Tag: suicide

Surviving Here: A letter for Bryn Kelly

Posted on by JAC
The trans community has lost a talented, intelligent, and beautiful person. Bryn Kelly was an artist, a musician, a singer, an activist, a writer, a role model, a leader, a mentor, a friend… She cared strongly for others and was deeply loved by her communities.
*TW this post is a response to suicide and includes discussion/feelings about it. The content of this post may be triggering for anyone struggling with thoughts about suicide or self-harm. Please take care of yourself. <3*
Dearest Bryn, I was just thinking about you last week. I had randomly found a photo from the day we met. It was ten years ago but the memory is clear. You were so beautiful and I was so awkward. I was surprised you even acknowledged me but in your eyes, I was family. I felt immediately bonded to you. The reason we were different made us the same. It was my first Pride and though we were only a few years apart in age, you were so much older than me. I remember the novel freedom I felt, the type that only comes from being with your own kind. We were kids running on pavement, crossing through alleys and hanging in backyards. You said, “Let’s take a picture and I’m going to look sly in the background.”
Bryn Kelly JAC Stringer
I choose to remember you with this picture because of how much we loved it when it was first taken. I love the silly joy it represents. I love the two of us in our jean jackets. I felt like such a badass in that jacket, though few people agreed with me lol. You lovingly joked that even though you’d moved to New York, you still had enough Ohio in you to love your jean jacket. You told me about your hometown and said I’d be better off if I got out too. Bright eyed, I told you my plan to stay and make things better. I perfectly remember your emotional face and loaded voice when you said, “I think that’s great if you can manage to survive here.” I’d only been out a few months and I couldn’t comprehend the complexity of your emotions. You explained that someday I might have to leave to take care of myself but I didn’t believe you. I didn’t know I was sitting at a fire that had already burned you. For years now, we’ve both been living in that fire and we’ve both been burning up.
 
Every year or two we’d cross paths; we’d be on a panel, share a workshop, catch up in a conference room corner. Sometimes we’d talk about Ohio, or being trans, or femme, or artists but mostly we just talked to each other like we were people… people who maybe didn’t have lives clouded by oppression. I could see sad things behind your eyes; you could see sad things in mine. It was normalized. In the trans and queer community, we expect to see each other suffering and death, well it doesn’t surprise us. Despite all this, I’m always left in shock when one of us is suddenly gone. Processing the loss of a human being is a very strange thing. I don’t know how to recognize the disappearance of life. So much of our existence depends on what we conceive to be real. Dying doesn’t erase a person’s realness. I don’t know how to reconcile the difference between being alive and dead. It just comes down to how long it’s been since I’ve seen you. When I found out, I was overwhelmed with heartbreak. I’d well up in tears which would dry into momentary anger; repeat, repeat. I’m so fucking angry. I know that grief always comes with anger, but I believe there is a particular formula reserved for the oppressed. This didn’t happen by chance and it isn’t a coincidence that you are who you are, what you are, and that you are gone. This is the result of the way the world treats us.
I lost another red head in my life this past year: a young person I used to work for/with in Cincinnati. In personality and practice, she couldn’t have been more different from you, but she was one of us. The last time we spoke, she said she wanted to live a better life. I told her she was strong enough to do it. Within a year she was dead. Several people publicly blamed me for her death, claiming I hadn’t created enough resources for her. The fact is that there are not enough resources for any of us. We are not behind the wheel of this machine but we are inside it, each of us trying to slow it down if with nothing else, with the weight of our bodies – our existence. Is the weight of the living heavier than the dead? Some people say the soul weighs 21 grams but we are carrying more than our own souls. The tribal Elders talk about how Native people’s history is held in our bones. Research on historical trauma confirms that pain is not limited to one moment or even one lifetime. You and I, we are bearing a load passed down from our ancestors. Even if there is not a single other trans person in my family line, I am carrying the history of our people and so were you. If the weight is too heavy, I could never blame someone for putting it down. I know what it is like to be tired like that. I can try to carry some of that weight for them. I wish I could have carried some of that weight for you. We aren’t weak for struggling, we are human. Our bodies are not ecologically designed to sustain the emotional and physical torture of oppression. The fact that so many of us live so long is proof of how strong we are as a species and as a community. Sometimes I think that nothing I do will ever be enough. I just feel that there is nothing for me to do but to keep working, keep fighting… And I hate that no matter how hard I fight, I will never be able to save you. You’ve crossed over to a place I’m not yet allowed to go. It’s not your fault. I love you.
Once I called you a songbird and you laughed saying it was a first. When I think of you, I think of fiery red hair like a phoenix, 1950s dresses with cowgirl boots, cardigans and bluegrass notes… I think of Ohio and jean jackets. I admired you too much to relate to you, but I was proud we were both grown out of the same soil. We stretch our roots in search of stronger soil, cleaner water. You’ve grown so tall now, you’re in the sky. I’ll keep growing, working on the ground. I’ll survive here.
Bryn Kelly
UPDATE:

