Transgender and non-binary people are often talked about, but rarely do they get to speak freely to a wider audience. Our new writer Aura Baroli writes about the implications of being a transgender person in her new article, The Wound.
Warning: this article discusses serious topics, such as suicide, self-harm, and mental health issues. Reading discretion advised.
For Leelah, Blake, and the countless others
Part I: Leelah
Leelah Alcorn was born on November 15th, 1997, to Carla and Doug Alcorn. She was brought up in the little hamlet of Kings Mills, Ohio, where she also attended the local high school. When asked, the faculty at Kings High School described her as a “sweet, talented, tender-hearted 17-year-old”. Earlier this month, Leelah would have celebrated her 27th birthday. Tragically, she didn’t get the chance to do so.
Leelah Alcorn committed suicide during the early hours of Sunday, December 28th, 2014, one month after her seventeenth birthday. On the day of her death, she left her house in the middle of the night and walked for six kilometers along I-71, before stepping into traffic to get hit by incoming vehicles running at full speed. The exact spot where she died is now marked by a permanent sign, which reads: “In memory of Leelah Alcorn.”
Leelah Alcorn was a transgender girl. In her suicide note, published automatically on Tumblr a few hours after her death, she explained that she had felt like a girl trapped inside in a boy’s body since the age of four, and that, since she was unaware of the existence of people like her, she had chosen to continue living without telling anyone about how she felt. When, at the age of fourteen, she discovered the meaning of the word “transgender”, though, she was filled with such excitement and joy that she decided to tell her mother about it.
Her parents reacted in the worst way possible: they told their daughter that she was just going through a “temporary phase”, that she would never be real girl, that God never made mistakes.
That she was wrong.
In her suicide note, she had this to say about the reaction of her parents: “If you are reading this, parents, please don’t tell this to your kids. Even if you are Christian or are against transgender people don’t ever say that to someone, especially your kid. That won’t do anything but make them hate themselves. That’s exactly what it did to me.”
After having revealed who she was, Leelah was brought to see multiple Christian therapists; her parents probably hoped they would steer her away from herself. These people told her to seek the help of God. They helped her hate herself, and did nothing to help her heal from the depression she had developed.
When she turned sixteen, Leelah asked her parents if she could start her gender transition; she needed their signatures, because gender transition was, and still is, conceived and structured as a medical procedure, to which minors cannot give consent.
They said no, forcing her to put her life on hold for two more years. The conflict with her parents led her to come out publicly as gay to her classmates: she thought that, maybe, this would have helped her mother and her father gradually accept that she was not their perfect, straight, Christian son, but rather their daughter. Her parents did not react positively, though: they removed her from school, took her laptop and mobile phone away and prohibited her from seeing her friends, thus leaving her completely alone for five months, worsening her depression.
Exactly two months before her death, she asked other trans people on Reddit if what her parents were putting her through constituted child abuse: she explained that, even though her parents had never physically abused her, they had, among other things, verbally attacked her on multiple occasions, with phrases such as “What are you going to do, fuck boys?” and “God’s going to send you straight to hell”.
Eventually, she continued, this had led her to frequently commit acts of self-harm and to constantly think about suicide.
On November 9th, 2014, Leelah published a post on Reddit, titled: “I’m sure someone on here can convince me not to kill myself”. Many people left messages of encouragement, telling her to resist for one more year and to focus on getting out of her parents’ abusive house. Tragically, she had reached a breaking point.
She explained her decision in the final part of her suicide note, writing: “I have decided I’ve had enough. I’m never going to transition successfully, even when I move out. I’m never going to be happy with the way I look or sound. I’m never going to have enough friends to satisfy me. I’m never going to have enough love to satisfy me. I’m never going to find a man who loves me. I’m never going to be happy. Either I live the rest of my life as a lonely man who wishes he were a woman, or I live my life as a lonelier woman who hates herself. There’s no winning. There’s no way out. I’m sad enough already, I don’t need my life to get any worse. People say “it gets better” but that isn’t true in my case. It gets worse. Each day I get worse. That’s the gist of it, that’s why I feel like killing myself. Sorry if that’s not a good enough reason for you, it’s good enough for me.”
The note concluded with a simple request: “Fix society. Please.”
By the morning of December 31st, the news of her death had been picked up by international news agencies, the hashtags #LeelahAlcorn and #JusticeForLeelah had topped Twitter, and her final note had been reposted more than 200.000 times; vigils were also held in her memory in the US, UK, and New Zealand.
Her parents were publicly shamed and there were calls for them to be criminally persecuted for the death of their daughter. A petition addressed to the White House was created on January 3rd, 2015, demanding the Administration to enact a federal ban on conversion therapies; both President Barack Obama and Vice President Joe Biden supported the initiative, but since Republicans held control over both chambers of Congress, no further actions were taken.
