The violence that afflicts the lives of Black trans women keeps us wondering when. When be the day that we are a headline, a mis-gendered corpse that elicits hashtags and sweet memories from those who claim to know us best. I’ve written before about keeping up with my murdered kin, if for no other reason than to be aware that it can happen to me too. I ain’t special , ain’t none of us too special, or too cunt or too femme to meet a bullet or get stabbed or beat to death. We die in particularly gruesome ways, when i read the reports it’s never like one stab wound or one gun shot, there’s multiple. Our deaths have a hint of seedy and even in so called respectable victims, there always seems to be a focus on the tragic, fucked up intersections of our lives that keep us meeting violent ends. I wonder everyday about safety. Think about as a concept it’s never truly been actualized by any part of my collective. Think about how alone and ostracized black transwomen are. The sum of it is Blacks are never “real women” and transgender women ain’t “real women” and it leaves us at the mercy of a society vested in killing us off. The only ” real women” are white and cis gender. Everybody else is female bodied other. That othering has real life effects that translates to needing to be harder and tougher to survive. Transwomen have it even tougher because we’re not divorced ever from our male origins. That’s why when they insult us , when men beat us up , when we’re spooked, it’s endorsed and condoned by a society that needs to oppress. That needs a target. That needs a dysfunction to project onto. We don’t matter less we become a victim, less you wanna talk about sports and bathrooms.
It is all of the above and then some why my faith in this society, in this country and world will never be worth shit. The hierarchies of people are too entrenched to ever think that you truly matter, that you can put faith in anything other than yourself. I think of my sister CeCe McDonald who survived a hate crime and was charged for it. That’s how it be . The “victims” ain’t posed to fight back. We posed to be corpses and headlines. I’m sure we all as Black transwomen have that CeCe spirit in us and we gotta channel that to survive. Kill or be kill. It’s that real. And I hate them for who they make me. Who they make us. This same world have you feeling crazy and beating ya self up when you down. But who the fuck can be up with constant attacks leveraged at ya head? Who the fuck can smile at the sun and the birds chirping and feel patriotic and consider one’s self part of a community, a city , a family when all you do is attack us. Practice some fucking empathy. Put ya selves in our shoes for one fucking minute and ask yourselves ,if you were us would you still endorse and support our alienations, our brutal murders, our lockout of general society at large? Do you know how many landmines we fight to survive?
I don’t write in jest when I think of my time coming. My interest in Black men who keep our alliances secret puts me in that prime victim group. I gotta screen mothafuckas for potential savage traits. I gotta make sure I don’t step out of line. I gotta make sure I don’t like or love a killer. You’re willing to keep them a secret. Willing to uphold the toxicity, attracted to it even. But they don’t give a fuck about you like everyone else. And get them mad enough ,you become a hashtag. I hope the day comes when one day we can be people like everyone else. Being an other is killing us.