace my scars and embrace my beauty,” Candice says.

While Candice says she is more cautious than she was before the attacks, she has not let them deter her from living.

“People in the Trans community that I know, they don’t go outside during the daytime. They don’t go in the stores in the daytime. They don’t do too much when the sun is out. I live my life like I’m a normal woman,” she says.

Still, it’s a bittersweet determination, based on the understanding of the risks she faces for simply being.

“I’ve been through a lot, between family, fighting mental, physical, and emotional battles,” she says. “But I’m just gonna live my life to the fullest, because you never know when you’re gonna be taken off this earth.”

Those who knew her say she was always setting goals

Ashlee Marie Preston

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Nov 20, 2019 · 6 min read

“I want you to be my mother.”

That was the moment Zoe Spears stole Ruby Corado’s heart. It was after the police escorted Zoe, 19, to Casa Ruby, an LGBTQ safe haven in Washington, D.C., which Ruby founded. Later, Zoe shared her wishes to change her last name to include Corado, a nod to the impact Ruby had on her.

“She didn’t trust many people,” Ruby says. “I wanted to be the one person in her life she could count on.” As circumstances would have it, Zoe found two people she could depend on. “We sat and talked for nearly three hours straight,” says Shannon Wilkins, Ruby’s fiancé, of his first encounter with Zoe.

Before he knew it, she’d won him over. At least until she took shots at his vintage Jordans. “Those don’t even look like Jordans. They’re old and funny-looking — do better,” Zoe remarked while meeting up with Shannon one day.

“What are you talking about? These are what real Jordans look like. Not whatever you kids call yourselves wearing today,” he clapped back.

When the two weren’t engaged in humorously heated shoe debates, their connection was a tender one. “I remember the day Zoe called me Dad,” Shannon reflects. “She was the first kid to call me that, and it touched me in a way I’d never known before.”

“She would always tell me she wanted to be a girl, and I would tell her she was already a girl.”

From that moment on, the two had an unbreakable bond, which included a shared love of action-hero movies, like Avengers: Endgame. As Zoe opened up, Shannon learned even more about her. At Casa Ruby, for example, Zoe made gestures toward eating healthy at Sweetgreen but usually settled on pizza, and she jammed out to her favorite rap artist, Snow Tha Product.

Ruby and Zoe’s relationship dynamic looked a bit different from Zoe and Shannon’s. “When it came to Zoe, I meant business, and she wasn’t always having it,” Ruby says of her role as a mentor. “I didn’t know what to do with Zoe. I couldn’t help but love her. She was just so much fun, and I couldn’t resist her personality. You just had to meet Zoe where she was at, and after a while she was good to go.”

Once Zoe landed at Casa Ruby, she became a dreamer and a go-getter, and every time she accomplished one goal, she was ready to do more, Ruby says of Zoe’s upward momentum. Zoe had a job in retail and was practicing harm reduction and regularly seeing a therapist.

She also attributed Zoe’s proactivity to her feeling at home in her own skin. “She would always tell me she wanted to be a girl, and I would tell her she was already a girl,” Ruby recalls.

But Zoe explained that her definition of feeling like a girl meant getting breast implants and her gender-affirmation surgery. At Zoe’s request, Ruby took her to Children’s National Hospital to begin her hormone therapy and get appropriate medical care, which Zoe decided with the providers.

Afterward, Zoe’s confidence soared. Ruby recalls her often saying, “I can wear anything and look good.”

“She reminded me of myself when I was younger,” Ruby says. “I tried to encourage her to wear just a bit more, but she’d [jokingly] tell me I’m just jealous because I look like a grandmother.”

Zoe eventually began feeling cramped at Casa Ruby and was ready to get her own apartment. At 22 years old, with the help of Casa Ruby and other organizations, Zoe signed a lease and secured the keys to her very own place. Her apartment was in close proximity to Eastern Avenue, where many Trans women engage in sex work.

According to Iya Dammons, founder and executive director of Baltimore Safe Haven, an organization serving the LGBTQ community with a primary focus on Trans women, Zoe began picking up habits from other girls that threw her off track. “She wasn’t the kind of girl that did all that, but once she got sucked in, it was hard for her to get out of the game,” says Iya, who first met Zoe at Casa Ruby two years prior.

Zoe began frequently engaging in survival sex work, compounded by addiction, according to Ruby. The young lady quickly began to spiral and, Ruby says, eventually confessed that she didn’t want to do sex work anymore. That’s when Zoe asked if she could come work at Casa Ruby. Ruby agreed, under the expectation that Zoe would submit a clean urine test, which was mandated.

Zoe continued engaging in sex work and using drugs, according to Ruby. She says she tried to get Zoe to stay off Eastern Avenue and keep going after her dreams. But Zoe always ended up reconnecting with the girls from the strip. “She was the kind of girl who felt bad for her sisters and would let other homeless kids move into her apartment, especially during the holidays,” Ruby recalls.

Things took a darker turn in the early morning of March 30, when Zoe witnessed her close friend Ashanti Carmon lose her life after being shot multiple times. Zoe, traumatized and afraid for her life, began reaching out for help.

“Zoe called after Ashanti was murdered and told me she was looking to relocate,” Earline Budd says.

Earline was one of Zoe’s case managers at HIPS, a harm-reduction program Zoe frequented. “I made a lot of calls to get her relocated, with no luck,” she recalls. “The system worked against her, and the response wasn’t rapid enough to meet her in her time of crisis.” Earline says Zoe had also made several phone calls and went to multiple agencies on her own, and no one could help her.

Zoe reached out to Ruby and told her she was afraid to go home and feared for her life. Ruby brought Zoe back into Casa Ruby to keep her safe. But Zoe became antsy. One night, she made her way off the grounds and back toward Eastern Avenue.

On June 13, at a little before midnight, Zoe was tragically gunned down only blocks away from where she witnessed Ashanti’s murder. Zoe, 23, was pronounced dead at the scene.

“My greatest hope for her was that she stayed away from that area while the police investigated,” Shannon says. “I wish she would have stayed where she was safe and being looked out for.” Shannon also expresses frustration that the police didn’t place Zoe in a witness protection program when she reported witnessing Ashanti’s murder.