Please check out this scholarship in honor of Bryn.

The Bryn Kelly Scholarship for Trans Women/Trans Femme Writers

 

Why I Didn’t Jump: What I wish I told Leelah Alcorn

Posted on by JAC

*Trigger Warning* This post discusses suicidal thoughts and suicide. Details are minimal, but I have placed a *TW* in front of a paragraph that may be especially triggering. Please take care of yourself. <3

The last time I saw Leelah, she was smiling. She was a kid who was easy to remember. Cincinnati Trans Community Group isn’t a huge program, but it’s big enough that sometimes I need a minute to remember names and faces. Strangely enough, the people I remember best are the ones who rarely attend. Something in their face burns into my memory; I can see how much they want to there, to meet someone like them… It is a feeling I know very well. So, when those rare-comers come to sit in my black plastic chairs, they get the bulk of my attention, even if the meeting is packed. When I was little, I learned a story that said, “When a shepherd of one hundred loses one, he will leave the ninety-nine to seek the sheep he has lost.” Similarly, a person can be separated from the community and to find us, they must brave the wilderness. I go to find them as I once wanted someone to find me. Leelah braved the wilderness, and that is how I met her.

While running group, I am either watching faces, or listening as I look down at a circle of shoes. Once Leelah wore sneakers, another time she had chunky heels. Her eyes were dark, nearly matching her hair which she swooshed to one side over her eyebrows. Usually I can see the sadness in someone’s eyes, even when they smile. Leelah smiled quite a lot. I could see her sadness and I saw what looked like hope each time we spoke, or as she spoke to other trans people in group. That is what I have chosen to carrying with me. It’s a gift from her. I could not anticipate the rest.

In the trans community, suicide is a common part of the conversation. In fact, suicide has become such a normalized part of the trans narrative that many people, especially youth, consider it to be a probability for them. According to a 2014 study by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, the rate of suicide attempts within the U.S. non-trans population is 4.6%, whereas the rate within trans populations is a staggering 41%. And while most trans people don’t know this exact statistic, we know that suicide and trans identity are well acquainted. And in case you are thinking that maybe this trend is crowdsourced, keep in mind that my organization serves trans kids seeking help for suicidality who are as young as ten years old. These kids have never met another trans person in their life, but once they do meet us, they start to get better. Trans people do not struggle with suicidality because we are trans. It is because we are oppressed; we are exposed to negative things in our lives that make us doubt the safety of the world around us, and doubt ourselves.

