Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

Content Note: anti-trans violence, death, erasure, memorials, impact, trauma. This post contains  descriptions of researching and documenting the deaths of trans neighbors. It is one person’s perspective, the perspective of a cisgender white lesbian who has been writing memorials since 2013. 

400 was the number of deaths that caused me to stumble, to doubt myself, and feel overwhelmed by everything.

As of today, I have written 400+ blog posts honoring the lives and acknowledging the deaths of trans neighbors who have died violently in the US since 2013. I call the series “In Memoriam”. I don’t know why this somber milestone carries so much weight for me. It’s a lot of people, yes, but as year after year passes by – the disproportionate impact of fatal violence on trans people has been evident. It is horrifying, but not surprising.

We’ve stood by while children lose healthcare and slots on the soccer team, while teens dehydrate themselves to avoid using bathrooms during the school day, and while adults are presumed guilty of everything. All of this is so awful, but predictable. 

At the same time, there is a toll this work of documenting 400 deaths has had on me. There should be a toll – it’s a terrible reality.

This number is abstract. I started in May 2013. I’ve missed victims. My patter song isn’t consistent. Websites like Remembering Our Dead are much more useful in terms of numerical accuracy. I work with the founder of that site. We are all of us like different threads of a tapestry that tells a story much bigger than any of us could do alone. 

But my task was never to simply provide an accounting. I chose to tell stories, to explore the lives and deaths of our neighbors. And I also chose to insert context – how did their death fit into the larger epidemic? 

I suspect a piece of my soul has crumbled into 400+ pieces that can’t be soldered together again. I feel all 400 with me, sometimes heavy and occasionally looking over my shoulder as I type – urging me to find the hidden pieces of each person’s story. They insist that my LGBTQIA+ neighbors see the headlines in their social media feeds even if they choose to turn away from the contents.

I feel the edges of those pieces leaving trails of wounds and scars, scraping layers of peaceful sleep and joy away from me. The fragments are lodged in my raspy voice, my aching body always reminding me what should not be forgotten.

All week long, I’ve wandered the Internet just waiting for the 400th person to break my heart. I’m like a ghost, wary and watchful. It’s not healthy, but it feels necessary. Is it ghoulish to be vigilant or is it simply … necessary?

At every turn, there is a deft balancing act. On the one hand, I must avoid centering my white cisgender lesbian self in narratives I’ll never experience, only witness. On the other, I must use  that same privilege, that access to carry the stories where they are least welcome but perhaps most necessary.

Still. A shattered soul and a broken heart do not lend themselves to this work.

The work is even more difficult now. The federal government has erased trans identifiers from countless databases while nonprofits with federal contracts have followed suit.When our friends and neighbors are missing, pieces of their lives are erased from the narrative – people may be looking for the wrong person, a person who never existed and may not at all resemble the lost one.

Algorithms suppress news stories and content created by the bereaved. This requires me to spend much more time in the comments, searching for info and clues.This, in turn, necessitates closer proximity to the grief, the lamentations, and the details. The immersion seeps into my conscious and subconscious mind, a polarity of beautiful lives grappling with the brutality of death. I’m sifting through context to find the true narrative amidst a torrent of grief.

It is hard in a way I’ve never experienced, a level of anguish I’ve chosen to lay on top of my personal traumas.  I see glimpses of photos, but also hear voices sharing their fears, their pain, and regrets. I’m drawn into their lives in an intimate way that can’t be severed. Particularly when no one else is paying attention. 

400 people means thousands of grief stricken survivors. I read their comments, too. Their parents, children, best friends, coworkers: disbelief, horror, and a clear uncertainty how to proceed.

There are no official transgender mourning rituals. People grieve in various ways. 

The worst is when my mind wanders to their final moments. I wonder if they were afraid. Did they understand the injustice? Did they cry out for an estranged parent or loved one? Did they die alone? Is that me imposing my fear of dying alone on their stories?

Are they at peace? Does that peace exist? 

At night, I often turn on the radio just loud enough to drown out their voices. I find myself fussing about post layout and context rather than simply sharing their story. Getting closer to them has impacted my storytelling.

I make compromises. I make judgment calls about family support. I am indecisive. I seek edits from other researchers. I don’t trust myself.

400 is too many to track the cases. Following trial transcripts, reviewing testimony, following the news for any reference to any case – or realizing there is no legal case and will be no accountability – is something I cannot do. I’m already working on the next post. 

400 has reinforced the belief that we – cisgender queer folx – are next. We are fools not to listen to trans voices, even from beyond the grave.

But it’s hard enough to bring these stories to light, raising the alarm about what comes next is just too much without more resources. Organizations GLAAD and PFLAG have been good to me in this endeavor and others. But too often I hear “Sue Kerr handles those stories” as if my solo blog were on par with a staffed newsroom. Are they shirking their responsibility by investing less resources and human capital than they in these stories that they deserve?

There are two separate issues. One is the nonprofits that are sharing news stories (including mine) to highlight the problems they are addressing–and I might add often fundraising off of them, but not acknowledging the work dozens of researchers do to uncover the full story. And the other are “LGBTQ+ media outlets”  who are driven by profit. Shame on the equity firms who see less profit reporting on these deaths than “lighter” topics.