Society did not change.
Part II: Blake
Less than six months after Leelah’s death, on Monday, March 23rd, 2015, Blake Brockington, a black transgender man born in Charleston, South Carolina on May 14th, 1996, committed suicide at the age of eighteen. He came out as trans while in tenth grade and, due to the negative reaction of his parents, decided to move out of their house to live with a foster family. He was able to start hormone replacement therapy (HRT), which was covered by Medicaid (the federal program that provides health coverage to low-income Americans), and was planning to undergo a mastectomy (a procedure that removes the breasts and creates a flatter chest) once he had gathered the necessary funds.
In 2014, he became the first openly transgender homecoming king of North Carolina. Later that same year, he started publicly advocating for LGBTQ+ youth issues, tutoring younger queer people, and taking part in demonstrations to remember trans people who died prematurely and to fight against police brutality. He was enrolled at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, where he was studying to become a band director and composer.
According to those who knew him, Blake was a powerful force, a larger-than-life figure with a contagious spirit, capable of exuding confidence and strength. Josh Burford, assistant director for sexual and gender diversity at UNC Charlotte, worked with Blake on an exhibition and said he was “an example to everybody.”
Despite the appearances, Blake was also struggling and had been for a long time: the implications of existing as a transgender person took an enormous toll on him.
His middle school girlfriend, Surrel Thomas, recalled how he would often talk about wanting to be free; later, he would go on saying that he did not wish what he was going through on his worst enemy.
When he was competing for the title homecoming king, he was the target of online hate, which, in his words, showed him “how narrow-minded the world really was.” He was called “tranny”, “dyke”, “homecoming thing”, “pervert” and “an abomination.”
The mother of one of Blake’s friends remembered how the fact he still had menstrual cycles after having started hormone replacement therapy caused great psychological pain, leading him to engage in a constant battle within his own body, as he felt like he was not the way he should have been. Blake revealed in a documentary that he had been hospitalized for having harmed himself and had experienced periods of suicidal ideation.
To get a glimpse of his pain, it is enough to read his Tumblr page, where one of his posts read: “I remember finding out when I was six that I wasn’t like the other boys. I remember being forced into dresses and under hot combs. I remember learning to play the piano, imagining that one day I’d be the piano man. I remember my first orchestra concert when I was eight and I cried because I wanted to wear a tux. I remember hating my name and hoping that maybe I could bleed it out of my life. I remember crying myself to sleep because my one dream is to be a father, but I always knew that it wouldn’t be the same for me as it is for ‘real boys.’ I remember coming to terms with the fact that I’d never be enough. I remember being jealous of my nephew because he’d be tall and man enough for the world like the other beautiful men in our family. I remember hating my body so much that I wanted to burn it alive in the hopes that it would have the effect on me that fires have on forests. I remember when I found out that I couldn’t be a marine. I remember when I lost faith in friendship because misunderstanding manifested disgust in my existence. I remember concluding that I’d never be enough to confront attraction. I remember realizing that there was no place for me here. I remember finding myself and finally loving him. I remember it being too late.”
On the day of his death, he simply wrote: “I am so exhausted.”
Leelah and Blake’s families never acknowledged the true identities of their children, even in death.
These were the stories of just two of the dozens of transgender people who choose to end their lives prematurely for a multitude of incredibly painful reasons. I chose to tell Leelah and Blake’s stories because I find them particularly exemplifying; nonetheless, I invite you to look up some of these names and to search for those I couldn’t include. Their stories are also important and meaningful.
Armanih Lewis-Daniel (24), Ash Haffner (16), Aubrey Mariko (22), Avril Mabchour (17), Cherry Valentine (28), Corei Hall (14), Daphne Dorman (44), Eden Knight (23), Eylül Cansın (23), Felis Joy (16), Katya Mikhailova (“Kate”), (21), Lucy Meadows (32), Mike Penner (52), Milo Mazurkiewicz (24), Nex Benedict (16), Nora Dunn (14), Onyx John (13), River Page Olmsted (17), Zander Nicholas Mahaffey (15).
It is impossible for you to know what was happening in the minds of Leelah, Blake, and the countless others during their darkest moments. But not for me.
Part III: Aura
A couple of years ago, I came close to ending my life. I want to share with you what it means to live as a trans person who experienced that.
As I look back on the few years I have lived as Aura, my mind is flooded with thoughts, images, and bullet-like emotions, powerful enough to render my brain incapable of translating them into words. Acceptance and rejection, forgiveness and resentment, hope and despair, pride and shame, love and hate, present and future, dreams and reality, all combined into a knot of contrasting experiences that I cannot untangle.
