Light Shining in the Darkness: Transgender Day of Remembrance in Boston

Early yesterday evening, as the nearly full moon rose above the Boston Common, my partner, our thirteen-month-old and I headed to dinner with a friend and then wandered around the corner for Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR). Upon arriving at the Cathedral Church of St. Paul, I was amazed at how many people were already there, even a half hour before the start of the event. Before the night was over, between 325-350 people would crowd into the space, including the balcony (and I got those numbers from the ultimate source, Jim Woodworth, one of the cathedral’s longtime sextons).

One of my favorite things about TDOR is the way it draws people together—I love touching base with people I haven’t seen in a while, and this year I was struck by the variety of contexts from which I knew people: from the Greater Boston trans community, current and former students, and Episcopalians from the Diocese of Massachusetts. In the latter category was the Reverend Stephanie Spellers, priest and lead organizer of the Crossing, and Penny Larson, drummer for the music team of the Crossing, which for the second year in a row hosted an open mic on Thursday for the local collaborative “Transcriptions.” Penny gave some very moving remarks later in the event, which are reposted below.

Also present at TDOR for the first time this year was my bishop, the Right Reverend M. Thomas Shaw III. He had just come from a eucharist celebrating the 100th anniversary of the clothing of the sisters of St. Anne-Bethany, and was present to deliver a welcome message.

When the MC for the evening, Mesma Belsare, called Bishop Shaw forward, I have to say my heart was absolutely pounding, and I found myself wondering why. I think it was because of the intense way my worlds were intersecting in that moment. And while TDOR was hosted by my congregation over the last two years, and I myself spoke in the slot that +Tom was now occupying, last night’s intersecting worlds felt more intense to me. This was probably because the event was unfolding in this same space in which I was ordained in 2004 and 2005-- actually, as I write this, I’m realizing that last night I was sitting just about where I sat and then stood during my ordination to the diaconate, which +Tom did. But mainly I think I was nervous because I know that members of the trans community have been hurt very badly by people of faith, and especially by churches—in the name of my God. And I was, I admit, concerned that Bishop Tom not say anything to exacerbate that hurt.

He started out by saying that before he welcomed everyone, he wanted to offer an apology. He wanted to apologize for the way in which Christians in particular have hurt transpeople, how Christians have, as he put it, “misrepresented God” to transpeople. Then he went on to reference the work of trans people in this diocese, at which point he referenced me and my colleague Chris, both of us transmen and priests here. I was very moved and humbled by what he had to say about us. He went on to say that both the church(es) and the world are made more whole by the full participation of transpeople in their midst and in their lives. He closed by saying it was therefore a particular honor for the Cathedral to host TDOR.

The applause for +Tom was sustained and, I sensed, at least from those sitting around me, that people were quite moved and perhaps even a little surprised by their positive response to +Tom’s remarks. Of course I can’t know how anyone other than myself, and those who later commented to me, felt—but that was the sense I got.

A number of speakers got up and spoke from their hearts throughout the event, ranging from transpeople to non-trans allies. There were people who spoke of having avoided coming to TDOR in the past because it was too scary, or felt too potentially victim-oriented to them, but who now felt differently. Particularly moving to me were the remarks of young people—one non-trans twelve-year-old spoke of one of her parents, a transwoman, and how lucky she felt to have her as a parent. Two young transmen spoke about the importance of reaching out to trans youth, and to watch especially closely for warning signs of suicidality. Two parents of a young man who died here in MA a few years ago spoke very movingly about their commitment to and love of the community. Several people spoke of people they knew who had taken their own lives, or attempted suicide, and several people came out as suicide survivors. In the wake of the intense reflection in this country about LGBT suicides this fall, this sequence of speakers gave a very important reminder that the T is very much part—indeed, likely even more at risk – of this wider pattern. But risk and loss were counterbalanced by resilience: people spoke of how they have reclaimed their lives, and of how important it is to protect and nurture one another’s unique humanity. One person spoke of this need with beautiful metaphors of light.



