The newspaper is streaked with blood again.
I’m reading about the story of Jax Gratton
A transgender woman like myself
Who died of suspicious and mysterious circumstances
After going missing for two months.
Another transgender sibling to shake loose the mortal coil
Before I had a chance to meet her.
Did death stalk her like a scorned lover in the shadows?
Or did the overwhelming mood of hate weigh too heavily on her shoulders?
I’m a bit older than Jax was when she died,
As if I’m tempting the Fates for threatening to become an old trans woman
In a world that wants us dead young.
And I start to wonder if I could become the next story in the newspaper
Dripping blood puddles onto your breakfast table
As I turn into another statistic like Jax.
I’ve been without a car for two years now
And I’ve become a little more cavalier
With my comings and goings than I perhaps should be.
I scuttle along Colfax late at night in skirts and dresses
Like the street doesn’t have teeth,
Like every alley isn’t haunted by the spirit of hatred
That hides in the cobwebbed corners of America.
So if I ever become a victim of the hate hounds on my trail,
Here are the things I want you to do after my death:
First and foremost, avenge me.
I’m not one of those “take the high road” dead people.
No, fuck that.
Do me a favor and nail my killer to the fucking wall.
Then burn the New York Times in my honor.
I don’t mean burn a copy of the New York Times
I mean burn the entire transphobic New York Times to the fucking ground.
Think of me.
Keep my memory alive
But don’t let me anchor you to the past.
Continue to live your life for you
And know that I’m proud of each and every one of you
As I watch you from the other side.
Know that a world that accepts trans people
As the beautiful angel creatures we are
Is coming eventually.
I didn’t get to see that world, because God is a jerk;
I’ll have a word with her about that.
But never, ever doubt that it’s coming,
We will win,
And trans people will never, ever go away.
Lastly, burn Harry Potter in my honor.
I don’t mean burn a copy of Harry Potter
I mean burn Joanne Rowling to the fucking ground.
And, as you scatter my ashes
Know that I loved this world.
And I probably loved you, too.