*TW*

It is not weak to want to end your life. The desire may even be understandable. At least, I understand it. I am not a spokesperson for all who have practiced self-harm or considered suicide, but I am one of those people. Sometimes I am nervous to admit it, but I am not ashamed. From recent event, one particular instance has been popping from my memory. When I was 16, I sat on a high story window ledge with concrete below. The details are mine to keep, but I will tell you that my dad came in to talk to me. He made me feel loved despite all the things I felt were “wrong” with me. He made me feel accepted, even when I felt like a freak. He left the room, I made it to the next day, and here I am now. When someone dies too soon, especially from suicide, I wonder why I made it when they didn’t. I’ve heard many people say that it is luck. The pills didn’t take. The phone rang. The sun came up. Maybe it was luck that my dad came in when he did, but one thing is certain; if I didn’t know people who make me feel like I deserve to live my life, I surely would have ended it a long time ago. I don’t consider myself dependent on others to survive in a literal sense, but I recognize that my mental and emotional wellness is linked with participating in a loving community. The need to belong is one of the most powerful forces we humans know. It drives us to seek out others for companionship, for affirmation, for recognition, and affection. I used to consider myself weak for needing other people and was fairly certain I could survive well enough without them. Being a radical trans activist who came out some years ago in a hellishly conservative Midwestern city with no visible trans community, one can come to understand the terrorizing impact of isolation very quickly. However, my battle with isolation didn’t start then. It has followed me from my early days as a gender non-conforming, disabled, just plain weird Indian kid. For many years, I thought being alone meant I was strong but I confused isolation with independence. Independence is a healthy state; being isolated is unhealthy or even dangerous. Isolation is not the action of one or even a handful of people, it is a systematic method of violence. Isolation may well have been my first enemy in life, and so it continues to be a primary objective in my work. It’s a violence that can strike anyone, and those who are shunned by society are easy targets. It has the power to rob us of our own sense of humanity and tear our souls apart. Such is the struggle of many trans people. Society tells us we do not belong. We are separated, singled out, and confined to where we cannot equality participate and many cannot meet even our most basic needs. In that rejection, we are told we are not worthy of love, or life. As a result, some of us take our own. Suicide is merely one of the many forms of violence trans people face and it is the result of trans oppression. In order to survive its impact, we as trans people need sources of strength. Without making the assumptive comparison that I know every reader here is going to make about a certain family, I grew up with a consistent source of love and, no matter how faint, the sensation of being loved. I was able to feel accepted on the most basic level which made me able to bear the rejection I find elsewhere. I can’t say I have borne it well, but I made it to adulthood. And as an adult, I was driven to fight that rejection, which turned into activism. My passion for activism gave me what I had been lacking; it wasn’t a will to survive, but a drive to make my survival mean something. That is why I am still here today.

I want to be clear; I do not struggle with self-harm and suicide because I am trans, but the oppression I experience as a trans person has impacted my life and wellness significantly. Fortunately, it is no longer an everyday battle for me to stay alive. That is a privilege. I have seen threats of death, from both inside and outside of myself. I have learned the value of life, and the benefit of love and friendship. And while life holds many obstacles, it brings many opportunities too. The longer I live, the better I am able to comprehend life as a gift, and not a burden. It is possible to light the darkness, and keep it lit. If I had jumped, I would never have learned that. I wish I had said this revelation louder, and to more people. Maybe if I had, one person would still be here. But, one person’s death is not the problem; it is a symptom of society’s attempt at trans erasure. Our community does not need to “come out” – we are already here. We have always been here. Others will try to isolate us, tear us from each other and from our own sense of self. It is up to us to fight, to stay present, and if we can, survive. If we look at the practical elements of the lives of trans people, what happened to Leelah is not hard to comprehend. In the past week, I have brought the same statement to every news interview, meeting, and microphone: Leelah’s situation is not unique. I work with people like her every day; people, mostly youth, that are cast out from their families and communities; are rejected and refused, controlled and destroyed by the wasteland that is my beautiful Midwest. And it is more than geography. It is our inability to access resources, often because the resources do not exist. Those of us on the front lines of trans activism continue to struggle to meet our people’s needs; to combat the transphobia, the racism, the poverty that tries to smother us. Yes, there are trans people on TV, but I am too busy trying to keep the trans kids on the street alive to watch it. I hate the fact that I have to explain the death of a kid as a “reality of our community.” I resent the response of shock from those who I have been begging for help all these years. Each day cisgender straight and gay systems continue to appropriate trans experiences for their own agendas; they ignore trans voices and draw resources away from our community to pad their own. They only notice us when they find it in their best interest. They do not understand that their self-oriented good intentions are contributing to trans erasure. While these outsiders are gaining a sense of freedom in “unity,” I am feeling suffocated by their sudden demands. I know the high road is not to focus on how an ally got here or how long it took, but that they’ve arrived. I truly, honestly am glad to see them. I can’t wait for more to show up. The trans community is speaking, the rest are learning to listen. But while society has been taking its time to get here, I have been scanning the landscape, wondering if those lost people ever made it. I remember every trans voice that never called back, every kid that stopped showing up, every face that has disappeared into the wilderness. I carry them with me and I will always wonder if I could have done more. I know I have the right to feel angry at late-comers, but I am striving to process that hurt into forgiveness, and then friendship. We must do the best we can, as it is all we can do. I am grateful to anyone who is willing to join the trans movement. But even the best efforts can result in failure. I am grateful for what little support I was able to give Leelah. I have few joys comparable to what comes from seeing trans people truly connect with one another; seeing them smile. I saw Leelah smile. In the end, what I had to offer was simply not enough. It is not my fault, but I feel the guilt of this loss. I try to embrace these feelings because in this sorrow is the remembrance of all those we have lost. Each time one of us dies, I see the work I have not yet done. I know I cannot control this society, but I am angry at my failures to protect my people from it. I want to be the shield for the bullet, and I would take a bullet if it meant no one else ever would.