While authorities don’t know if the two murders were connected, Earline shares her own opinion. “I believe the murders were related,” she says with unwavering certainty. “It’s so terrible. Zoe was the person who didn’t take no for an answer. She was boisterous, and when she wanted her way, she wanted her way. She had so much potential, and it’s a shame we had to lay her to rest so soon.”

“When I think about Zoe, I think about all the great things she did and where her life was heading.”

Unlike Ashanti’s murder, an arrest was made for Zoe’s death. Gerardo Thomas, 33, was charged with first-degree murder.

“When I think about Zoe, I think about all the great things she did and where her life was heading,” Ruby says. “This shit is hard.”

Ruby and the community held a memorial service for Zoe five days after her murder, on what would have been her 24th birthday.

“That girl was a beautiful soul. I’ve been doing movement work for a very long time, and girls like Zoe are what keep me moving,” Ruby says, “I won’t ever forget her.”

She was best known for being bubbly and upbeat

Maya Francis

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Nov 20, 2019 · 5 min read

Kris Wade first met Brooklyn Lindsey in 2008 at a weekly support group for homeless women at The Justice Project of Kansas City. “Brooklyn was a very, very sweet person,” says Kris, the executive director of the organization. “[She had a] very sweet nature. Funny. Intelligent. She understood common courtesy, the art of conversation.”

Others recall Brooklyn in the same way. On Instagram, the nearly 160 posts listed under the hashtag #BrooklynLindsey are all dedicated to the 32-year-old, Kansas City, Missouri, woman who left a positive impression on those around her.

“She was sweet and always upbeat always said hello 💔💔💔,” Instagram user @carleneshannon posted. She knew Brooklyn from seeing her in and around Kansas City’s Northeast neighborhood. “She never failed to give a smile. I looked forward to seeing her when I was out and about and when I did, I made it a point to say hi. [S]he just had a really sweet magnetic personality and I never felt like I was speaking to a stranger.”

Despite her bubbly persona, Brooklyn was navigating a world of challenges.

“Towards the end, she was very desperate,” says Kris, whose work at The Justice Project provides criminal justice and social systems advocacy for women in poverty who are impacted by sexual exploitation.

She just had a really sweet magnetic personality, and I never felt like I was speaking to a stranger.

That desperation, Kris says, came from the difficulty that Brooklyn had in sustaining a social safety net. While The Justice Project helps vulnerable women like Brooklyn to find and secure housing, Kris describes Missouri as a “punitive state” in which it is “very difficult” to access “foundational services.”

Kris believes that changes to Missouri’s Medicaid program left Brooklyn and some of the younger women they see at The Justice Project vulnerable. They were tossed off of Medicaid and food stamps, leaving Brooklyn in a “downward spiral to figure out ways to survive,” Kris says.

“Being Trans she had not had a very good family relationship for some time. She was close to some folks, but some of them — not all, but some — had a tough time accepting her gender identity,” Kris says. “Pushed out by family, not accepted, she was out there motoring around on her own.”

In and around Kansas City, more and more organizations are beginning to partner to develop coalitions in support of the Trans community.

“We have been working with GLSEN to start a coalition with other surrounding organizations,” says Cassie Myers, president of PLUS of Franklin County, Kansas, an organization providing education, resources, and advocacy for and about the LGBTQIA+ residents of the county, which is a part of the larger Kansas City metro area. [GLSEN is an organization that was formerly known as the Gay, Lesbian & Straight Education Network.] “I think that we are making major progress to share resources and come together as a state and talk about resources, education, and what is lacking. I think that many agencies such as domestic violence centers [in addition to] police officers, teachers, et cetera, are making a major push to educate as well.”

With all the goodness Brooklyn exuded in the world, her bright light was taken by violence in the early hours of June 25.

According to the charging documents from the Jackson County prosecutor’s office in Missouri, officers were dispatched to the scene following reports of a body on the porch of an abandoned house. They found Brooklyn’s partially nude body riddled with gunshot wounds.

Five 9 mm shell casings were found on the scene. The accused gunman, Marcus Lewis, 41, says he shot Brooklyn after she allegedly tried to solicit him and a physical altercation ensued. Marcus was arrested and charged with second-degree murder, felony armed criminal action, and unlawful felony possession of a firearm.

Brooklyn was murdered at the same intersection where a Latina Trans woman, Tamara Dominguez, 36, was also killed four years ago. “[Transgender people] have been a part of our neighborhood a lot longer than most of it’s [sic] current residents,” said @carleneshannon, who posted, “BACK OFF!! ONE FOR SURE TWO FOR CERTAIN THEY WILL FIGHT BACK AND HAVE PLENTY OF SUPPORT…I am so sorry Brooklyn 💔💔”

Kristin Smith, who lives in the Kansas City area, works for a community program that serves Transgender people, and is mother to a Trans daughter, also posted a tribute to Brooklyn on social media. “Someone else hung posters of murdered Black Trans women and Brooklyn was included,” she says. “I kept her memory alive during my shifts. It seems right in a place where no one probably knew her personally.”

“Even though Brooklyn never resided in our community [of Franklin County, Kansas] we felt the impact of her murder in our hearts,” Cassie says.

Following her murder, PLUS of Franklin County held a back-to-school dance in Brooklyn’s honor. “We all wanted to recognize the fact that women of color who are Trans are being murdered at a rapid rate and no one is speaking on it. We decided to ask for donations upon entry and give that to the Kansas City Anti-Violence Project as they served Brooklyn when she was alive,” Cassie says.

The Kansas City Anti-Violence Project raised over $2,000 in a separate fundraiser to help Brooklyn’s family with expenses, and they held a vigil just days after her murder during the last weekend of Pride Month. Among the mourners were Brooklyn’s best friend Raven Johnson and her aunt Joanna Lindsey, who both carried posters that said “SAY HER NAME.” The two arranged balloons, stuffed animals, and placed pink and white candles on the corner of Independence and Spruce Avenues near where Brooklyn’s body was found. They did this to honor Brooklyn and other Trans women who have lost their lives.

She was unapologetic about her choices and lived in her truth

Anjali Enjeti

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Nov 20, 2019 · 5 min read

Dancing always made Denali Berries Stuckey feel free. The movement and rhythm was liberating and reflected how she lived her life and interacted with those around her.

