The murder of two African American women in the span of six weeks has left an already marginalised community on edge

There is nothing in the alleyway off Garrison Boulevard, in north-west Baltimore, to mark the spot where Mia Henderson was struck down earlier this month, some time in the lonely hours between 2am and 6am. The crime scene tape has been removed, the blood washed away, and nothing has been left in its place to honour her memory.



“When other folk are killed, you know all about it,” said Michele Moore, 31. “But where are the flowers, where are the candles and cuddly toys for Mia? Where are the leaflets asking people to come forward with information? There’s none of that.”



For a few days after Henderson’s murder there was a ripple of media attention, fueled by the revelation that the victim’s brother was Reggie Bullock, a player with the NBA’s LA Clippers. But it didn’t last long. Baltimore took note of her death and moved on.



But there’s no such luxury for Michele Moore and her “sisters” – the tight-knit band of transgender women of colour to which Henderson also belonged. They can’t move on, because for them the brutal murder was personal.



They remember Henderson as a “good girl, soft-spoken, harmless, she wouldn’t hurt a fly”, as Ashley Anderson, 25, put it. Monica Stevens, 60, said she carried herself well: “I learnt from my mother and aunts that ladies are supposed to carry themselves with dignity, with a certain kind of grace, and I saw that in Mia.”



Six weeks before Henderson died, a second trans woman, Kandy Hall, was found murdered in a field in Montebello, five miles from the alleyway. The circumstances of the two murders are sufficiently similar to have stoked fears of a connection.



‘I don’t want to be a headline in the newspapers’



Both Henderson, 26, and Hall, 40, were black, both were born biologically male but had transitioned to living as women. Both were murdered in relatively isolated locations. Both bodies were discovered in the early morning, Hall’s on 3 June, Henderson’s on 16 July. Hall had been stabbed, and though police have yet to reveal the cause of Henderson’s death, they have indicated that both women suffered massive trauma, suggesting frenzied attacks.



“Detectives are looking at any similarities between the two cases,” confirmed Captain Eric Kowalczyk of the Baltimore police department, declining to give further details.



The thought that a serial killer might be at large continues, two weeks after Henderson’s death, to grip the “sisters”.



“It’s scary trusting anyone,” said LaSia Wade, 27. “That bus driver, he could be the killer; that taxi man, he could be looking at me and thinking: ‘That’s a transgender woman, I’m going to knock her off.’”



Jean Rollings said she was shocked when the news broke of the Henderson murder. “I thought, damn! Someone is targeting transgenders. I’m 48 years old, I don’t want to be a headline in the newspapers.”



The reverberations are more keenly felt because for many the fear of violence is already present in their daily lives. Studies suggest that throughout the country trans women bear the brunt of anti-LGBT violence – African American trans women in particular.



Facebook Twitter Pinterest Lasia Wade and Monica Stevens in Baltimore. Photograph: Ed Pilkington for the Guardian

The 2011 national transgender discrimination survey, the largest study of its kind, found that almost two-thirds of respondents reported they had suffered physical assault. A separate survey by the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs, focusing specifically on violence against LGBT people, found that of 18 homicides motivated by hate in 2013, 72% of the victims were trans women, and 78% were black.



Kylar Broadus of the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, which published the 2011 discrimination survey, said that reliable official statistics do not exist. Incidents are grossly under-reported, a problem often compounded by misidentification of victims who are listed by their gender at birth. “If folks aren’t aware who transgender people are, how are we going to be counted?” Broadus said.



Taking matters into their own hands

In the absence of official records, the transgender community has taken to keeping its own account of those who have died as a result of hatred or prejudice. A spreadsheet compiled by the website Transgender Day of Remembrance gives the details of 170 violent deaths in the US between 2000 and 2012. Baltimore, according to the spreadsheet, has had eight transgender murders in as many years, since the transgender activist Marcus Rogers was set on fire in 2006. Then Stacy Brown, Dee Green, Tyra Trent, Tracy Johnson and Kelly Young, before this summer’s toll – Kandy Hall and Mia Henderson.

The Guardian talked to eight trans women of colour in Baltimore, hearing a range of experiences that broadly correlate with nationwide patterns. Only a couple of the women said they had never been assaulted. “I’ve lived from here to Las Vegas, and I thank the lord to this day that I’ve never been hurt by anyone,” said Jean Rollings.

Others have not been so lucky. Malia Mai, 26, recalled the disturbing turn that one of her relationships took a few years ago. She had been getting to know a man, and aware of the sensitivity, had shared with him her transgender identity early on. But when they were intimate sexually for the first time, he grew angry, claiming she hadn’t told him. The next day, he called her and apologised profusely. Please come over and let’s make up, he said. She drove to his house, and when she got out of the car he came out to welcome her and approached her as if to embrace. But instead of a hug, he gave her a punch in the face. And then another, and another.

People in the street came to her rescue, shouting: “Leave her alone! Leave her alone!” He shouted back: “No, no, she’s not a she, she’s a man,” and when they heard that, her rescuers backed off. He continued beating her until a woman passing in a car stopped and let her climb in, and they drove away.