Due to a lot of factors, I’m simply not at my best right now. After Tiff’s death, I felt very helpless, and now I find those feelings returning with the loss of Leelah. When I am feeling powerless, it helps to create something, so this week I have created as many spaces and outlets for my trans community as I can. It wasn’t until I found myself weeping in the grocery aisle, lamenting that no brand of cookie could fill the holes death has left in my community that I fully realized how raw my soul has become. Later that night, I walked a room full of trans people; one after another, people sought me out for comfort. Each time, I am struck with a mix of gratitude and desperation. I am grateful for the chance to help, and I am desperate to be able to give it. In these people, I see myself. Their struggle is mine, and I want to help us all. I am overcome by the desire to better our lives, so much that sometimes it makes me weak. When I am with my people, listening to them and offering support, I am filled with the richness of life. Where I was empty, I am full; where I was broken, I am healed. As trans community of trans people, partners, and family members (chosen and blood), we are strong and whatever strength we are lacking, we can find in each other. And while I am here in Ohio, there is someone in Pennsylvania, in Michigan, and everywhere that trans people are fighting to save each other. And I am slowly finding that we are not alone. In the last week, I have witnessed a greater outpouring of support, encouragement, and activism than I have ever experienced as a trans organizer. After so many years of working for a cause that few to none were willing to acknowledge, I am unsure of how to react to the kindness I have been receiving. It is heartbreaking to me that this surge of attention came at the cost of a kid’s life. It disturbs me that the death of one white young woman is noticed more than the death of countless young women of color. But despite all of that, I am grateful to everyone who is taking action, be it by sending an email after we haven’t spoken for years, bringing me food, making yourself visible for the sake of supporting others, writing to the media, or planning/attending an event. I am grateful to my fellow trans people, locally and around the world, who work to fight injustice. Thank you for sharing your hearts; you are filling mine in this moment of grief.

I will remember Leelah for the rest of my life. I will remember Tiff. They are not the first to be lost and they will not be the last, but I am here to fight for them and for our community. I have been building a beacon for my people to see and I am calling to anyone who might hear me. I am waving the light I so desperately sought when I came out. This light is heavy; it burns my hands and sears my eyes, but I am waving it to you with dedication and desperation. Come find me. Wait for me. I am looking for you. Don’t jump.

 

RELATED FOLLOW UP POST: Fixing Society: Leelah Alcorn, Cis Allyship, and Trans Erasure

 

If you are struggling, remember that it is a sign of strength to ask for help. Talk to the people you love. If you are in the Midwest, you can call us at Heartland Trans Wellness. You can send me an email to talk it out. OR 24/7 call Trans Lifeline at (877) 565-8860, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (800) 273-TALK, or Trevor Project at 1-866-488-7386. If it is an emergency, call 911. You are not alone.

If you would like to help the efforts of Cincinnati’s trans community, you can donate to Heartland Trans Wellness Group, offer to volunteer, or share the link and encourage others. Thank you for the support.