Like the time she heard Frankie Beverly and Maze’s “Before I Let Go” blaring through the speakers and couldn’t contain herself. Her long, manicured fingers tapped her chest to the beat until she lifted her hands to frame her face in a flash of voguing. Denali, with long, dark, wavy hair and a fuchsia sweatshirt zipped to the neck, was living fully in that moment as a voice called out to cheer her on: “I got you, baby.”

These moments, captured on video, are precious to Andrea Stuckey, Denali’s mother. She watches them daily. The recordings embody Denali’s vibrant spirit and memories of a life cut short.

On July 20, at the age of 29, Denali was shot and killed in North Charleston, South Carolina. Two days later, as many as 200 people gathered at Equality Hub, a support space for the LGBTQIA+ community, for a candlelight vigil to honor her life. Police are investigating her death as a homicide; additional details are unknown.

How Denali died says very little about the very full life she lived. Her loved ones will remember her for many things — her devotion to her family, her outgoing personality, her unique style, and, yes, her dancing.

Raised in North Charleston, Denali lived with her mother and grandmother. Andrea and her daughter were “very close.” From her grandmother and mother, Denali inherited her love for cooking. Her favorite food to cook and eat was soul food, especially greens and cabbage. She was a people person. Her charisma attracted many friends, according to Denali’s mom: “She had a nice personality, was loving and caring. She had a whole lot of friends — more friends than me!”

As a child, Denali was the kind of easygoing baby most parents dream of. She slept through the night at a very young age, was never fussy, and ate everything her mother put in front of her, including all of her fruits and vegetables, according to Andrea. She was an independent child. When she was around seven or eight months old, Denali pulled herself to her feet and launched herself into walking. Denali was often ahead of other children her age, in constant motion, propelling herself toward a goal. When she saw something she wanted, she never hesitated to go for it.

Then there was Denali in the eighth grade with her dance partner, breaking into moves timed in perfect synchronicity. Denali, wearing an oversized white T-shirt and loose denim jeans, was rocking, spinning, clapping. Claiming her joy.

Though food and family brought comfort to Denali, it was dance that gave her freedom.

In her preteen years, Denali began modeling and entering beauty pageants, winning two of them. After a few years, though, she lost interest in pageants. “It wasn’t her kind of crowd,” Andrea says. Still, Denali maintained her impeccable sense of fashion, which began evolving during her pageant years. “She loved looking good,” says her cousin Ron’Rico Fudon, who had been close to Denali since she was 15. She followed the latest trends but put her unique stamp on them, he says. Denali left high school at the end of junior year but continued her education by immersing herself in self-help books.

By the time she reached her early twenties, Denali moved out of the family home and into her own apartment, 20 minutes away. She called her mother every day and dropped by at least once a week to visit. Andrea says Denali spoiled her with gifts, buying her handbags by Gucci and Louis Vuitton for Christmas and Mother’s Day.

Though food and family brought comfort to Denali, it was dance that gave her freedom.

Denali loved to move, Andrea says. She’d occasionally go to a bar with friends, but she danced mainly at gatherings at the homes of friends and family members. She loved rap, R&B, and Beyoncé.

Denali altered her clothes to create the exact look she wanted, making them her own. She would take a regular crew-neck T-shirt, for example, and convert it into a V-neck. Denali had a penchant for wearing skirts, leggings, and cropped jackets. She donned heels and sneakers, too, no matter the occasion. “She was a little fashionista. She made sure she was dolled up even when going to the corner store,” Ron’Rico remembers. “She was always dressed as if she was about to hit the main stage.”

She became a nail technician and hoped someday to open her own hair and nail salon. In her free time, Denali enjoyed spending time with young children. She was a doting caregiver, regularly babysitting several children who lived in the neighborhood. “Trans people have jobs and families and goals and education,” Ron’Rico says. “She was one of those people.”

She was also a “firecracker,” Ron’Rico says. She always said what was on her mind, confidently. This was the case when she came out as Trans, recalls Ron’Rico, vice president of Charleston Black Pride. He credits Denali’s supportive family members for her ability to be forthright with everyone about her identity at such a young age.

In fact, how Denali came out to him is one of Ron’Rico’s favorite memories of his younger cousin. He spotted 19-year-old Denali crossing a street in North Charleston, wearing a skirt, a V-neck bodysuit, and long hair. “I asked her, ‘What’s up with this?’ [I was] referring to her clothing and makeup. She replied, ‘What do you think? Do I have to tell you?’ She smiled, gave a little twirl in her outfit, and laughed,” he says.

Denali had an insatiable zest for life, according to her loved ones, and an irrepressible spirit. “I watched her grow daily into a beautiful young woman—bold, authentic, and unapologetically Transgender. She was always bubbly, happy, and free,” says Ron’Rico. And, of course, always dancing.

This sense of clarity and confidence about who she was permeated everything she did. To the day she died, Denali was Denali. “She was proud of who she was,” Ron’Rico says. “Nobody could have taken that away from her.”

Her loyalty to family and friends will always be remembered

Ray Levy Uyeda

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Nov 20, 2019 · 4 min read

Rhonda Comer will remember her daughter, KeKe Fantroy, as a lion. Recently, Rhonda bought a Pandora lion head charm because it represents strength and courage. The ruler of the animal kingdom is also a humble creature. Lions have good memories. They’re loyal and pure. It’s about the symbolism until it’s not. KeKe exists with Rhonda, as a lion, taking care of her the way she did in life.

KeKe was giving. She wanted the people around her to feel good, confident, and happy. According to her mom, KeKe was always thinking of others, especially her siblings, whom she’d bring “just because” gifts to show that she loved them.

“KeKe would give you [her] shirt off [her] back if [she] could,” says Carlesha Durham, a family friend.

Though news reports spell her name as Kiki, she preferred KeKe. Growing up, KeKe was quiet, Carlesha says. She was less resolute than she was as an adult, less committed to being fully herself. But as she transitioned, KeKe grew into her confidence and thought less about others’ impressions of her. She worked toward being herself and defining who that was.

“One thing about KeKe was you had to accept [her] for who [she] was. [She] had so much confidence. So nobody else’s comment even mattered,” Rhonda says.

KeKe, born September 28, 1997, was one of 13 children. Raised in Homestead, Florida, she was an older sister and a mentor in the family, someone who wanted to make others laugh and bring light to those around her.

