Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR) has become like a holy day of obligation, a day of mourning and tragedy, a day for trauma to be resurfaced hourly, particularly for the Black trans sisters who are most at risk for violence. And a disappointing routine has also emerged, one in which these narratives are shared ad infinitum with no call to action on actually solving the problem, and not even a sliver of hope. But let this TDOR be different. Let us hold honoring those taken, and those powerful Black trans women who hold up a banner of hope for their communities every day.

We can’t ignore the history of this day. The first observance was held in 1999—a year after the brutal Allston, Mass. murder of 34-year-old Rita Hester, a Black transgender woman who was beloved by her community. With trans advocate Gwendolyn Ann Smith at the helm, it was a radical gesture at the time to even discuss openly what was happening to the trans community, to even take our lives seriously.

Even then, that dynamic of violence wasn’t new. Activists like the now-lionized Sylvia Rivera had fiercely called out the silence of the larger cisgender gay and lesbian community, possibly inspired in some way by the mysterious death of her friend and fellow LGBTQ+ community foremother, Marsha P. Johnson. One of Rivera’s last major fights was on behalf of Amanda Milan, a 25-year-old Black trans woman who was murdered in the streets of New York City. But despite her clarion call to establishment LGBTQ+ organizations, most notably the Human Rights Campaign, there were no major shifts in attention or action.

This year marks the 20th annual observance of TDOR and while some things have changed, many others have not. There certainly is much more attention placed on these instances of murder. Every few weeks, sensationalistic headlines about slain trans women of color are shared widely on social media. In June, the American Medical Association officially acknowledged “the disturbing pattern of violence toward Black transgender women.” Democratic Presidential contenders like Sen. Elizabeth Warren, Julián Castro, and Beto O’Rourke (who recently dropped out of the race) have all made statements about the epidemic. And I can’t tell you how many speeches I’ve heard this year from the executive directors of nonprofits that highlight the violence, or the number of posts I’ve seen on social media about it by well-meaning folks doing their best to signal solidarity.

Despite this increased visibility on the murders of Black trans women, there still is very little investment in those who are living and fighting to make conditions for their community better. While the names of our slain sisters are peppered in talking points from supposed allies, there is major resistance (due to a frothy mix of racism, misogyny, and transphobia) to trusting and developing the efforts of Black trans women. As became clear last month, when more than 100 trans organizers and activists signed an open letter to HRC for leapfrogging trans people of color-led organizations and initiatives, there is a need for a major reallocation of resources within the LGBTQ+ community.

We can start with acknowledging that no one knows how to solve this epidemic of violence better than Black trans women. We live with this threat every day and for decades we have been carving out our own methods of survival. That’s why in 2018, with the support of an Open Society Foundations Soros Equality Fellowship, I founded Black Trans Circles (BTC). This project of Transgender Law Center, the largest trans-led organization in the United States, builds healing justice spaces for Black trans women in areas of violence to work through oppression-based trauma, develop our unique leadership skills, and strategize on how to make our local communities safer and more secure.

When BTC launched two years ago, Louisiana was ground-zero for anti-trans violence. There had been three murders of Black trans women—Jaquarrius Holland, Chyna Gibson, and Ciara McElveen—in the course of two weeks, and our team was particularly concerned with how the women in their community were coping with such tremendous loss. So, we held a two-day convening for 12 Black trans women to discuss violence, safety, security, healing, and empowerment. In the year after that gathering, the women continued to strengthen their relationships with each other and one cohort member, Wendi Cooper, launched a grassroots campaign, CANS can’t STAND, to challenge their state’s anti-trans crimes against nature legislation.

This year’s convening solidified the importance of Black trans women being resourced to create our own spaces for healing. We hired Mariah Moore, a formidable leader from our first cohort, and — with the support of TLC national organizer Micky Bradford and TLC@SONG Southern regional organizer Kayla Gore — we doubled the number of participants and extended the convening by another day. There was more realizing, reckoning, and reclaiming of our individual and collective power. A highlight of this convening was a visit from New Orleans Mayor LaToya Cantrell, who spoke directly with community members about increasing access to housing and healthcare for Black trans women.

The efforts of BTC are stellar, but—as highlighted in Out magazine’s Trans Obituaries Project—our initiative isn’t the only one working to alleviate the effects of violence. All across the country, trans women of color are moving our community from tragedy to transformation. In Atlanta, Solutions Not Punishments Collaborative is repurposing a local jail as a wellness center to better serve their local community. In Los Angeles, Familia: Trans Queer Liberation Movement is gathering resources for detained trans immigrants. And in New York, organizers like Cecilia Gentili and Ceyenne Doroshow are fighting to decriminalize sex work and keep trans women of color out of the criminal justice system.

On this TDOR, as we honor the 20+ trans women of color, mostly Black trans women, who have been taken far too soon, let’s elevate and support the work of the women who are still here. Black trans women deserve to exist. We deserve to heal. And our leadership must be prioritized if we are ever going to be completely liberated from the shackles of ignorance and hate that society has placed on us.

Raquel Willis is the executive editor of Out magazine and the founder of Black Trans Circles, a project of Transgender Law Center.