And then there’s what happened to Joi-Elle White when, as a young woman then living in New Jersey, she dated a man for several weeks. “I told him my T,” she said, explaining that T stands for Truth – that is, her transgender history. “I told him at the beginning, because I didn’t want to be heart broken.”

For three months they enjoyed a loving though largely platonic relationship, White resisting further intimacy because she didn’t want to get sexually involved until she could absolutely trust the man. “We held hands, kissed, went to the movies, hung out with his family and friends. He made me feel I was his special girl, no problem.”

After three months, she felt comfortable enough to agree to spending the weekend with him. “We went out to eat as normal, then turned in at his house. So there I am, sitting on the couch, and there he is, sat next to me.”

Doors flew open. Men rushed into the room. Bodies came at her from all directions. She remembers thinking there were a lot of men, like at a house party. Only, these men weren’t there to party. They started to punch her, grab at her. She kicked and scratched to fend them off. Then she hurled herself through a glass window, landing outside the house and scrambling away.

What would have happened if she hadn’t leapt through that window? “There’s only so long I could fight them. They would have killed me, I know that.”

It has taken White, 39, a long time to rebuild her confidence. She has trust issues to this day, she said. She will not date any man unless both he and his entire circle of family and friends are apprised of her “T”. Rarely does she let anyone stay over at her home, and when she does, she makes sure to have a 12-inch kitchen knife under the pillow.

Experiences like Mai’s and White’s have repercussions for all the “sisters”, not just those directly involved. It leaves each of them a little more distrustful, a little more on guard. All the women said they tended to keep their distance from other people – straight people, black people, white people, even other trans women like themselves if they’re white – everyone, that is, other than their own kind.

“We’re scared,” said Wade. “So most of us stay by ourselves. We don’t get involved, we don’t get close to anybody.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Women affiliated with outreach group Women Accepting Responsibility, from left: Tracy Rice, Joi-Elle White, Michelle Moore, Bella Berkeley, Ashley Anderson. Photograph: Ed Pilkington for the Guardian

‘A blessing and a curse’

The “sisters” work hard to become “passable” – to look like biological women so that they can move around without disturbance, particularly in the workplace. “That’s why a lot of us go to the great measures we do to become passable, getting surgery and facial feminization and stuff like that, so we can get jobs,” said Ashley Anderson.

But you have to be careful. If you start looking too much like someone born as a woman, and you fail to disclose your background clearly to men with whom you become involved, there can be consequences.

“Being passable is a blessing and a curse,” said Monica Stevens, her long brown dreads swaying a little as she spoke. “There’s an added layer of betrayal and anger when a person finds out. ‘You fooled me, you betrayed me, you have to pay …’ ”

Tracy Rice, 47, who works with the outreach group Women Accepting Responsibility, agreed that “a lot of them feel that you played on their manhood. They think they’ve got to have some retribution.”

That’s a particular danger for black trans women who fall into prostitution – a fate that befalls many as a result of unemployment and poverty exacerbated by employer discrimination. The national transgender discrimination survey found that one in six respondents had been forced into prostitution or drug dealing just to survive. Both Mia Henderson and Kandy Hall had police raps for sex work, public records show.

The Baltimore police say they are determined to give the transgender community equal protection under the law. “We know transgender people feel threatened and targeted every day they walk out of their house. We don’t want to see an entire segment of our community live in fear,” Kowalczyk said.

Under its new police commissioner, Anthony Batts, the department has been making efforts to reach out to the LGBT community, and to black trans women in particular in the wake of the murders. Before announcing Mia Henderson’s death to the wider public, Batts addressed a meeting of trans women to assure them of his determination to track down the perpetrator or perpetrators.

Kowalczyk said: “These crimes are going to be solved as a result of community input – we know how tightly knit the transgender community is, and it is our sincere hope that somebody in that community is going to know something that will help us find who was responsible.”

But suspicion of the police runs deep. All the women said they doubted the force would conduct a thorough investigation or solve the murders.

They shared anecdotes of routine harassment by police – officers stopping them to demand ID papers, addressing them as “Sir”, or accusing them of loitering when they were only standing at a bus stop. LaSia Wade recalls an officer calling her “It”. She gave him an earful: “‘It’ is not something that I am,” she told him. “I am a woman. If you can’t call me a woman, then you call me by my name. Nothing in between, nothing less.”

Despite a world of troubles, the women said they remain resolute. “As trans women we are taught to be strong,” said Mai. “We learn how to keep moving, keep your head up, be strong.”

For Wade, the future is bright and bleak all in one. She is optimistic. She looks at her “sisters” and sees them increasingly “living their truth, coming into the light. Every day I wake up thinking that if I take one more step, I might get where I need to be.”

Still, she says she has tried to commit suicide three times – a reflection of national surveys that show an astonishing 41% of transgender people have attempted to kill themselves, compared to just 1.6% of the general population.

“It’s tiring, it’s sad,” she said. “I know that I will never be safe. I will always have to hustle, grind, keep on pushing. I will never be just OK.”