“[She] believed in love. She was one of the people that her spirit wouldn’t allow you to be mad with her long,” Rhonda says.

KeKe grew up in the church, Carlesha says. Though she received pushback for being Trans, she always maintained her patience and respect for others, no matter their opinions or values. According to Carlesha, KeKe learned to lead with respect for others, a kind of deference for the different ways people might live their lives.

Carlesha grew up with KeKe’s mother and watched KeKe and her siblings mature. “KeKe was just a delightful child, fun to be around. [An] all-around genuine person,” she says.

“[She] believed in love. She was one of the people that her spirit wouldn’t allow you to be mad with her long.”

When KeKe and her siblings were young, Rhonda wanted them to play football. KeKe’s brothers and sisters would practice and enjoy tossing the ball around, but KeKe had no interest.

“When [she] came out, I never fought [her] about it,” Rhonda says. “I always taught [her] to stand tall. If your child can’t come to you, who can they turn to?”

KeKe took her mother’s lessons and didn’t question who she was. She didn’t allow others to question who she was. She had conviction.

Adventurous at heart, KeKe would travel with friends to other states, including Georgia. She would give her mom a call just to check in. KeKe would tell her that she was okay, that she felt her mother’s prayers, that her words kept her and held her.

KeKe’s younger sister Naya says KeKe loved to be around family and reveled in conversation. The two would talk about boy problems, issues at school, which parties to go to — and which ones to skip. Naya knew she could rely on KeKe for anything. “I could always call on KeKe if I need anything,” she says, “even if I just needed a hug.”

KeKe enjoyed treats, especially banana pudding. One memory Naya keeps dear to her is when she walked into the kitchen to see a once-full container of banana pudding on the table, empty. KeKe had eaten the pudding but told Naya that she didn’t. Naya tricked her into telling the truth by saying she had put something in the pudding, and KeKe came around a few minutes later, wondering if she was going to be okay.

“I will never forget that. [She] would go out and eat whatever [she] wanted,” Naya recalls. “[She] lied and two minutes [later] came back [and said], ‘Don’t be mad at me.’”

Rhonda says KeKe was considering doing hair or nails professionally or working in fashion. KeKe was interested in professions that allowed her to help people look good. She was a natural—helping her mom put together outfits or advising Rhonda on clothing and accessories.

When Rhonda wasn’t being styled by KeKe, she would give KeKe advice, urging her to be a leader, never to follow, much like the lion charm that now reflects her memory: “I always tell [her], no matter what, always be the best at whatever you do.”

On July 31, KeKe was coming home from a party with friends in Miami when she was fatally shot. According to media reports, police believe she was the victim of a robbery. Rhonda believes KeKe was targeted because she was Transgender. She was 21.

KeKe’s death was a major loss for family and friends. KeKe’s loved ones find solace in the memories they created with her. She is remembered as a lion and as someone who was dutiful to those she loved.

“KeKe was a joyous person, a friend, a family friend, someone that you can just chill with,” Carlesha says. “Someone that would have your back. Loyal.”

She saw growing into herself as a process that made her stronger

Ray Levy Uyeda

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Nov 20, 2019 · 3 min read

Pebbles LaDime Doe loved the spotlight. In photos shared by her friend Tionna Dunbar, Dime, as she was known by friends, stands in front of a mirror, wearing a hot-pink jumpsuit, gold hoop earrings, hair dyed a balayage of purple to pink. In another photo, Dime is sticking her tongue out at the camera, resting her head on her hand, shoulder to shoulder with her friend. This was Dime, smiling and surrounded by those she loved.

Simone Gadson grew up with Dime and says they spent most of their time together. Dime was “the most loving, happy, joyful, outgoing person you could ever meet,” Simone says. Dime named herself, a part of the process of growing into herself that made her, as Simone says, stronger as she got older.

With her joy also came a confidence that didn’t hinge on the opinions of others. That attitude was palpable. “She taught me not to care what people think and do what you want to do,” says Jaida Marie, a friend.

“She could make me laugh like nobody else. She was hilarious. That’s what I’m going to miss the most.”

Dime was in high school when she met Jaida. Though they didn’t get along at first, a friendship developed after they learned they shared friends and were the only two Trans women in their community, according to Jaida. Jaida says she gave Dime advice and hormones — two things she needed to feel like herself.

As the quiet one in the friendship, Jaida appreciated how Dime pulled her out of her shell with laughter. “She could make me laugh like nobody else,” Jaida recalls. “She was hilarious. That’s what I’m going to miss the most.”

Dime is also remembered as loyal and loving. She protected her friends. Jaida recalls one night when she and Dime were driving through the neighborhood and an object was thrown at her car. Dime made Jaida stop the car so Dime could get out and defend her friend against the culprits. Jaida says they didn’t have any other issues with them after that.

Dime also verbally affirmed her love for friends. Simone says Dime would affectionately shower her with “Bitch, I love you.”

Dime was living in Allendale, South Carolina, when she was found murdered in a car on August 4, three months shy of her 25th birthday. Additional details are unknown. Friends and family offered an outpouring of love on Facebook and gathered on Dime’s birthday, November 16, in remembrance of her.

Hours before Dime died, she made plans with Tionna to make dinner together. Dime planned on stopping by Tionna’s house, where she liked to cook and share her effervescent energy.

“It happened every day. She was never a sad person. You could barely catch her mad,” Tionna says. “She always kept it energetic.”

With her death, Tionna says, “It seems like she’s not gone. It seems like she’s still here.”

Her love of dance, makeup, and fashion radiated from the inside out

Mary Retta

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Nov 20, 2019 · 3 min read

When Tracy Single took the floor at Houston’s Montrose Grace Place (MGP), an evening drop-in center for youth experiencing homelessness and housing insecurity, she owned it. The 22-year-old would often stop in on weeknights and get down to Megan Thee Stallion’s “Simon Says” with her friends.

“She loved to dance, specifically twerking,” recalls Courtney Sellers, the executive director of MGP. “We spent a lot of time just dancing and cutting up together.”

