This story is dedicated to people who are transgender. When Donald Trump was elected, I felt afraid for my rights. The transgender community is now facing the reality of rights lost. Please stand, speak and fight back.
Part Four (Don’t miss parts One, Two or Three)
I hadn’t heard from Carl for a few weeks. When his message appeared, I hesitated.
Indignance rose—I’m not sure I want to have more conversation about his shallow understanding or devotion and service or whether I love Jesus enough. Of course, maybe he was writing to say that he will step up and become an advocate.
I clicked into the message and read that Hugh was dead.
There was a link to a newspaper article. Hugh drove his car into a ditch along the interstate and stepped out in front of a tractor-trailer.
I stood and backed away from the computer. I circled the room, then leaned in to read the message again. Scream? Cry? Pound the desk? I tilted my head back as far as it would go, then leaned forward and massaged my neck.
I looked around the kitchen. My breakfast dishes were piled by the sink. The newspaper article about Hugh’s death was on the screen. An advertisement banner beside the article: “Find singles in your area tonight!” I clicked, and the window closed, the article disappeared.
I barely knew Hugh, I thought.
I sensed my wounds. The bandaged sadness about my family—I pulled at the tape holding it in place, but stopped as soon as I felt the tugging. My anger about what queers can expect from this life was a muddy river in my belly—a whirling place of eddies and currents. I was afraid of it. I kept my little boat afloat in calm waters, wondering if there was life on the other side of the rapids.
Did I help Hugh? At all?
I left the computer and went to the sink. I poured a glass of water; I set it on the counter. I pulled a dead leaf from the geranium on the windowsill. I wandered back to the computer, forgetting the water glass, and stood beside my chair.
Does it help to think of ourselves as martyrs? Can Hugh claim a place in the canon?
It doesn’t help. Hugh was dead.
I hammered my fists on the counter. Motherfuckers. You killed him! Through blurry, burning eyes I found the reply button and typed: “This is your fault, Carl.”
I stopped: not fair. How could it be Carl’s fault? Hugh never found his voice—or perhaps it’s better to say that he was never allowed to speak.
I barely knew him; I didn’t help him—am I justified in speaking for Hugh?
I looked at the screen, Carl’s Facebook message. I pulled out the chair and sat down.
Carl will go to the funeral; he’ll be asked to give the eulogy. He’ll hug Hugh’s parents, his sister. Did Hugh have any queer friends? Lovers? Will Carl hug them?
I remembered Bob’s funeral. He died of pancreatic cancer. Despite his excommunication, the Mormons gave him a church funeral with huge flower arrangements and a pipe organ. The sanctuary was packed with gay men, but only his family spoke. They told of the Bob that was an artist, a man that loved his family, a gardener. There was no mention of his excommunication, or his life as a gay man.
As we filtered out, I watched as Tom, Bob’s most recent lover unlocked from an embrace, nodding, and grasping the hands of the friends around him. Soon there was a small circle of people holding hands. A break was made; I joined. The sensation of hands—of touching—caused staccato breathing, I swallowed hard.
Tom said, “Let’s remember the things about Bob they left out.”
As the casket was delivered to the hearse, and the family shuffled off to their cars, those of us in the circle called out memories of Bob.
“He was a charter member of the LGBT chamber of commerce.”
“He invited me for dinner and told me his story. It gave me hope—I was a Mormon too.”
Mixed with the memories, were expressions of anger.
“I can’t believe the family that rejected him—the church that tried to kill his spirit—had the nerve to stage this fake funeral!”
I felt guilty for being happy that Bob had been welcomed home: the church, the flowers, his family. It was his dream. I kept my feelings to myself.
We were not welcomed at the burial; it was Mormon only, but as the funeral procession drove out into the street, we were there, holding hands, making complete the picture of all that Bob was.
Maybe that’s the best we can do—make the picture complete for each other, ensure that our stories get told, have compassion on those that remain.
Is that devotion and service?
I stared at the blinking curser. I deleted, “This is your fault, Carl.” I started again.
“Carl, I’m so sorry.” I sat with this for a while without finding anything else to say. I hit send.
This story is dedicated to people who are transgender. When Donald Trump was elected, I felt afraid for my rights. The transgender community is the first to face the reality of rights lost. Please stand, speak and fight back:
American Civil Liberties Union
Southern Arizona AIDS Foundation
Quantum Mennonite 
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