Trans Day of Remembrance

The day starts early. Skimming my friends' posts, while I fill water bowls and uselessly search for my wallet, I come across one from Dubbs, a trans man I know. Dubbs is very active in the community, and this morning he has posted a video in which he talks about the emotional impact of the ongoing attacks on the trans population. "It's like being on the gravitron, where it feels like everything is out of control, the floor is dropping out from under you,but there is some semblance of safety and security until one screw comes loose and all hell breaks loose." He goes on to describe the various ways the trans communiy is under attack and then he says, "it's too much to bear." He goes on to talk about his passive suicidal ideation, and then he puts it in a way I've never heard before. "I've thought about making it easier for myself, because its really hard right now." His post is loaded with trigger warnings and reassurances, "I'm safe," and I recognize the attempt to talk about it without triggering panicked reactions. I shoot him a message, thanking him for making the effort to express what living in this chaos is like for a trans person, and I out myself as an attempt survivor because until you know who you can talk to about this stuff, you don't know who you can talk to. Giving up on the wallet, I get on the train and fall asleep. Every so often I open my eyes and see this guy sitting across from me on the A. He's older than me, maybe in his 60s, pale skin fading into grey hair, bright blue jacket. We both get off at 42nd St and as we step through the train doors he says, "I'm embarassed for you, wearing that shirt," in a voice like a mix of Bruce Springsteen and Long Island. My shirt says "immigrants are not criminals but the president is." "This country allows free speech," I say calmly. Apparently his brain is not flexible enough to actually respond to that because he just repeats his initial statement twice more at increasing volume until I walk away. It's a busy day, the waiting room full of clients, most of them trans. There's a Gays Against Guns event at the Center, with the Human Beings, in all white and veils, representing trans lives lost to violence, but I'm seeing clients past closing time and then have a couple hours of paperwork to do. One of monday's intakes, A., a trans man recently arrived from NC, told me that he was rationing his antidepressants, so I got an emergency supply prescribed and paid for and he has come to pick them up. That settled, we start on his name change. As I fill out the forms and explain the process his astonishment is clear. "You mean I don't have to pay $250 and be fingerprinted just to be me?" The process in North Carolina sounds intentionally onerus. "Welcome to New York," I tell him, handing him the freshly printed court documents. He stares at his preferred name on the form, trying to grasp that this is really happening. It sinks in, and he is almost jumping out of his chair with excitement. I take him to see Kevin, himself a trans man, so they can figure out when to go to court to file the papers. I leave them talking and take the last client, T., an alum who has recently reappeared after years. They are shaken up about something they have heard about on TikTok, the murder of a trans woman by her boyfriend. We talked about that a few days ago, but now there's more. They show me another TikTok, this one a man going on about how people shouldn't be using the dead woman's female name, and how being trans is against God, etc. I say to T., "if God made everyone, God made queer people too." The conversation goes on to the things people say to them on the streets, and how their mother wants them to come help her but still won't accept the wig and make up. Finally, I get out of there and take the long ride back to Bay Ridge. I'm walking down the platform being annoyed that our new elevator is already out of service, the up and down indicator flipping rapidly between up and down, completely out of sync with what the elevator is actually doing. I pass a homeless guy sitting on the stairs smoking - there are usually a few homeless folks around because its the end of the line. I notice another homeless person and am struck by their flannel pajama pants and dirty purple sweater and how they are completely outside the gender binary. Just as I think this they come up to me and say, "Miss, can I come home with you?" I am startled because it's not the usual request for a dollar, but there is something familiar enough that I focus on this person. "It's me, K," they say. They're well into adulthood, so probably a long ago client, and I struggle to place them. They flip their sweater up, as though their naked breasts will be more identifiable to me than their face. "Put your shirt down," I say softly, not wanting to attract the attention of the multiple male MTA employees in the station. "I wanted to know if I could come live with you at 36th st," they say, and a light bulb goes on. "You mean Sylvia's Place." They nod yes. "I'm not there any more," I say. It's been 17 years. "and Sylvia's is 24 and under." "Oh," K says, sounding disappointed. "There's a new all trans shelter," I tell them. "I'm not really trans," they say. "There's an LGBTQ adult shelter,too" I say. They're not interested. "I have an apartment," they say, "but I wanted to come stay on 36th St." I head home, thinking I should ask Dedra, who is still keeping Sylvia's going with nothing but the sheer force of her determination, if she remembers this person.