mourning 101

and the monotone of grief

Juniper Blessing, age 19, photos courtesy Them.us

I am thinking today of a young woman named Juniper, someone I never met. Or maybe I walked past her on the sidewalk once on a summer day and simply didn’t know. Nor did she. That here I would be in some strange future, mourning the loss of her life, mourning her murder, mourning a pain that my community, my beautiful trans community, bears so often that sometimes it feels like the only note we can sing.

You’ve heard it, that low hum, that soft cry of pain, that note which resonates deep inside our chests for this loss. And you might think we’re a one-hit-wonder too. That’s the only song you know of ours.

But did you know that today—right this very second—you are surrounded by our voices singing a range of tones? That we are smiling and laughing and dancing nearby? Some of us are sad, some are hopeful. We are patient and bored and busy and overwhelmed. Sometimes we can’t carry all the grocery bags in all at once, and other times we give of ourselves in ways that astound you.

So I was standing at the door to my neighborhood library, and it cost me nothing to wait for a beat and hold the door for the next person coming. She tripped, and her armful of books tumbled, and I bent low to help scoop them off the ground, and we smiled in a warm way as I helped her drop them into the book return slot. I think she said thank you, and I think I shrugged, like isn’t that what anyone would do? And what if I am the next one in a laundry room who is stabbed 41 times, and that woman from the library only sees the news story and thinks this is what trans people are, murder victims, loss, sadness, mourning, and I wish that I could turn around and find her and smile again and say no, no, we are here right now.

Celebrate us right now.

Wake up and see us standing beside you, holding the door, shrugging off the thank yous, doing blatantly human things, being boring and vibrant and alive. Wake up and love us in this moment of shared imperfection, in a space where dropping your books brings us closer.

Slow down. Trip. Look up. See us. See me. And then say something. Make a memory. Tie yourself to this moment, to what your eyes know is true.

Look into my eyes so that someday—hopefully a long way away someday—you can mourn me for all the things you remember, not for the things you missed out on. Mourn what we shared. Mourn that we lived. Mourn that you knew us well.

Your trans friend,

Robin

If you or a trans person in your life are facing crisis and need support, please contact TransLifeline or the Trevor Project. You are loved, and you are worthy of love.