From The Guardian
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| Recently deceased Mia Henderson. Picture from The Guardian via Facebook |
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.
Both Henderson, 26, and Hall, 40, were black, both were born male (as Kevin Long and Ricky Hall respectively) 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.
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 Joe-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.”
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