If all you are left with is an echo of a murder… How we remember trans murder victims
Trans day of remembrance is a time for reflection and sorrow within the LGBTQ+ community, yet on a regular basis the media globally publishes stories about trans lives lost to the violent acts of others. These murders are an almost weekly occurrence in some countries, while in others they are treated as shocking occasional acts. I have been going through the media record surrounding over 50 of these lives lost, and it struck me that the last, final, imprint these people have left is their violent death. The joy they brought to life, the way they lived their lives is left to others to recount, and in its own way adds a layer of tragedy that is hard to fathom.
Brianna Ghey in the UK has had hundreds of articles written about her post mortem, covering her murder in exhaustive detail. Yet, while she did leave Tik Toks behind for us to peer into, who she was in life is just an echo of who she actually was. This is the same for any life lost, but when you are a trans person murdered by others the single defining feature of your life is often that you were a trans murder victim above all others. Much about the rest of your life is left in the very long shadow that casts, and that for me is a double tragedy of this violence.
It cuts to the heart of the trans experience in the public sphere. Once you come out you are never simply yourself alone your trans identity follows you around for the rest of your life. Even with all her accomplishments April Ashley will forever be remembered as the first trans woman to visit Casablanca for her surgery. Jan Morris will always be known as the Everest writer who transitioned. Lili Elbe, Christine Jorgensen, Roberta Cowell, I could go on. Trans murder victims will forever be trans in the eyes of the media, only known for their victimhood, not the vibrancy of living as their authentic selves.
Everyone has their own way of dealing with loss and mourning. Some cultures take the Victorian route of black sombre periods of sorrow, others wear bright colours and have a celebration. How we mourn and remember is as much a part of who we are as how we live and celebrate. There is no one way to remember trans murder victims, especially if they were complete strangers whose only connection to us is their death. This bond of tragedy, this vicariousness, has meaning that transcends the victim’s lived experiences, for their death is a reminder of the potential violence that awaits all trans folk. Yet, is there something about their lives that is worth more than a name at a vigil? Is there not a case for celebration and coming together to transcend the tragedy? A wake as much as a day of sorrow?
This is not for me to answer. I am seeing the texture of trans lives splayed out across the media in both joy and sorrow, the reality of trans lives blurred by the vision of pain and slaughter that sells papers and generate clicks. Being trans is only a burden because society has made it so, the tragedy of the trans experience is that society makes us tragic figures, leading folk to see us as worthy of only death and defilement. Trans people live vibrant and mundane lives, lives full of joy, lives tipped in sorrow. There is no one way to exist in this world, and no two trans murder victims lived the same life. They are worthy of remembering beyond the act that slew them, more than a name honoured by candles.
Murder is such a final act of violence that it breaks apart how we perceive the person prior to the act. To be a murder victim as a special place in society carved out by centuries of press sensationalism and the language used to describe them. How we are told about the victims, how we frame our understanding of them is always second-hand accounts of their lives, for they cannot speak for themselves postmortem. All their joy, all their vibrancy is forever sundered by that final moment. Is it in bad taste to suggest we need to unpick the sorrow and find the joy? To bring back a part of the vibrancy into the sorrow? Vicarious grief is a part of this conversation, but where is the vicarious joy of those lives lived.
The more I read about these victims the more I want to bring them to life beyond their final moments. The murderer should not get the final say on how they are remembered. No murder victim was a victim in aspic, they were alive in all their shape and colours. An echo of a murder is a faint thing indeed, and a candle is fainter still. Maybe this is the one thing that my research can help shape long term is that trans lives are richer than just being trans, that our lives veritable light houses shining out for those who care to look. Murder is violent and wrenching, but all the moments before that are worth celebrating too.
