By Monica F. Helms

On December 17, 2008, the police found the lifeless body of Jennifer Gale on the streets of Austin, TX. They speculate that she died sleeping on a bench in the cold Texas night. The only woman’s shelter in Austin, run by the Salvation Army, turned her away because they didn’t want a transsexual woman in their shelter. If she wanted to enter a shelter, she had to strip herself of her dignity by using her old male name and dress like a man so she could be allowed in a men’s shelter. Austin has a both housing and public accommodation laws that include “gender identity.”

On December 17, 2002, a passer-by discovered the body of Alice Johnston near the Chattahoochee River in Georgia with a self-inflected bullet wound to the head. The day before, she sent out a final E-mail on her Yahoo account that said, “I will soon be homeless. Since women’s shelters in Atlanta don’t take transsexuals, I’m a goner.”

(Break)

After fifteen months without a job, she found herself homeless because the people she stayed with lost their lease. Alice called all of the women’s shelters – all faith-based facilities – but they turned her down when she told them about being a transsexual. They told her that if she wanted shelter, she would have to use her no-longer-legal male name and dress as a man to gain entrance in a men’s shelter. This took place long after Atlanta passed a non-discrimination city ordinance that included housing and public accommodation.

These two deaths are similar in several ways, but when I saw the date, I cried. Yes, the harsh elements took Jennifer’s life and Alice took her own, but what got them there was the exactly the same reason, and the same form of discrimination by the same type of people. In life, Alice faced a segment of the transgender community who didn’t like her because she would not following their narrow guidelines on how to transition and how to be a woman. Even today, when I hear this kind of attitude being used, I have to scream, because Alice’s memory comes flooding back. Some of those people also blamed Alice for being homeless. Sadly, those people still do the same thing today, and my friend Alice is no longer in my life.

One of the good things that happened after Alice died came from the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force in the form of a manual written by Lisa Mottet called “Transitioning Our Shelters.” For any city that has the same problem that Atlanta and Austin has, this manual would be very helpful to the transgender community in convincing shelters to open their doors to transsexual women. All the excuses a shelter uses are debunked in this wonder manual. You can print a copy of the manual from a .pdf file on the NGLTF web site.

Jennifer led an interesting life, even running for Mayor of Austin at one time. She sang at city council meetings and could be heard singing Christmas carols on the nights just before her death. Alice served in the Army, had a degree in Library Science and could program and repair computers. They were our sisters and they faced discrimination that killed them. The homeless shelters and the City of Atlanta never took responsibility for Alice’s death, and to this day, a homeless transsexual woman will still be turned away. However, it appears that people in the Austin City Council want to take action to keep what happened to Jennifer from happening again in their city.

Some cities in the US have overcome the issue of where a transsexual can go if they become homeless. San Francisco took care of this problem in the middle 1990s. It would be nice to see this happen in cities all across the country, because there of the many homeless people in the transgender community. I’m hoping that Alice and Jennifer’s deaths will spark people in other cities to action. But, I’m afraid there will be many more joining them before something will happen.

In 1999, Amanda Schrader and I journeyed to Washington, DC to lobby Congress for transgender rights as a part of a group gathered there by GenderPAC. It was my first time in DC and my first time talking to Congress people on anything, much less transgender rights. I had been living as Monica for just under two years and was about to get a major dose of what it was like being part of a minority.

That event was special because I met several people who would become long-time friends, such as AG Casebeer, Monica Roberts, Dawn Wilson, Jessica Xavier and Ethan St. Pierre, who was not “Ethan” at the time. I also met my idol at the time, Riki Wilchins.

Amanda and I raised money from LGBT people in Arizona so we could represent the transgender community in our state. We planned on this so perfectly that we had scheduled appointments in ever Arizona Congress person’s office, with the exception of Senator McCain. It felt good to be so prepared.

(Break)

Through all of this, I saw how much attention and admiration Riki got from the rest of the community. After all, she had done a lot to help our community to become more visible. However, when someone heaped praises on her, she would act as if she deserved it. Like everyone else, I saw her as a hero and wished someday I could become a leader in the transgender community.

Be careful what you wish for.

Boy, was I an idiot . . . and in many ways, I still am. In later years, Riki fell from grace in the transgender community and our people went on to worship others for their accomplishments, or their perceived accomplishments. I met some trans people who truly deserved the label “hero,” but I also met many more who sought out the limelight for personal gratification and got what they wanted by those who didn’t know any better. In 1999, I didn’t know any better.