That image resonated yet more at the conclusion of the event, when the huge group split into two for the candlelight vigil. One group went across the Boston Common to the State House to read the names of the dead and then walked to the gazebo at another spot on the Common for a final gathering, while the other group went directly to the gazabo. As the groups left, my partner and I decided we needed to take our wiggly little guy home, so after chatting with other stragglers for a few minutes, we gathered our things together and made our way to the back of the cathedral. As we exited the swinging glass doors and stood with Jim out on the cathedral steps, we watched a long train of candlelight slowly make its way across the common, majestically moving from the State House to the gazebo.

The light shone in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it.

CP



*********************************

Penny Larson’s remarks, which are also posted at her blog are below:

Good evening. Thank you for coming, and welcome to my home.

I showed up on these steps four years ago, less than six months after my transition, and I was welcomed as an equal sister. I drum here, and I worship here. The Crossing community has prayed for me and laid hands on me during my process. They have marched with me and lobbied with me. This past Easter Bishop Shaw received me into the Episcopal Church as I delivered the sermon during the Cathedral’s Easter Vigil. I feel blessed and humbled to be a part of The Crossing community, and I am profoundly moved that my family is helping to host this Transgender Day of Remembrance.

As you know, this is a somber time, when we remember those that have been lost in the last year to violence. Sometimes the price is high when one lives an authentic life. There is fear, and misunderstanding, and hatred. Whatever the number of people we recognize this evening as lost during this last year, I suspect that the true number is higher. We simply are the victims of violence far more often than could be explained by mere random chance. We are targeted.

I have a dear friend who wonders why we do this every year, I believe she says something to the effect that we are celebrating our victim hood. And I admit that the heaviness of this day weighs upon me, even though this is only my fifth Transgender Day of Remembrance. It might be easier to just let this day slide by with barely a notice, to pretend that a day to remember our dead was unnecessary. But then the easy thing isn’t always the right thing. So while I’m very happy to have been involved with a special open mic night co-hosted by The Crossing and Transcriptions as part of Trans Awareness week, which was far more positive and celebratory, I think the importance of this night can not be overstated.

This past August, I volunteered at the inaugural season of Camp Aranu’tiq, a camp specifically for trans and gender-variant kids between the ages of 8-15. I got pretty attached to those kids, and I’m sure I’ll be back next year. Those kids were amazing, and it was a joy to be around them. This is our next generation. Many of them were experiencing the thrill of being themselves for the very first time at camp. Those kids just want to live happy lives being the people they truly are.

But the reality is stark. And the world that exists presents all sorts of difficulties for those who are perceived as different from some arbitrary standard. I want the world that those kids grow into to be so much closer to perfect than the world I grew up in, and yes, even the world as it stands now. I want those kids to grow into a world where they won’t have to go to a camp to be met with unconditional understanding and acceptance. My mother, when I was very little, taught me to always know that I am no better than anyone else, and I am no worse. I believe that we can all live together, celebrating each others similarities while basking in our uniqueness.

And so it is on this night, more than any other, that it becomes of paramount importance that we stand to fear and hatred, whether from within or without, and refuse to be anything less than our full selves. It is on this night that we should embrace the rich diversity that exists within our world of community, allies, supporters, friends, family, and loved-ones. It is on this night that we must change the world.

Thank you for joining us!

A Holy Trans Week

Earlier this week I got an email from the Massachusetts Transgender Political Coalition (MTPC) detailing "Transgender Rights Week in New England," an amazing confluence of events: in Connecticut today there was a Gender Identity and Expression Lobby Day in support of their non-discrimination bill; in Rhode Island this evening there was House Judiciary Committee hearing about their hate crime definition; tomorrow (April 8th) New Hampshire is possibly holding a second vote on its transgender non-discrimination bill. And at the State House in Boston MTPC held a rally in support of the Massachusetts non-discrimination bill, "An Act Relative to Gender-Based Discrimination and Hate Crimes".

