I don’t know why I felt compelled to help plan the vigil for Transgender Day of Remembrance, but doing so has given me a new appreciation of life.

On Tuesday November 20, PRIDE held a candlelight vigil for Transgender Day of Remembrance. Despite the chilling wind and the Festival of Lights celebration happening 1,000 feet from us, we gathered together at Bolin Fountain to mourn the murders of the 26 transgender and gender-nonconforming people in the past year. We gathered LED candles and roses in their honor and read the names of each person who had been killed.

Before helping to plan the vigil, I thought I was content in my gender. I knew that I was gender-nonconforming in some way and I often bounced between the labels of genderfluid and genderqueer. For a long time I was content with that, but something about researching and planning for Transgender Day of Remembrance had dredged up feelings and memories I had long buried.

This past year at least 47 percent of Transgender people who had a known killer were killed by someone close to them. “At least” is the key phrase in that sentence because often the deaths of transgender and gender non-conforming people are not reported. 

I consider myself unbelievably lucky that the intolerance I have faced has been mostly mild. There have been snide comments, bewildered looks and the occasional bad joke made at my expense, but nothing has ever escalated towards violence. Despite that I’ve definitely been in situations that could have turned sour very quickly.

My dad is a marine veteran, originally from Arkansas, so to say that questioning my gender identity would be frowned upon would be an understatement. 

A few months ago he found my TikTok account, which would not have been a problem if half of the content was not me dressing in masculine drag. To make matters worse, my bio read, “Bisexual, Genderfluid” at the time.

As soon as I saw that he found my account my blood ran cold and I waited for him to kick me out of my childhood home. My mind flew to all the possible people I could reach out to if that were to happen. The dreadful realization that I was living in a small, conservative town in the middle of nowhere became a heavy burden to hold.

For a week straight I walked on eggshells around my father, waiting for any indication that he knew that I was gender-nonconforming. I had packed a bag and waited idly for the day that he would kick me out.

That day never came. To this day, I still don’t know if my father knows my true identity and just has not said anything, or if he genuinely does not know. Somehow that’s scarier than him just blatantly kicking me out. 

Looking back now I realize that I am so incredibly fortunate. Other members of the transgender and gender-nonconforming community are not so lucky. Many are met with verbal, physical and sexual violence.

Ultimately, I think that is the main reason I wanted to help plan the candlelight vigil for Transgender Day of Remembrance. It was a way to keep eyes on the transgender community, both in life and in death. People often disregard the transgender community and treat us as if we are nothing more than a number. They don’t see us for the complex people we are.

Each member of the transgender community has a unique story, but through shared experiences, we are able to understand and empathize with each other more. These stories keep us connected and let us feel seen in a world that either admonishes our existence or ignores it completely.