A Letter of Mourning
By: A trans person's grief
I haven’t written this letter to change your mind. Many people have been crying out for you to do so and you have covered your ears. Why should I be any different? I have written this letter to ask for you to mourn.
The same way you have mourned the stories of a few detransitioners. Who spoke of feeling innately uncomfortable in their own bodies. Who spoke of needing hormones and surgeries to feel comfortable in their own skin again. Who spoke of wanting to kill themselves because of what they saw in the mirror.
I want you to mourn the millions of trans people who have said the same thing. Who have cried and begged and pleaded at your doorsteps. Who have none of the hormones or surgeries or sympathy or support you have so readily given detransitioners for the exact same problem. Who have been given access to hormones and are now having their access forcibly taken away.
The same way you have mourned the right of parents. Who feel that trans teachers in their schools and trans stories in their curriculums interfere with what they know best for their children. Who have said that the government should have no interference with how parents raise their children.
I want you to mourn the trans parents. Who are refused the right to do what they feel is best for their children. Who have had their children taken away, who have suffered jail time, who have been labeled abusers and groomers just because they tried and support their children.
The same way you mourn those who claim that they are unsafe because of trans men and women in locker rooms and bathrooms. Who claim they fear assault or rape.
I want you to mourn the trans people who fear using bathrooms. Who have been assaulted regardless of which bathroom they use. Who fear jail time just for going into a bathroom. Who cannot use the bathroom of their sex assigned at birth because of their gender non-conformity. Who cannot use the bathroom of their gender because of your hate.
The same way you mourn children forced to play sports with trans teammates. Who have to share locker rooms with trans classmates. The same way you mourn teachers forced to use trans student’s names or pronouns.
I want you to mourn trans children who will be forced to have their genitals inspected to play on a sports team. Who have to hide away in closets because they don’t have access to locker rooms. Who consistently have the right to a name denied to them by adults they should trust. Who have been forcibly outed to their parents and suffered abuse or homelessness. Who have been forcibly outed to their parents and been killed. Who are refused access to the puberty blockers and hormones their cis peers are prescribed with ease. I want you to mourn teachers of trans students who face jail time or job loss for refusing to put their students in a dangerous position.
You have given trans people many roles in this narrative. We are pedophiles, abusers, groomers, predators. We are victims, misguided, mentally ill.
One role you have consistently denied us is people. People like you. People who want to live without fear. People who want the right to live without governmental interference. People who want to like what they see in the mirror.
As I see each new hypocrisy. It becomes clear you don’t care about freedom, or children, or parent’s rights, or hormones, or bathrooms. You care about the extermination of trans people.
So as that extermination draws nearer, I am asking you to mourn. To mourn the 45% trans children seriously considering committing suicide because they were denied access to medicine. To mourn parents of trans children forced to watch their children die. To mourn trans children and adults being assaulted and raped and killed. To mourn the disproportionate number of trans children and adults who are homeless. To mourn the trans lives being forcibly legislated away. To mourn this trans author who doesn’t know if they will be safe or healthy next week, or next month, or next year.
As this letter closes I hope you will find just 5 minutes of silence. 5 minutes to mourn with me. Because I no longer have the strength to mourn alone.