And as if the stars weren't already apparently aligning, Iowa's supreme court unanimously legalized equal marriage last Friday (April 3), and this morning, Vermont's legislature overrode it's governor's veto, making Vermont the latest state to claim equal marriage.

I arrived with fellow members of the Interfaith Coalition for Transgender Equality(ICTE) at 10am. What an amazing sight it was to emerge from the main stairs and see so many people gathered-- at least as many as last year, and likely more. MTPC has now put up a number of photos from the event (source of the photos in this piece).

I was honored to briefly speak as one of the co-Chairs of ICTE (the other being Mycroft Holmes) and to introduce two other clergy speakers, Rabbi Stephanie Kolin (photo, left) of Temple Israel in Brookline, and Rev. Will Green, Pastor of St. Nicholas United Methodist Church in Hull. I'm hoping to be able to reprint their remarks in the coming days. In the meantime, what struck me about Rabbi Stephanie's comments was her strong claim that the work we are all doing is holy work, and that the place in which we were standing was a holy place. Pastor Will (photo, below right) passionately underscored how supported we are in our struggle by communities of faith-- much more than we know.

In our own ways, each of us reflected our convictions that religious traditions and communities of faith *should not* be assumed to be anti-trans, despite the terrible reality that many transgender people have been betrayed by communities of faith. Nevertheless, some of our strongest wellsprings of support can, do, and should come from precisely communities of faith and the rich traditions they sustain.

One particularly firey speaker-- whom I had to follow directly (!)-- was the Honorable Byron Rushing, a member of the Massachusetts House of Representatives. He spoke of how we weren't gathered to gain the rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, because we already have those rights. Massachusetts has failed to live up to its obligation to guarantee those rights, he said, for which the state has no excuse. We were there to hold the state to account. Amen!

We heard several speakers who shared stories of discrimination and extreme difficulty. One such story was told, haltingly, by Ken Garber, the father of a transgender son, CJ, who died a couple of months ago. I remember Mr. Garber speaking in support of his son at the hearing last Spring, and it was so devastating to hear of CJ's death. I attended this young man's funeral a couple of months ago, and my heart has been with the Garber family ever since. Even incredibly supportive parents cannot finally protect trans young people from the pervasive toll of the cruelties that lie outside a home's door.

As I look back on this incredibly long day, the overall pattern is of border walking, crossing in and out of contexts and communities that often misunderstand one another. As a clergy person at the trans lobby day-- and quite visibly clerical at that-- I felt like an emblem, a living, breathing progress report on how far religious traditions in general and my own in particular have come in their support of transgender people, and the distance they still have to travel. And so it was important to me to state quite clearly the truth for which the Interfaith Coalition for Transgender Equality stands: that people and communities of many faiths support transgender people, and that transgender people come from and claim many faith traditions. I talked about how proud I am that my own diocese, the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts passed a resolution in support of exactly what we were doing at the State House today. The audience interrupted me at that point to clap, which really moved me. I was reminded of moments at Trans Day of Remembrance and Diocesan Convention last November, when the intersections of my particular faith and gender journeys felt not only present but in some sense uplifted.

I then said that for Christians, this week is Holy Week, the most significant, and indeed holy, week of the entire liturgical year. And I said that, for me, being at the State House and doing what I was doing right then was a spiritual practice, a fitting complement to the several other spiritual practices of prayer and worship that I will be doing as this week continues. These practices are of a piece for me, I explained, because of the narrative that propels the events of Holy Week: the movement from bondage to freedom, from fear to hope, from death and despair to transformation and newness of life.