I have noticed that money makes our heroes. It’s a cruel thing to say, but more often those with the means to go places and make their bodies look perfect will do things to get their faces out in the limelight for all to see. Some of their fame happens accidently and they can make things happen because of it. Those are “heroes.” Others who seek fame actually accomplish important things in spite of it. But, most of the time, many aren’t really doing anything, yet people praise them for their “accomplishments” and they do nothing to point out where the praises should really go. Some have published books, while others have big important websites. And, if you challenge them even in a tiny way, you get the wrath of their adoring fans. “You dare to question the great and powerful Oz?”

In my opinion, the true heroes of our community are those people whose names you will never hear in blogs or in the press. Some are known in their local area because they help one person at a time survive from one day to the next. Some open their homes to homeless trans people, while others visit trans people who have been incarcerated for whatever reason. They work in HIV/AIDS clinics, run support groups for street people and interact with places of worship to educate them on who we are. When one of our inner city sisters or brothers is murdered, they are the ones pushing the police to investigate and not ignore. On their backs, this community rides.

For me, I have been called a hero for some of the things I have done, but as time progressed, I felt less like I deserved it and more like a glory hound. It is true my writings are visible, but I write because it is a passion of mine. I’m still active in the community, but I would rather people praise the organizations I’m associated with for what I may accomplish and leave my name out of it.

I have made transgender history and witnessed it first hand, but it is all meaningless compared to the lives of those in our community who cannot survive from day to day. My activism bio could choke a horse, but it does nothing to help the transgender veteran who is being mistreated by the VA. For ever minute of limelight I have had another one of my transgender brothers and sisters either lost their lives by the hateful hands of others, or by their own hands. It puts a whole different meaning on getting my “15 minutes of fame.”

Can anyone blame transgender people for seeking recognition? We are vilified by such a large portion of society and our families that we want to break out and show the world that we are people who deserve fair treatment. Being in the news or on a talk show can help to educate the general public on who we are, but it doesn’t make that person a “hero.” The line between being brave by appearing on television to tell your story and doing it for the publicity is one that gets blurred easily with trans people. To be at the top of the heap in the transgender community is like being the top worker ant in an ant hill. Some of the most well-known trans people in our community are vertically unknown by the rest of the world. A “big fish” in our pond couldn’t feed a guppy.

I am ashamed at some of the things I did to put myself front and center just to bask in the limelight. Today, when someone heaps praises on me for what I have done, I get uncomfortable. I always have my friend Alice staring down at me, making sure I get a dose of reality. She took her life because she could not get employment and her story should have been given to the Congress people at the recent hearings. Homeless shelters in Atlanta would not take her in and for a whole year, myself and a few others tried to convince them to change their policy, but to no avail. To me, it was one of my failures, one that has a devastating affect on other trans people in the Atlanta area. Hero? No. Never.

There is always the possibility I may once again find myself being interviewed on local issues or transgender veterans’ issues. I have to remind myself that I’m only the messenger and the primary focus has to be the issue at hand. If I deviate from the message, I know several people who will call me on the carpet, and deservedly so.

People need to step back and look at those they adore and praise in the clear light of day. Most are just everyday people trying to do what they can to help, but not all of them. Some work with people at high levels of government and others work in the trenches. None of us should be set on pedestals for anything we do, because the entire transgender community deserves a pedestal just for surviving.

To me, a military veteran, a hero is someone who puts their lives on the line to save the life of someone else. We have many in our community who have done just that, and none of them are ever asked to ride in the front of a parade. They just move on to the next person to help. These are the people who make things happen. These are the people who we should emulate. These are the people who deserve our praise, and much more. Yes, they are our true heroes.

Dear HRC,

Many things have happened since Southern Comfort, 2007. Transgender people have been taken to extreme heights of hope and depths of despair, all in a very short time. Words flowed back and forth between both sides of the issue, many that were not very pleasant to hear. We said them and they filled pages and pages of blogs and web sites across the WWW. History will judge us all harshly when that time comes. Are we prepared for what will be found? We can only speak for ourselves, individually.

That is why I am writing this letter. I have to speak for myself, as an individual, and not as a so-called leader in the transgender community. I have struggled these past months; with images of disadvantaged trans people I have known flooding my mind. I need to start following the teaching of Jesus, because in His words I find comfort. I need to settle with you, HRC.

I discovered that in order for me to better serve Jesus and do what He has set before me, whatever that may be, I have to forgive those who have hurt me. I have resisted for a long time the need to forgive you, because the hurt is so very deep. I keep seeing Alice Johnston in my mind. Because HRC was not willing to fight for total equality, Alice felt she had no alternative but to take her own life. However, my Pastor reminded me that Alice is with God and she is now without worry. Yes, she is, and I forgive you.

