Gwen was laid out in a beautiful black dress, impeccably made up. Her
nails were perfectly polished. She looked beautiful. When the family
allowed media in and cameras surrounded the casket in the Chapel of the
Roses, Gwen’s grandmother cried out and fainted. It was just too much.
Recently, my colleague Loren Javier and I
were in Newark, California, to support the community and the family of
Gwen Araujo, a 17-year-old Latina transgender teen who was brutally
murdered in early October. We arrived expecting that, among other
things, we’d be helping to shield the mourners at Gwen’s service
from a protest by notorious hatemonger Fred Phelps and his band of
picketers. Phelps had threatened to protest at the funeral, and media
from all over the country were there to cover the event.
Hundreds came to the church that day
(though not Phelps, whose clan instead paraded its “God Hates Fags”
and “Eddie in Hell” signs outside the grieving family’s home the
night before). Gwen’s relatives and friends carried flowers. Some of
Gwen’s former classmates wore t-shirts with Gwen’s picture and the
words, “We really love you underneath it all”—lyrics from No Doubt
singer Gwen Stefani’s latest song. Back when she was going by the name
Eddie, Gwen adopted her name in homage to her musical heroine. And in
one of many acts of compassion that day, Stefani had called Sylvia
Guerrero, Gwen’s mom, to offer her condolences.
It was attorney Gloria Allred, hired to
represent the family, who had invited and escorted us into the church.
And later, as we walked out together, Gloria dropped her professional
veneer and began to cry. She hugged me for the longest time, saying,
“Thank you, thank you for the work you do.” I was so overwhelmed, I
couldn’t respond.
The outpouring of love and compassion for
Gwen and her family was remarkable. Even in a moment of horrific grief,
a palpable sense of hope quietly transformed us. That ability to turn
tragedy into hope is something I have seen time and again as the
lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender community has struggled to
understand the hatred, intolerance, and violence that is so often
directed against us.
Our community’s search for answers and
understanding amid tragedy was apparent during the days following
Gwen’s funeral as community leaders, organizations, and individuals
gathered throughout the Bay Area to honor Gwen’s life and memory.
Groups like AGUILAS; the Community United Against Violence; the San
Francisco Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Community Center; GLAAD;
El Proyecto ContraSIDA Por Vida; the Transgender Resource and
Neighborhood Space; and many others from different backgrounds and
histories came together to do what we always do at times like
these—speak, cry, honor, pray, and work together in the hope that it
won’t happen again.
At Gwen’s funeral, students from Newark
Memorial High School’s production of The Laramie Project came to
support the family. Dressed in their angel costumes, they lined the
sidewalk as Gwen’s casket was carried into the church. Afterward, they
gathered in a circle to join hands and sing “Amazing Grace”—and
slowly, people in the crowd began to sing with them. I looked around and
saw Latino, African- American, Asian, Caucasian, lesbian, gay, bisexual,
transgender, heterosexual, old, and young people singing together.
The experience reminded me that in too
many cases, when tragedy strikes, we’re not always there for one
another. When Matthew Shepard was murdered, the LGBT community stood
united in its grief and outrage. Yet other attacks have not connected us
in the same way. When Chicana lesbian Juana Vega or Colombian gay
activist Eddie Garzon or African American MTF transgender woman Tyra
Hunter or openly gay Two-Spirit teenager Fred Martinez were murdered,
fewer people took notice—despite the work of our community to focus
attention on their lives and the intolerance that fueled their deaths.
Make no mistake about it: anti-gay and
anti-trans harass-ment, hate, and violence are realities that many in
our community face each and every day, whether the nation takes notice
or not. And the solidarity and outpouring of support we’ve seen in
response to Gwen’s murder tells me that it’s up to each of
us—whether we’re community leaders or allies, media professionals or
high school students—to tell our stories. Because that’s the only
way things are going to change.
I hope I never lose my sense of horror at
terrible, heinous crimes like Gwen’s murder. But I am glad to know
that tragedy and mourning are not the only outcomes of such crimes. They
can empower and bring a community together.
On November 20th, the LGBT community
commemorated the Transgender Day of Remembrance in different cities
around the country. The day was set aside to memorialize those who were
killed because of transphobic hatred or prejudice.
I was there that day, along with hundreds
of others. But I look forward to a day when hate-motivated violence is
just a footnote in history books—not the headline in today’s
newspaper. That’s what I and so many others work for every day, so
that people like Gwen can live their lives freely and without fear.
Monica Taher is the Western Regional
Media Manager for the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD),
an organization dedicated to promoting and ensuring fair, accurate, and
inclusive representation of individuals and events in all media as a
means of eliminating homophobia and discrimination based on gender
identity and sexual orientation.
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