Other persistent challenges include most of my own social media being shadow banned – just writing that sentence guarantees this post will not see the light of day – and my work being appropriated without credit. That’s a sticky wicket – visibility is what matters, but stealing my content to do so isn’t justified.

I have this whole big implosion of my personal life consuming my energy. I fear I may have to sell my blog, with those memorials, to support my own life.

I can’t profit from this work. But what do I do? How do I sustain myself on both levels? Does anyone care enough to help me figure it out?

These days the haunting trauma mingles with ICE inflicted traumas. On Instagram, Threads, BlueSky, I hear the screams and wails, piercing my thin veneer of self-preservation. You can’t unhear them. I know what must be done – share, share, share. But it is terrorizing work. Again, I have the privilege and the platforms. But the world is on fire. There’s Palestine and the rise of anti-Semitism; the impact of climate change; miliary actions in Sudan, Somalia, DRC, Myanmar, Ukraine, and the South China Sea. All of these events and places are tied to transgender citizens, dissidents, ex-pats, and more. While I do not write about incidents outside the United States, I follow them and work with researchers tracking that violence.

I think too much about bodies broken, brutalized, and literally dumped – in stairwells, on levees, in drainage ditches, abandoned houses, even tied to trees. They aren’t truly hidden, just cast out of sight as if no one will notice. As if the concentration camps we build to house innocent brown people will not one day expand to secure the movements of the trans community, perhaps in the guise of offering protection. For their own sake.

Yes, I see that coming, an inevitable next step as our society crumbles. 

I see no evidence this violence is slowing down. In a few years, my list will reach 500 memorials. 

I witness trans joy, too. A teenager reunited with her family. A trans woman hired into a very high end corporate job. Creativity and ingenuity everywhere. Defiantly joyful reels. Big and small legislative wins. The expansion of housing here in Pittsburgh and a new trans centered community center. Creators, musicians, writers, dancers and more breaking barriers. Trans centered potlucks, clothing swaps, dances, picnics, and so much more.

I share my posts with the trans community, but I’m focused on the cis community – on people who express outrage and shock when they encounter data and facts To them, I am a sin-eater, a teller of tales that are best denied, even a traitor when I prioritize trans lives over theirs or so they say. 

But my place is to remind us of all the joy and beauty snuffed out, our loss. That’s what we can’t reconcile. This epidemic of violence hurts all of us. That’s the toll, after all. I am speaking prophetically to you, describing a reality you prefer to turn away from in hopes it will not reach you.

It already has. Look away at your own peril.

I don’t remember everyone. My heart aligns with those failed by child protective services, with seniors; a disabled trans woman killed in her bed alone in her house; a trans man tortured for months; A young woman in my home town whose case has not yet been solved; the almost unspeakable levels of violence; and, my friend in real life.

Parents ‘saving’ their children by killing them; the perpetual sorrow of stigmatized sex work; he ‘Missing White Woman’ factor creeping into which stories celebrities like Patricia Arquette and Miley Cyrus share, but also very clear in the dashboard tracking who visits what page and why. That’s self-corrected because those people do not share anything now. Or if they do, it is suppressed by the social media sites. 

And, the folx who just want to be loved for their true selves. Too many have the added trauma of  their true identities erased in final arrangements by disapproving families. 

Sometimes I wonder if influences and highly popular actors regularly shared this content, if it would have an impact? 

WE have allowed our neighbors to target people simply because of their gender identity.. There’s nothing inherently or necessarily violent about trans identity. It is cis people who introduce the violence into the death rates, soccer teams, health care clinics, libraries, and the pulpits.

Of course I need help. Of course the trans community deserves more resources – donations, volunteers, supporters. Of course we cannot cede an inch on any front- legislation, school libraries, corporate bathrooms. That’s not new, but it still seems to come as a surprise when I ask for your donations to funerals, memorial scholarships, hiring private investigators, rewards, and other needs.

400 was the number of deaths that caused me to stumble, to doubt myself, and feel overwhelmed by everything.

I will continue, there’s no revelatory conclusion here. I am not screaming into a void, I’m screaming into a two parent household with a dog, a Subaru, and a sturdy thicket between family life and community life. 

I will still scream, but you have to choose to hear me. And choose to listen to your trans neighbors. 

As I’ve written this post, my mind has been focused on my trans neighbors – will they understand my intent and impact? Am I stepping over a line, centering myself to an extent that causes harm rather than exposing a painful layer of our reality? I’ve sought counsel and advice from appropriate sources.

I didn’t think – until just now – about the reaction from the other people who might read this. The fact that this may not reach many people due to shadow banning. The comments. Am I unleashing more of the vitriol I condemn by simply speaking its name? 

Here is a list of all 400 of their names. I ask you to take a look. They deserve to be remembered even as the details of their lives and deaths fade into time. It isn’t what they represent that matters, it is that their existence alone matters.

As I anticipated, the next name has come to light while I’ve been writing this post. 

Its not going to stop.