#memorial

[blodwyrm]

snapshot from one of Oscar’s memorial paintings i did last year!

[thetransfemininereview]

Rest in power, Miss Major 💔

[melindamagpie]

The trans community has always been a strong one, even in spite of those like this current administration who want to see us beaten down. But trans people have always survived - we aren’t going anywhere.

Today is a day where we call upon everyone to remember each Trans person who lost their life this year. Remember their names.

Via Sylvia Rivera Law Project (SRLP)

[intosnarkness]

So, to make sure her family wouldn’t stop her final wishes from being enacted, I haven’t been able to talk about this publicly, but now I can:

On March 1, @rubynye (aka Ny Martin) collapsed in her kitchen due to sudden cardiac arrest. She was declared brain dead and passed on March 3. She was 50 years old.

Ny was a singularly talented person. She was not only a gifted writer, singer, poet, chef and artist, she had the ability to make you feel like the most important person in the world just by smiling at you.

I first encountered her in 2009, on the Star Trek XI kinkmeme on LJ. I was in AWE of her wordsmithery. She could so carefully identify and communicate moments that I was intimidated by her immediately. I didn’t know she even knew who I was until she used my head canon in a story. I was gobsmacked.

She would tell you she felt the same way about me, but I always felt like I was honored to call her my friend.

I feel like it’s important to say that Ny was a fan of color, and as a Black Woman often faced down things in fandom that were dehumanizing, demoralizing, or just enraging. I learned how to be a better antiracist from her, how to be a better friend, and how to be a better creator in a fandom with non-white characters. She was sometimes rightfully, righteously furious, and she taught me how to sit with her in those moments without trying to fix them. I always felt honored to have earned that trust.

Ny loved so much. She adored children, and would often ask after my nibblings. She cooked for everyone, and it was common for her to just…mail people food. Here, rainbow fudge. Here, hemp butter. Here, a Jamaican fruitcake. When she came to visit me years ago, she insisted on cooking for me before she left, so I’d have dinners she made. She loved sending people things, both in her millions of bcced emails and in the mail. I have so many postcards of things she saw that made her think of me. She loved mythology, especially Minoans, and she loved space. She loved so much.

One time she printed out a story I wrote and hand annotated it with glee before mailing it to me. It’s one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever given me.

I could always ask her anything, be it a question about a Black character’s hair or a question about quince jam. I could tell her any crazy idea I had and she would gleefully play in the space.

Long time readers might not know, but it may be obvious in retrospect; when I needed to give Sam Wilson a little sister in Struggle in the Architecture, I named her Ruby in honor of Ny.

Her queue is still going here, and I think many of us are dreading the day it runs out.

If you knew Ny and would like to talk to other people who loved her about your memories and share the things you would have shared with her, we have a discord server, and you can contact me for the link.

If you would like to help her partner pay for her burial, there is a gofundme.

If you want to honor her memory, tell someone something joyful. Donate to a local food pantry.

There will be an online memorial April 12, 1pm EDT. You can sign up for announcements via a Google group: https://groups.google.com/g/nyani-announce

Ny was a blessing in life and will remain a blessing in memory.

[miamaimania]

"Now I Know Something You Don't" ✝ Mt Hope Cemetery, Rochester NY ~ Someone planned this punchline for decades

[architectureofdoom]

Tour de l'Échangeur, Kinshasa, Olivier-Clément Cacoub, 1967-74

[apoemaday]

Memorial

by Norman MacCaig

Everywhere she dies. Everywhere I go she dies. No sunrise, no city square, no lurking beautiful mountain but has her death in it. The silence of her dying sounds through the carousel of language, it’s a web on which laughter stitches itself. How can my hand clasp another’s when between them is that thick death, that intolerable distance?

She grieves for my grief. Dying, she tells me that bird dives from the sun, that fish leaps into it. No crocus is carved more gently than the way her dying shapes my mind. – But I hear, too, the other words, black words that make the sound of soundlessness, that name the nowhere she is continuously going into.

Ever since she died she can’t stop dying. She makes me her elegy. I am a walking masterpiece, a true fiction of the ugliness of death. I am her sad music.