After the conclusion of the event, a parishioner and I made our way first to the Cathedral Church of St. Paul where a service of "the Blessing of the Holy Oils" was in progress, and then to the university department where I am teaching a one-on-one course ("Junior Tutorial") this semester. When we got to the cathedral, Bishop Tom Shaw was in the midst of his sermon, sitting in the central aisle. As we stepped into the cathedral, directly opposite him, he was in the middle of saying, "gay, lesbian, bisexual..." I felt like something of a transgender jack-in-the-box, with my "trans rights now" sticker still stuck to my lapel from the rally. I imagine Tom was saying something celebratory about the Vermont override, the announcement of which had elicited prolonged cheering during the rally.

The theme of the service was healing-- the various ministries of healing, lay and ordained, taken up by people throughout the diocese. There was a moment in the service when people in healing ministries were invited to come forward for the anointing of the palms of their hands. I walked forward with my parishioner, who recently started a queer, non-sectarian spirituality group at my church (called "BEND"). I loved seeing people with whom I work in the diocese in this context, in the middle of this intense week. And particularly after being at the rally, it felt good to walk across the Boston Common and into the cathedral. I felt both a sense of difference between how I spent my morning and how I imagine most people in the cathedral spent theirs, and a sense of affirmation that I was indeed walking from one holy space and activity to another.

From the cathedral, I made my way to a coffee shop, where I finished preparing for my class. Somewhere between the Statehouse and the classroom, I divested myself of both the "trans rights now" sticker and the clerical collar, aware of myself crossing into yet another communal space, this one academic. The course, "Thirty Years of Trans Studies" is a blast to teach, and also very much of a piece with the morning's activities.

What a day it was. And the holiness of the week continues.

Boston Transgender Day of Remembrance, 2008

Last Thursday, November 20th, my parish, St. Luke’s and St. Margaret’s Episcopal Church (or ‘SLAM,’ as it is affectionately known) hosted Boston’s Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR). For coverage of the event by the Allston/Brighton Tab, click here, and for coverage by Bay Windows, click here. Bay Windows photographer Marilyn Humphries took some wonderful photos, which you can view here.

I can’t express strongly enough how proud I am that we hosted this event. As a member of the trans community, I’ve been attending TDOR for several years in other locations. The event’s origins also emerge out of the two metro areas that I have called home: Boston and the San Francisco Bay Area. TDOR was started nine years ago by San Francisco trans activist and writer, Gwen Smith, to mark the one-year anniversary of the murder of transwoman Rita Hester. Hester, meanwhile, had been murdered in the Boston area on November 28, 1998. And, in a realization that sent chills down my spine, she was murdered only blocks from my parish, in Allston, MA. When I first came to SLAM as their priest in 2006, I had not quite made this connection between my parish’s neighborhood and this event that has become a catalyst for transgender activism around the world. But as the ten-year anniversary of Rita Hester’s murder approached, the realization hit me like a ton of bricks.

Personally speaking, part of the gravitas I was overwhelmed by was the intersection of my worlds. I came to SLAM as an openly transgender man as well as an Episcopal priest, and while I don’t tend to overly compartmentalize my life, these facets of myself have never before been so simultaneously, fully present. The event M.C., Judah Dorrington, put it best in inviting all those gathered to allow all of themselves to be present that evening.

It was a night more evocative of January than November, hovering in the mid-twenties, but the chill couldn’t keep people away. From 6 p.m. on, people kept filing into the church. We had set up extra chairs, enough for about 175, but by start time, we were beyond capacity. People were standing in the aisles, sitting on the floor, piled toward the back. Without a doubt, I have never seen so many people in my parish — certainly over 200 -- and I wonder when the numbers have been matched in parish history.

As the event began, with Judah singing Marvin Gay’s “What’s Going On,” I wondered if I would be able to speak without loosing it, being one of several slated speakers. I had something brief written out, but when I stood up and really took in the sight of all those people, I decided to just go with the flow. I talked about how proud I and the parish was to be hosting the event. I reflected on how Judah’s exhortation to bring all of ourselves to the evening’s event rang more clearly for me that night than ever before. I talked about how pervasive and psychically pernicious anti-trans violence can be. And I recalled when I first really became aware of that culture of violence.

