The first image of a trans person that left an indelible impression on me was a still of Venus Xtravaganza, a twenty-something transgender drag ballroom performer, standing on the Christopher Street Pier, in Greenwich Village. I was fifteen at the time, embarking on becoming my own woman, and I can recall that image, from the 1990 documentary “Paris Is Burning,” vividly. The sun setting over the Hudson River streaked the sky navy, yellow, and magenta. Venus’s big blond hair hovered over her lanky body. She held a cigarette as if the Village were her own front porch.

It was in the Village, on Christopher Street and the nearby piers, where many trans and queer people first shared space with others like them. For generations, these places provided mirrors for those who rarely saw reflections of themselves. On Christopher Street, there were multitudes of potential selves: transgender, transsexual, non-binary, genderqueer, femme, butch, cross-dresser, drag king or queen, and other gender identities and sexual orientations that challenge social norms.

Bree Benz, fifty-five. “My wife and I separated in January of 2015. It was in March that I made the decision to start taking hormones. I did it thinking that I was still going to stay hidden. It wasn’t until July 1, 2015, that I thought maybe I can go full time—I use July 1st as my new birthday—and by October I was living full time as a woman. Am I happy? Yes.”

On June 28, 1969, police raided the Stonewall Inn, a popular gay bar on Christopher Street. Customers, including homeless youths, showgirls, street people, sex workers, and trans folk like Marsha P. Johnson, resisted and fought back. In the following days, thousands joined the protest. Most of the protesters had no assets or property. All they had was their bodies, and they put them on the front line for the cause of their own liberation.

Nearly fifty years have passed, and Christopher Street is recognized as the birthplace of the modern L.G.B.T. movement. In June, President Obama designated the area around the Stonewall Inn as the country’s “first national monument to tell the story of the struggle for L.G.B.T. rights.”

As the neighborhood has gentrified, attitudes among some residents toward the trans and queer people who still frequent the area have soured. Class and race tensions have risen. There are more police, making the area safer for those with resources but less welcoming for those without.

Carmen Carrera (right), thirty-one, with her husband, Adrian Torres, and their daughters. “By first grade, I already knew that I had to create a character in order to fit in. Once I graduated, I went right to the Village. I wished I’d been born a girl, but that wasn’t my reality, so I thought I’m going to have to be a gay man. I started transitioning at twenty-five, when I was already successful in the drag-show realm. The gay person I thought I was started to feel like another character, and it was eating away at my soul. After that, my life truly started.”

The bold blond film subject who touched me in my youth didn’t survive to see herself on the big screen. In December, 1988, Venus was found dead under a hotel bed. She had been strangled. No suspect has yet been arrested. I wish I could say that her fate is rare among my sisters, but there has been an epidemic of violence against low-income trans women, especially those of color. Venus’s last words in “Paris Is Burning” are “I’m hungry.” It’s a call for food, but I hear a resounding plea, too, for comfort, for love, for home—a communal call from the trans people on Christopher Street, and around the country, from Honolulu’s Merchant Street to Chicago’s Halsted Street.

My community is being seen and heard at unprecedented levels, yet we are still being scapegoated. The presence and visibility of trans people challenges every one of us. These are our streets, and these are our people.

—Janet Mock

Vickyana Torres, thirty-four. “I had a long-term partner, and we raised his kids. I didn’t think it would be appropriate to do this around his kids. However, they grew up and moved out and I thought, Guess what? Mommy’s free! He’s no longer my partner, but he is my best friend. In the beginning, my kids were uncomfortable with the transition, but now that they see the kind of person I’ve become they’re accepting of it.”

Ni’Tee Spady, thirty-three. “I’m a masculine guy who loves women and I identify as a straight guy. I’ve been with the same lady for thirteen years. She was with me before my transition and during my transition. It wasn’t always easy. I went through my emotional things with testosterone. It was like going through puberty all over again. Imagine a hotheaded boy walking around the house at fifteen—and I was in my twenties. It was really tough, but I commend her for putting up with my moods. It’s something I can look back on now, and I’m really so grateful that I did it.”

Mahayla Mcelroy, twenty-four. “My family knew that I wanted to come to New York, and I made a statement by coming out here from California and surviving in the city for five years. For the most part, I’ve cut ties, but my father found me on Facebook a couple of days ago. I didn’t believe it. It’s like ripping a bandage off a really bad cut. I just wanted to get it over with. But it was definitely moving. It was definitely surprising. I didn’t expect him to, first off, find me by the name I go by now, as well as liking my pictures on Facebook, talking to me like that. It’s been a very emotional roller coaster.”

Emmett Jack Lundberg, thirty-two. “When I was in high school, I came out as a lesbian, and I dated women for most of my adult life. I first thought about the possibility that I was trans in my early twenties, and I started medically transitioning when I was twenty-eight. It’s really about comfort, and it’s about being in your body in the way that you want to be and feeling like yourself. It’s a feeling of ease. It doesn’t mean that I’m not anxious or don’t have things that worry me, but it’s just that existing in the world is easier as the person I know I am.”