Dancing was just one way Tracy, who also went by Tracy Williams, radiated energy. Her host of artistic and creative abilities, often demonstrated at MGP, showed how multifaceted she was. She poured her energy into makeup and fashion, styling her friends for drag and fashion shows. On Monday and Thursday nights, she would raid the center’s clothing and toiletry closets, putting together trendy outfits for herself and loved ones. Per MGP’s rules, each person has a limited number of clothing items they are allowed to take and only seven minutes to shop. Tracy was a master at the process and efficient with her time, experimenting with nontraditional ways to create fun new looks for herself and her friends.

“Nothing was off-limits for Tracy,” Courtney says. “One of the things that hurts the most about her death, for me, is just knowing that she’ll never get a chance to see where her creative energy and talents could have taken her.”

Tracy started dropping into MGP at the beginning of 2019 and quickly built a community there. Cultivating friendships to form her chosen family was important to Tracy. “She was funny, kind, confident, and loved by a lot of people,” Courtney says.

According to Black Trans activist Dee Dee Watters, many of Tracy’s siblings were dead and her remaining family seemed unsupportive of her decision to live her authentic life.

In the months prior to her death, Tracy was living with a friend on the west side of Houston, spending time with loved ones, accessing resources from various local community centers, and actively looking for a job. Courtney says after Tracy faced trouble at her last job over her transition, she began searching for workspaces that were more inclusive. According to Courtney, Tracy hoped to work in a creative field that would allow her to show off her skills in fashion and makeup.

“Tracy was so confident. She truly lived her life in a way that I wish I could live my own — without fear of being judged.”

Those hopes were soon dashed. In the early morning of July 30, an unidentified body was found in a Houston parking lot. As reported by the Houston Police Department, the body had numerous sharp force injuries. It took a week before the Houston Police’s LGBT liaison and Dee Dee could identify the victim as Tracy. While the identity of Tracy’s killer was at first a mystery, the police later arrested and charged 25-year-old Joshua Dominic Bourgeois, Tracy’s boyfriend, with her murder.

Tracy was cherished by so many people and several communities mourned her loss, across Houston and across the country. MGP has also set up a memorial for Tracy in the form of a saved space at the center’s biweekly youth nights.

“Tracy was so confident. I really admired that about her. She truly lived her life in a way that I wish I could live my own — without fear of being judged,” Courtney says. “What I really want people to understand is that Tracy lived her truth, and that’s so hard today.”

Her family saw her as a phenomenal sister and daughter

Ashlee Marie Preston

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Nov 20, 2019 · 5 min read

“Look Taylor, you’re going to have to learn how to do this. I’m not going to keep doing this. You need to learn,” Bailey Reeves scolded her older sister, Taylor, as she helped with Taylor’s makeup, hair, and clothing for a night out.

“Bailey would always get annoyed but still did [my makeup] for me every single time,” Taylor Reeves remembers. She says Bailey was always willing to help anyone who needed it. Bailey loved seeing others feel confident and become the best versions of themselves they could possibly be.

“Yaaaas!!! That’s my bitch,” Bailey would exclaim as she stepped back to admire her own work.

Bailey courageously embraced the best version of herself at only 13 years old, when she told her family she was Transgender and that she identifies as female. “I’m not going to lie, it was hard to accept at first,” Taylor admits. “It was like I was losing my chunky little baby brother. But I realized that no matter what, I needed to be there for the girl she truly was.”

Unlike the families of many Trans youth, the Reeves took the time to get to know the phenomenal sister and daughter they never knew they had.

Bailey Reeves was born on July 8, 2002, to Thomas B. Reeves and Kit S. Beane. Aside from Taylor, Bailey’s other siblings are Thomas, 20, and Savannah, 15. Bailey was the second-youngest sibling. Her family and friends describe her as brilliant, creative, a champion debater, and a fashion diva. She was a vibrant, one-of-a-kind soul with so much passion for life, and to top things off, she was quite the comedian.

“I’m just really glad I got to spoil her. That makes me feel good. I did my job as a big sister.”

“Bailey was just naturally funny and didn’t even know it,” Taylor says. “We had so many inside jokes, and we would be around other people, look at each other, and bust out laughing because we were both thinking the same thing.”

According to Reeves, there was never a dull moment — especially when her sister would roast their mother and grandmother.

Like any other younger sibling, Bailey was everything one could imagine. “She would get on my nerves sometimes,” Taylor admits via text, adding a “lol” at the end of the message. Bailey would make special trips to Taylor’s room for the sole purpose of annoying her. She’d run in unannounced and, in Taylor’s words, “jump her heavy bones” all over her. It was difficult to stay mad at Bailey because of her ability to charm her way out of anything. Five minutes later, Taylor would find herself doing whatever Bailey wanted her to do, as if she were, in fact, the younger sister. Sometimes Bailey’s ask included Taylor making spicy crab lasagna, which she loved so much. “I’m just really glad I got to spoil her. That makes me feel good. I did my job as a big sister,” Taylor says.

The Reeves family’s entire world was turned upside down on the night of September 2. While leaving a cookout she’d attended with friends, Bailey was shot multiple times and died of her injuries at a local hospital. Further details remain unknown.

She was only 17 years old and would have been starting her senior year of high school. She had ambitions of attending college to become either a doctor or a lawyer.

Bailey’s brother, Thomas, was at the same party earlier in the evening but decided to head out early. He was gone for about an hour before the shooting took place and was out having dinner when he received the call to rush immediately to the hospital. “She was a person who lived her life to the fullest,” Thomas said in an interview with the Baltimore Sun. He expressed gratitude for the love and support he and his family received from the nearly 50 people who showed up to Bailey’s vigil.

Thomas, a student at Morgan State, has aspirations of forming a nonprofit organization committed to ending gun violence, with an emphasis on the disproportionate impact it has on the LGBTQ community, in memory of his sister.

Bailey’s best friend, Lorenzo Carter, was also devastated by her death. At Bailey’s funeral, Lorenzo expressed how much he saw Bailey not only as his best friend but also as a sister and an amazing mentor. He shared memories of their adventurous car rides, long nights together, and falling asleep next to one another. Bailey will also be deeply missed by classmates, who held their own vigil for her.

“She lived her life for her and didn’t care what others thought. Just one encounter with Bailey and you’d remember her for life.”

Bailey also leaves behind a local community that she was a part of for years. She often frequented the D.C. Pride parades and festivities and was active in the local LGBTQ community, according to Jordan Herndon, one of her lifelong friends and a high school senior. Jordan and Bailey were friends since kindergarten, and she actively supported Bailey throughout her transition.