I have carried my anger toward you for a long time and I have acted foolishly because of it. I cannot be expected to do something out of love for the transgender community if I carry around anger toward those who have hurt me. Anger and love cannot occupy the same space at the same time. It is against the laws of physics. It is also hypocritical to my faith.

I know that it will be difficult for some of my friends in the transgender community to understand why I am forgiving you. It is the risk I have to take if I am to be about justice, act mercifully and walk humbly with God. Each person has to settle this with their God in their own way, including any of you on the Board of HRC who saw fit to support removing us from equality. It is not my place to judge.

There will be times in the future where you will once again anger the transgender community. I cannot let those moments detract me from what I am doing and what I can do to help my community. The relevance of your organization has been minimized by the greater good of my community. My God will always guide my heart and my soul on the path of inclusion, no matter what the cost.

I only hope that all of us, the HRC Board included, can be shown a way to do justice that includes all the letters of our community. When you fall short, I will be there to remind you. When you step ahead, I will be there to honor you. I hope you will forgive me for my harsh words and judgment as I have forgiven you for excluding the people of my community from your process. I pray that one day, you too will see that equality is for all and not just for those who pass as “gender normal.”

So, I forgive you and I hope you have a peaceful life.

Monica F. Helms

Marietta, GA

In 2004, the Atlanta Pride Committee had a contest to write a true story about someone in the LGBT community and I was moved to write one about my friend Alice, who took her life after being unemployed for 15 months and was turned away from from homeless shelters for being a transgender woman.

I wrote this story at the initial length they asked for and they accepted it. However, they wanted me to trim it by a few hundred words, so I did. After that, they wanted me to trim it even more and completely remove the ending. That I wouldn’t do. The ending IS the story. I hope Joe Solmonese gets to read this.

(The following is a first person account of the last fifteen months of my friend, Alice Johnston’s life, as if she may have told it. The events in this actually happened. – MFH –)

ALICE
by Monica F. Helms

I stared at the television screen in disbelief as one of the World Trade Center buildings crumbled into dust, then the next one. The horror I witnessed would haunt me for the rest of my life and the news estimated that over 3000 people lost their lives that day. What they didn’t say – or know – was how many more lives would become impacted by that fatal day. I would soon find out that I, Alice Johnston, would be one of them.

(Break)

A few weeks after September 11, 2001, the reality of a less secure world and a devastating disaster hit home for me. My boss told us all that he would have to close the doors and let us all go. Business had dropped to near zero and his small company couldn’t absorb the loss. My roommate also worked there with me.

This news scared both my roommate and me because we’re both pre-operative transsexuals. The prospect of finding a job for many people after 9/11 looked grim at best, but for two transsexuals in Georgia, prospects looked grim even in the best of times. Discrimination runs ramped and is even seen as acceptable by most politicians and employers in the state when it comes to gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people. They would rather have us on the welfare rolls putting a drain on the state’s treasury than to have us as employed, tax-paying citizens. Drawing unemployment was how my roommate and I had to survive over the next several weeks. I have learned over the years that out of the entire human race, transgender people seem to be considered the most disposable in society. And yet, we have a lot to offer if people would only give us a chance to prove it.

Both my roommate and I had marketable skills to offer potential employers. She has training in computer repair and has extensive experience in warehouse management and I am a computer technician and programmer, plus I have a degree in Library Science. On top of that, I’m a decorated Army veteran of two wars. Someone was bound to hire me, or so I thought.

Over the next several months, my roommate and I applied for hundreds of jobs, but as soon as they found out – or guessed – that we were transsexuals, all bets were off. No one would call us back for a second interview. Even when we got that sacred second interview, we would be told things like, “You’re over-qualified,” or, “We’ll call you,” or, “We have other applicants to interview.” What they really wanted to say was, “Get yer sorry faggot ass out of my office!” I would have accepted that much better than their lies and deceit.

The time came when my roommate and I had to move out of our apartment and put our things in storage. We still had some weeks left on our unemployment, so that would help a little. I planned on moving in with a friend and my roommate decided to see if Iowa would provide her better opportunities than Georgia. I love Georgia too much to want to move.

Packing my things was a terrible time for me. I enjoyed my video collection and my music, but I wouldn’t be able to take them to my friend’s house. When my roommate and I finished packing and moving everything into the storage unit, we shut the door and locked it. I had a strange feeling that I would never see my things again. Sadness came over me and I began to cry. People I helped in the past rejected helping me. The transgender community of Georgia turned their backs on me. I lost my job and had no prospects and I would have to rely on the kindness of a person I hadn’t known very long. My roommate and I hugged, then parted ways.