The weight of this cluster drags me deep down, crushing my will to continue fighting for myself. It leaves me at the bottom of a dark scar, an open wound which runs through my mind and cannot replenish itself. The more I live, the larger the wound becomes. The larger the wound, the heavier the knot and thus the stronger the force of hopelessness is. But what carved the scar in the first place? Why can’t it heal?
Answering the second question is easier than doing the same thing for the first: the cut grows with each day I live because I am reminded of what it means to be a transgender person.
I have spent most of my days in solitude, miles away from other human beings. I used to prefer being alone, because I did not understand other people’s minds, but this is not the case anymore: now, I desire contact, I yearn for it. I want to discover new people, get to know them, and form unique, special bonds that will last for years to come. But then I remember, and my hopes fade away.
I remember that, as a transgender person, I am condemned to isolation, to live as a spectator to other people’s lives, either because of what I am or what others think I am.
I remember I cannot be loved because my body is not attractive. If I start to like someone, I suppress my feelings and murder my desire, to make sure I do not get caught by the person in question; they must not discover what is going on inside my mind, because if they did, their reaction would be painful in more than one way. The only thing I allow myself to do is observe them from a distance, thinking about how life would be had I been born a girl.
And even though I know I should be happy for those who can love freely, I can’t help but resent them. Their happiness is a powerful acid, capable of corroding my skull and entering my brain; there, it drips on my wound, burning its edges and widening its footprint.
I remember I cannot make friends because most people see me as a weird, awkward thing. If I enter a crowded space, I receive looks of surprise, disbelief, disgust, annoyance, derision, and judgement, while others ignore me entirely. I become painfully aware of myself: my shape, height, posture, weight, clothing, hair, and gender, flashing before my eyes, unescapable. I scan the faces around me, searching for the least threatening, and I cling onto them, praying they will allow me to traverse the moment without incidents. If I am lucky, they will understand everything without me having to answer any questions. If I’m not, I will have two options: either lie about my identity, and use my old name, or try and carefully explain what I am, hoping I do not scare them away.
I remember I cannot be free, because a few people believe me to be a threat that must be controlled; a dangerous dog that must be kept on a leash. As a result, I am not allowed to transition on my own terms, I do not have full control over my own body, I cannot share spaces with other people, and I am forbidden from telling children what I am (otherwise, they say, I would “confuse” them). Some individuals consider me to be a mentally ill, lurid, and perverted creature who should be confined to mental institution, never to see the light of day again; people who see nothing wrong with stripping an entire population of their dignity and are proud to boast their dehumanizing ideas in the streets, in cafes, in restaurants, and in lecture halls. Their biggest desire? For us transgender people to remain hidden inside our shells for our whole lives.
During those years, I simply stood still, hibernated, waiting for the day I would finally wake up. On March 31st, 2021, it happened: I left the waking dream I had been floating in since birth to join reality, hoping I could quickly get back the time I had lost to a lie. However, as months went by, I started to realize I would never gain back the opportunities I had lost, and that for many others it was already too late to catch them. It was the first tremor in the earthquake of implications that was about to hit me; when it arrived, it devastated me: I knew I would never be able to lead a normal life, I knew I would become the target of both hate and desire (often by the very same people), I knew I would have to work hard to convince those around me that I wasn’t lying, I knew I would have to fight institutions to see my identity recognized, I knew my life would be in the hand of doctors with the power to deny me healthcare. I knew that the implications of my identity would impact me forever; that there was no real freedom in sight. In that moment, I remember asking myself: why was I born like this? Why couldn’t I have been born in the right body? Why did I lose so much time? Why didn’t I realize it earlier? Why did I do this to myself? Why did society do this to me?
These questions represent the answer to the first question: the regret for what I could and should have been tore up my insides, creating the wound that still bleeds today.
The knowledge that I would never be a normal girl almost killed me.
So why am I still here? What stopped me from carrying out the plan that I had thought of in my head? The truth is that I do not know. What I am sure of is that in the months following my near-miss, I would often find myself thinking: “You cannot give up, because tomorrow could be the day that changes everything for you. Do you want to stop fighting now, before you have had the possibility of experiencing true happiness, love, attraction, and triumph?”
And to this question, I have always replied: I don’t, and I won’t.
Hi, I’m Aura. I’m a second-year student of International Politics and Government and I’m originally from Turin. I am also transgender person. My identity has shaped my whole life, and it has given me a unique perspective, especially when it comes to talking about the experience of minorities. Over the years, writing has allowed me to spread facts and ideas on all the topics I’m passionate about.