“Bailey made an impact on me, and I saw things differently,” Jordan shared in a recent interview with the Rockville High Newspaper. “She was the funniest and sweetest person that you could be around. To me, it wasn’t fair for her to die so young. She was a child with so much to live for.”

At the Reeves residence, an eerie silence echoes throughout the home. Taylor had grown used to Bailey running up and down the stairs, blasting Beyoncé and Megan Thee Stallion as she recited the lyrics or busting into the bathroom and demanding she hurry up. She misses Bailey calling her “Ms. Girl” and even being cursed out when the two would have disagreements.

Taylor and her family will remember Bailey for the powerful force she was.

“Bailey was very strong,” Taylor says. “She lived her life for her and didn’t care what others thought. Just one encounter with Bailey and you’d remember her for life. She always left you thinking, whether it was about how absolutely beautiful, ridiculously funny, or just how downright inappropriate she was. She definitely left her mark.”

This Beyoncé fan practiced love as a verb

Cameron Glover

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Nov 20, 2019 · 4 min read

Bee Love Slater’s name wasn’t “Love” by accident. To those closest to her, she practiced love as a verb. Bee Love was a name she chose for herself when she turned 18. According to her family, she loved Beyoncé, had a dramatic personality, and was deeply generous to those she loved.

Her energy levels were unmatched. Even after working as a security guard, Bee would make time to provide for her family — giving her siblings rides to school, to doctor’s appointments, to anywhere they needed to go. This was “helpful Bee,” as her family referred to her.

But even in showing up for her family the way she did, Bee wasn’t quite as open with them about her identity. Much of what Bee did to embrace her gender she didn’t share with her family until after her transformation was complete.

“Until she did her transformation, she did not have the confidence,” Shaq Bailey, a friend, told Insider. “But I think once she got that, it was a whole transformation of going from one person who was like ‘I don’t know’ to somebody who is like, ‘This is me and there is nothing anybody can do.’ I felt like there was no stopping her.”

Stepping into who she was also required making decisions about the future, a topic Bee, who lived in Pahokee, Florida, increasingly talked about in September of this year. She spoke often about moving to Atlanta, where she could have a new start around people who were more accepting of her identity as a Trans woman than the people were in the small South Florida town she lived.

In a Facebook exchange with a friend, Bee talked about her desire to move: “Lmaoooo okay we living in the car until we can get a job and a place to stay??”

Bee didn’t get a chance to make the move.

On the night of September 4, her body was found in an abandoned car burned beyond recognition by county police in Clewiston, Florida. Bee was 23 years old. Her death is being investigated as a homicide. In September, police said it was too early to determine if it was a hate crime. In November, they said her case was not being considered as such. The investigation is ongoing.

“I identified with her in heart, as a Trans woman of color. I grew up in the area where she was murdered — these very same people and streets that she frequented. It was like looking into a mirror,” says Gabrielle Lee Hurst, who works as a mental health technician in Fort Myers, Florida. “She was very well-known. I was friends with a few of her buddies and we were all kind of connected, so I know that she was definitely loved and had some backing support from others in the community. Very inspirational, she loved to encourage other LGBTQ community members. Once she went under the knife to have top surgery, that really did numbers [for her confidence].”

This complexity that comes with navigating Bee’s own identity was to be expected. She was only one of two out Transgender people in the area, Gabrielle says. Bee wasn’t an activist but did have a presence in the area. “If she was here, she would be proud and out about who she is. Unapologetic about it,” Gabrielle says. “She was just bold, very brave. She was happy to walk and live in her truth.”

“She was bigger than the very small town that she was in. She wanted to spread her wings and get out of there, build her life bigger than that.”

Bee’s death was even more devastating for the local community because it echoed what happened to Yaz’min “Miss T” Shancez five years prior. Yaz’min was a 31-year-old Transgender woman from the same town whose body had been found in Fort Myers, Florida. Her death has similarities to Bee’s.

“There was definitely a lot of fear, and a mixture of being heartbroken and we were just, kind of, wanting to see some sort of justice,” Gabrielle says. “But we were still afraid. It caused a heightened sense of awareness because it’s the second time that something’s happened this year.”

Bee’s legacy continues on for those in the community as well as her family, who are finding a balance between their own grieving process and being thrust into the public eye.

“She was a human being, more than anything,” Gabrielle says. “She was out and proud, but it came at a cost, and she was afraid that she was in danger. She was bigger than the very small town that she was in. She wanted to spread her wings and get out of there, build her life bigger than that. She wanted to live and experience life, advance in her transition, get her gender marker and name changed. That much I do know.”

Love was her name, and now, it will be remembered as part of Bee’s legacy.

She hoped moving to Houston would be liberating

Mary Retta

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Nov 20, 2019 · 3 min read

Houston is not where Itali Marlowe grew up, but it was the place she set out to make a home. It is seemingly where she moved when she came of age and where she lived her truth as a proud Trans woman.

Little is known about the 29-year-old Itali. Even in reporting this story, it was difficult to gain insight into the life she lived or a true sense of the life she wanted. But what seems apparent is that Houston is where she leaned into her self-determination during her formative years. In some ways, Itali hoped Texas could be liberating.

Black Trans activist Dee Dee Watters didn’t know Itali personally, but says it was her understanding that Itali moved to Houston for a fresh start and to get away from a contentious family situation.

Though Texas leads the nation in Transgender murders, with at least 16 known killings in the past five years — including at least four Black Trans women killed in the state this year — it is still a home for many in the Trans community. Even with a thriving LGBTQIA+ community in Houston, the state lacks protections for Trans people, making the community even more vulnerable: The state’s hate crime statute does not cover gender identity, and Houston repealed its nondiscrimination ordinance after a citywide vote in November 2015.

On September 20, Itali was killed in Ridgemont, a small neighborhood in Houston that extends into Fort Bend County. According to Monica Roberts, a Texas-based Transgender rights advocate and creator of the TransGriot blog, police officers responded to a shooting call to find Itali lying in the driveway of a Houston residence, having been shot multiple times. She was then taken to a nearby hospital, where she was declared dead.

“I was in charge of the call to action after Itali’s death,” Dee Dee recalls. “It was difficult to find her loved ones, because it seemed like she didn’t have many in Houston. The funeral service had already happened by the time I found out about her death, and then her body was shipped out of state to be with her family.”