The woman I moved in with had a very interesting profession. She was a Madam at an established bordello in the Atlanta area. One wouldn’t think a bordello could survive in the heart of the Bible Belt. But, since hypocrisy abounds in police departments throughout the South, the concept becomes a bit more plausible. The Madam probably paid protection money to keep her business open.

At first, I survived by doing side computer work for several people and to help keep the bordello’s computer system running. I also helped them maintain their security system and elaborate camera setups. It felt satisfying for a while, but I wasn’t making enough money to get out on my own. Something else needed to be done.

I continued applying for jobs in the computer industry, but they were getting harder to find, even a year after 9/11. The odd jobs I did couldn’t keep me in money, so I began doing something I never thought I would ever do. I started working at the bordello as a hooker. At first, the customers found it intriguing to have sex with a real live transsexual. I didn’t enjoy it, but the money was better than nothing. However, the novelty of having sex with a transsexual soon wore off with the regulars and the men stopped asking for me.

My personal relationships with the Madam also began to deteriorate. I really liked her, but she stopped finding me interesting any longer. One day, after a heated argument, she threw me out of the house. Luckily, another friend took me in and he tried to help me find a job. That never went anywhere. I began feeling helpless and alone. Many of my friends had either stopped calling or turned their backs on me. I heard from my old roommate that she got training as a truck driver and found work with one of the large carriers. She tried to talk me into going into the same business, but I could never picture myself as a truck driver.

Not too long after moving in with my friend, he had to move and I couldn’t stay with him. In December 2002, I realized I would soon become homeless for the first time in my life. The prospect of being homeless frightened me. “Why is this happening to me?” I asked myself. “I didn’t ask to be a transsexual. If I didn’t have a choice then why are people treating me so badly?”

I felt truly alone. No place to go. No friends to turn to. No hope. Only despair. I can do many jobs, but no one will hire me because I’m a transsexual. Where can I turn to?

The last chance I had was to see if a homeless shelter would take me. I began calling around to all the women’s shelters in Atlanta, but I had to be up front with them. Each time I told them that I was a pre-op transsexual they would tell me I wouldn’t be accepted in their facility. I called a few men’s shelters to see what they could tell me and they said they would accept me only if I presented as a man. They wanted me to deny my identity and lie to them and myself before I would be accepted. Even then, I could easily become a victim of rape or violence once they found out I was a transsexual. My options had run out.

My friend gave me access to his computer one last time, so I put an automatic message on my Yahoo E-mail address. The message said, “I will soon become homeless and since homeless shelters won’t take in transsexuals, I’m a goner.”

Where is my family? They have all abandoned me. Where are all my friends? What friends? The transgender community here in Georgia never wanted to help me. I didn’t fit their narrow viewpoint of what a transsexual is supposed to “properly” do to transition. Others who still say they’re my friends are either gone or in a situation no better than mine. Is this what I have left after all the things I’ve been through? Nothing? I was safer in Iraq during Desert Storm. At least I was treated better there.

My car still worked, just barely. I have only one thing to do. Time for a road trip. After driving for 45 minutes I arrived at my destination, the Chattahoochee River. My jacket kept me from freezing. I could hear the water moving and the moonlight reflected off of the ripples. No one else would have dared to be out on a night like this. But, I had a plan.

As I unwrapped the towel, I revealed my one last true friend, my trusty .357 Smith and Wesson. I felt its cold steel and its well-balanced weight in my hands. Out of everything I gave up in the last fifteen months, I could never part with my .357. Now, it has become my last piece of pleasure in my lonely, miserable life.

“Why am I a transsexual?” I screamed. The trees dampened my voice. “Why am I a transsexual?” I whispered. I got no answers. Tears flowed from my eyes as I cocked the hammer. “All I wanted to do was to live my life as me.” My .357 seemed lighter somehow. “I didn’t ask for this life.” I lifted the gun. “I just wanted to live.” I felt the cold steel barrel pressing against my temple. “But, they wouldn’t let me.” My hand shook and I lowered the pistol. “This is what they wanted me to do.” I raised the .357 once more. “They’re getting their wish.” My finger tightened around the trigger. “They got what they wanted.” I pulled my finger back. “They got me . . .”

———-

On December 17, 2002, Alice was found along the Chattahoochee River, a .357 slug had shattered her skull. This happened two years after the City of Atlanta passed a non-discrimination law that covered transgender people and included public accommodations, such as homeless shelters. Not only did homeless shelters break the law and failed to help her, but so did the rest of society.

Alice was my friend and I failed her, too.