My partner and I had moved to Boston the summer of 1995, unaware that transwoman Debra Forte had been killed three months before. That fall, as I began my Master of Divinity Degree, I became an intern at the Fenway Community Health Center’s Victim Recovery Program. Part of my duties involved being a Victim Advocate, at the other end of one of the phones when someone called to report an instance of anti-lgbt or same-sex domestic violence. Then Channelle Pickett was murdered. I remember it particularly clearly, not only because I was interning at the VRP at the time, but also because she died on my birthday, November 20. It was overwhelming and horrifying to be at the nerve center of the LGBT community response to an anti-trans murder just as I myself was beginning to grapple with my own gender identity.

When Rita Hester died in 1998, I had graduated from divinity school. I was a new postulant in the ordination process in the diocese of Massachusetts, and was working full time in homeless services. In the three years between these murders, my own gender quandary had begun to feel like a shadow; I knew ducking from it was ridiculous but I couldn’t help trying. By November, this escapist strategy was beginning to wear thin, but not enough to change course. That’s probably why I didn’t attend the rally in Allston that year. I wish I could say otherwise.

I also have found, over the years, that going to a TDOR not only requires confronting the death of Rita, Channelle, Debra and way too many other community members. It also calls upon us to confront the myriad other losses that we undergo, past, present, and sometimes worst of all, potential/future. We can’t help but be reminded of our vulnerability.

And yet, ten years later, we have come so far, far enough to transform our future with hope. Numerous speakers echoed that truth, particularly Diego Sanchez, who reminded us all that we are not victims but victors. Ten years ago, the tasks that lay before us appeared like a mountain we had barely begun to climb. Now we are halfway up that mountain. Of course, I don’t know how big the mountain truly is. But I do know that we have made huge strides and that as we continue our ascent, our resolve and solidarity will need to keep growing. As the Rev. Kim K. Harvey of Arlington Street Church put it (and I paraphrase), regardless of our differences of belief and identity, regardless of our losses and grief over them, we can and we must claim a shared vision.

After the speakers, everyone filed out of the church with candles, making our way down Brighton Avenue with a police escort, to Union Square. We made a huge circle in front of the Jackson Mann School and read the names of the dead. The list comprised transpeople who died around the world this year plus those who have been killed in MA in any year, for a total of forty-eight names. From the school, we walked to the side street on which Rita Hester lived. Quietly, we stood outside her apartment building and held a moment of silence. A small, single candle was placed outside the door. Then we returned to the church for hot drinks and refreshments.

Though their tone certainly couldn’t derail the spirit of the evening, we were confronted by hecklers, both on Hester’s side street, and as we passed the Brighton Avenue bars on the way back to the church.

But what struck me repeatedly throughout the evening was a strong feeling of community solidarity and determination. I was so moved to meet a number of parents, friends, and other allies of the trans community—it felt like there was a larger than number of allies at TDOR this year than in years past, which strikes me as especially important. In one case, parents introduced me to their son, the mother explaining to me that she was using his chosen name for the very first time in that moment. I met other young people, some still in high school, just coming out. I talked with veterans of the Boston trans community, some of whom I have seen around but never officially met. I also enjoyed getting to catch up with old friends. And I was moved as I talked with several people about our various faith traditions and the challenges of being trans people of faith.

For me, there was something truly cosmic and transformative about Thursday night. By being present at that particular time, and in that particular place, we were able to be present to a horror, and, as several people put it, to re-member the humanity of those we have lost. In that process, and in that movement — in our words at the initial gathering, our walking and reading of names, our marking of Rita’s home, and our return for warmth and conversation -- we seemed to take on a new resolve, to claim even more strongly, our own humanity.