Even with a thriving LGBTQIA+ community in Houston, the state lacks protections for Trans people, making the community even more vulnerable.

Police have charged 23-year-old Raymond Donald Williams, who was living with Itali at the time, for the murder. Witnesses say they saw Williams fleeing the scene of the crime on foot, and no one could find him for several weeks after Itali’s death. Police later apprehended Williams.

The exact nature of Williams’ relationship to Itali is unclear. According to Dee Dee, the police initially marked Itali’s death as a case of intimate partner violence, but this was never confirmed. Intimate partner violence has had a profound effect on many communities but has been particularly relevant to the Transgender community as of late, especially given the recent murder of Tracy Single in Houston.

“Rest in Power, Itali,” Monica wrote on her blog, before the suspect was apprehended. “We won’t rest until this perpetrator is caught, prosecuted, and incarcerated for your murder.”

A sense of belonging and support was key to her survival

TatshaRobertson

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Nov 20, 2019 · 4 min read

Brianna “BB” Hill was part of “The Dior Family” in Kansas City. Like many Transgender women who find themselves alone on the streets, BB created a strong bond with her chosen family.

Activists say the ritual of creating your own family highlights the perilous situation BB and many in the Transgender community find themselves in. BB lived in the shadows, struggling to create a place in life. “She knew all the hideouts [to keep herself safe],” says Kris Wade, executive director of the Justice Project KC.

Around the time of her death, 30-year-old BB was living in an abandoned apartment. She was also visiting Kris, who was helping BB get her life in order. “That meant getting a place to live, getting some medication to build stability,” Kris shares. “That is what she was all about lately. She had a lot of things coming at her, but she was really good at surviving.”

Kansas City is one of the hardest places in the nation to be an LGBTQ youth or adult, according to Jorge Basaure-Carrington, a victims advocate at the Kansas City Anti-Violence Project. Jorge says racism, discrimination, and intolerance keep Black Transgender women like BB from getting proper medical care or even the housing they deserve. It’s not unusual, he says, for federally funded organizations to refuse to help or house women like BB.

“This is a tough state,’’ Kris says. “There are no real protections for LGBTQ folks.”

People who knew BB say her days were consumed with figuring out how to survive on the streets. “It’s very hard to focus on your dreams and hopes when you’re trying to figure out how to survive the night when it’s six degrees outside,” Kris says. “There’s nowhere to go, and you have no Medicaid anymore to get your medicine. It’s a downward spiral for people in poverty and very difficult for those in the LGBTQ community who have been left out of homeless shelters.”

The two met when BB was a teenager. “She was her authentic self every day. When I met her as a teenager, she was already very conscious of her identity,” Kris says.

She was intelligent, with a wicked sense of humor and a quick tongue for comebacks.

Kris says BB preferred to be called Brianna or BB, though sometimes she spelled her name Breonna, Breona, or BeBe.

Those who knew her describe BB as tall and slender, with high cheekbones. She was also intelligent, with a wicked sense of humor and a quick tongue for comebacks. Despite all the hardships, she managed to keep her looks up. Her hair and makeup were always on point.

But life wasn’t easy for BB. On May 24, BB made national news when Kansas City police, responding to a trespassing call, beat her and pinned her to the ground. A passing motorist recorded it on video. The video footage is hard to watch as a police officer slams BB’s face to the ground while she helplessly screams, “Oh, God help me!”

One activist says BB was waiting at the door of a beauty supply store to meet a street advocate when the store owner complained and called the police. Police say officers reported that BB physically resisted arrest.

The Kansas City Star editorial board wrote, “While police contend this was a case of resisting arrest, the aggressive tactics continue long after the suspect, who was accused only of misdemeanor offenses, appears subdued.”

After the incident, BB tried to create a fresh start. But on October 16, tragedy struck again: BB was killed by an unidentified man, who remained at the scene until officers arrived. Details of what happened that day are still unclear. Sergeant Jake Becchina, a spokesperson for the Kansas City Missouri Police Department, says an argument led to the shooting. He added that police believe BB’s identity didn’t play into the fight. According to police, the alleged shooter is not currently in custody, but the case has been presented to the prosecutor’s office for charges.

When BB was in the room, there was no mistake. She was very boisterous, just an exuberant young woman.

Activists say BB’s death cut especially deep within the LGBTQ community because she is the third transgender or gender-nonconforming person killed this year in Kansas City.

“A very bright star went out,’’ Kris says. “She was a firecracker.”

Now that BB’s gone, Kris can’t help but think of the first time they met. “I was on outreach, walking through the streets one night. I stopped and chatted with BB. She was with one person I knew, who introduced us. She was like a bright little button,” Kris says. “When BB was in the room, there was no mistake. She was very boisterous, just an exuberant young woman.”

A sense of belonging and support was key to her survival

TatshaRobertson

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Nov 20, 2019 · 4 min read

Brianna “BB” Hill was part of “The Dior Family” in Kansas City. Like many Transgender women who find themselves alone on the streets, BB created a strong bond with her chosen family.

Activists say the ritual of creating your own family highlights the perilous situation BB and many in the Transgender community find themselves in. BB lived in the shadows, struggling to create a place in life. “She knew all the hideouts [to keep herself safe],” says Kris Wade, executive director of the Justice Project KC.

Around the time of her death, 30-year-old BB was living in an abandoned apartment. She was also visiting Kris, who was helping BB get her life in order. “That meant getting a place to live, getting some medication to build stability,” Kris shares. “That is what she was all about lately. She had a lot of things coming at her, but she was really good at surviving.”

Kansas City is one of the hardest places in the nation to be an LGBTQ youth or adult, according to Jorge Basaure-Carrington, a victims advocate at the Kansas City Anti-Violence Project. Jorge says racism, discrimination, and intolerance keep Black Transgender women like BB from getting proper medical care or even the housing they deserve. It’s not unusual, he says, for federally funded organizations to refuse to help or house women like BB.

“This is a tough state,’’ Kris says. “There are no real protections for LGBTQ folks.”

People who knew BB say her days were consumed with figuring out how to survive on the streets. “It’s very hard to focus on your dreams and hopes when you’re trying to figure out how to survive the night when it’s six degrees outside,” Kris says. “There’s nowhere to go, and you have no Medicaid anymore to get your medicine. It’s a downward spiral for people in poverty and very difficult for those in the LGBTQ community who have been left out of homeless shelters.”

The two met when BB was a teenager. “She was her authentic self every day. When I met her as a teenager, she was already very conscious of her identity,” Kris says.

She was intelligent, with a wicked sense of humor and a quick tongue for comebacks.

Kris says BB preferred to be called Brianna or BB, though sometimes she spelled her name Breonna, Breona, or BeBe.

Those who knew her describe BB as tall and slender, with high cheekbones. She was also intelligent, with a wicked sense of humor and a quick tongue for comebacks. Despite all the hardships, she managed to keep her looks up. Her hair and makeup were always on point.

But life wasn’t easy for BB. On May 24, BB made national news when Kansas City police, responding to a trespassing call, beat her and pinned her to the ground. A passing motorist recorded it on video. The video footage is hard to watch as a police officer slams BB’s face to the ground while she helplessly screams, “Oh, God help me!”

One activist says BB was waiting at the door of a beauty supply store to meet a street advocate when the store owner complained and called the police. Police say officers reported that BB physically resisted arrest.

The Kansas City Star editorial board wrote, “While police contend this was a case of resisting arrest, the aggressive tactics continue long after the suspect, who was accused only of misdemeanor offenses, appears subdued.”

After the incident, BB tried to create a fresh start. But on October 16, tragedy struck again: BB was killed by an unidentified man, who remained at the scene until officers arrived. Details of what happened that day are still unclear. Sergeant Jake Becchina, a spokesperson for the Kansas City Missouri Police Department, says an argument led to the shooting. He added that police believe BB’s identity didn’t play into the fight. According to police, the alleged shooter is not currently in custody, but the case has been presented to the prosecutor’s office for charges.

When BB was in the room, there was no mistake. She was very boisterous, just an exuberant young woman.

Activists say BB’s death cut especially deep within the LGBTQ community because she is the third transgender or gender-nonconforming person killed this year in Kansas City.

“A very bright star went out,’’ Kris says. “She was a firecracker.”

Now that BB’s gone, Kris can’t help but think of the first time they met. “I was on outreach, walking through the streets one night. I stopped and chatted with BB. She was with one person I knew, who introduced us. She was like a bright little button,” Kris says. “When BB was in the room, there was no mistake. She was very boisterous, just an exuberant young woman.”

A sense of belonging and support was key to her survival

TatshaRobertson

Follow

Nov 20, 2019 · 4 min read

Brianna “BB” Hill was part of “The Dior Family” in Kansas City. Like many Transgender women who find themselves alone on the streets, BB created a strong bond with her chosen family.

Activists say the ritual of creating your own family highlights the perilous situation BB and many in the Transgender community find themselves in. BB lived in the shadows, struggling to create a place in life. “She knew all the hideouts [to keep herself safe],” says Kris Wade, executive director of the Justice Project KC.

Around the time of her death, 30-year-old BB was living in an abandoned apartment. She was also visiting Kris, who was helping BB get her life in order. “That meant getting a place to live, getting some medication to build stability,” Kris shares. “That is what she was all about lately. She had a lot of things coming at her, but she was really good at surviving.”

Kansas City is one of the hardest places in the nation to be an LGBTQ youth or adult, according to Jorge Basaure-Carrington, a victims advocate at the Kansas City Anti-Violence Project. Jorge says racism, discrimination, and intolerance keep Black Transgender women like BB from getting proper medical care or even the housing they deserve. It’s not unusual, he says, for federally funded organizations to refuse to help or house women like BB.

“This is a tough state,’’ Kris says. “There are no real protections for LGBTQ folks.”

People who knew BB say her days were consumed with figuring out how to survive on the streets. “It’s very hard to focus on your dreams and hopes when you’re trying to figure out how to survive the night when it’s six degrees outside,” Kris says. “There’s nowhere to go, and you have no Medicaid anymore to get your medicine. It’s a downward spiral for people in poverty and very difficult for those in the LGBTQ community who have been left out of homeless shelters.”

The two met when BB was a teenager. “She was her authentic self every day. When I met her as a teenager, she was already very conscious of her identity,” Kris says.

She was intelligent, with a wicked sense of humor and a quick tongue for comebacks.

Kris says BB preferred to be called Brianna or BB, though sometimes she spelled her name Breonna, Breona, or BeBe.

Those who knew her describe BB as tall and slender, with high cheekbones. She was also intelligent, with a wicked sense of humor and a quick tongue for comebacks. Despite all the hardships, she managed to keep her looks up. Her hair and makeup were always on point.

But life wasn’t easy for BB. On May 24, BB made national news when Kansas City police, responding to a trespassing call, beat her and pinned her to the ground. A passing motorist recorded it on video. The video footage is hard to watch as a police officer slams BB’s face to the ground while she helplessly screams, “Oh, God help me!”

One activist says BB was waiting at the door of a beauty supply store to meet a street advocate when the store owner complained and called the police. Police say officers reported that BB physically resisted arrest.

The Kansas City Star editorial board wrote, “While police contend this was a case of resisting arrest, the aggressive tactics continue long after the suspect, who was accused only of misdemeanor offenses, appears subdued.”

After the incident, BB tried to create a fresh start. But on October 16, tragedy struck again: BB was killed by an unidentified man, who remained at the scene until officers arrived. Details of what happened that day are still unclear. Sergeant Jake Becchina, a spokesperson for the Kansas City Missouri Police Department, says an argument led to the shooting. He added that police believe BB’s identity didn’t play into the fight. According to police, the alleged shooter is not currently in custody, but the case has been presented to the prosecutor’s office for charges.

When BB was in the room, there was no mistake. She was very boisterous, just an exuberant young woman.

Activists say BB’s death cut especially deep within the LGBTQ community because she is the third transgender or gender-nonconforming person killed this year in Kansas City.

“A very bright star went out,’’ Kris says. “She was a firecracker.”

Now that BB’s gone, Kris can’t help but think of the first time they met. “I was on outreach, walking through the streets one night. I stopped and chatted with BB. She was with one person I knew, who introduced us. She was like a bright little button,” Kris says. “When BB was in the room, there was no mistake. She was very boisterous, just an exuberant young woman.”