If you’re interested in sharing your opinion on any cultural, political, or personal topic, create an account here and check out our how-to post to learn more.
____
Safety for Black trans people, and other marginalized communities, is an ongoing conversation on a national and international scale — but for which communities? When death consumes Black trans people, where are the voices? Where is the rage? Where are the solutions?
The Human Rights Campaign marked last year as the deadliest year for trans communities as a whole, with more than 46 deaths. More than half of those deaths were Black trans people. Recognizing this void, who is fighting to ensure we’re seen, who is fighting to ensure we’re heard, who is fighting to ensure we have a seat at the table? The pickings are slim. That’s why I wake up every day and fight alongside an amazing group of people at Snap Co., leading a movement to radically change the state of policing and incarceration in my city of Atlanta and beyond. We are changing laws, building alternatives, and facing off with police to end the racially-biased and violent state of policing that has taken the lives of so many.
For me, this is personal. My family life was less than idyllic. Violence, addiction, and rage were constants in my home. I knew that home and family were supposed to be a source of safety, but I had no means to make that my reality. Even in my youth, I understood that police intervention wouldn’t get me closer to that. At best, calling the police was a catch-22. Dialing 911 meant that I would be separated from my family, which would have only made matters worse. It also exposed me to sexism within law enforcement. I knew what I needed to be safe, but that wasn’t being acknowledged or heard. Instead, my gender and sexuality became the target.
Ultimately, interactions with police left me without agency and autonomy. They weren’t helping me get closer to the safety or accountability I desperately needed. Unfortunately, there are countless times when stories like this are neither seen nor heard. Efforts have to be expanded from safety to visibility, because how can you protect someone you don’t see? This is why the work we’ve carried out to form the Deeper than Visibility report is vital. In this report, of the 565 respondents surveyed, most respondents felt that law enforcement should respond to violence-related calls. Although people have heard of alternative methods of justice, it still feels unfamiliar for residents, and the need to flush those ideas out is what is needed for them to feel confident about the process and lessen their reliance on law enforcement.
This report also contains Atlanta residents’ voices and deepest concerns about the current state of policing, its impact on our communities, and policy and program ideas to move Atlanta forward. This is important, considering the City of Atlanta has invested nearly one-third of its $230 million budget into policing, a system many Black trans people don’t trust. From these reflections, we must focus on the goal of re-imagining public safety, one that includes a vision for an Atlanta that centers on those who are most marginalized.
One of the many vital voices included in this report contains Dean Steed, a Black trans man working several jobs to stay afloat who was pulled over by cops in 2019 before stepping into work at Walmart while self-medicating. After finding THC oil, which was considered a controlled substance, Dean faced the same sentence as someone selling cocaine or heroin would. He was charged with a felony and placed in solitary confinement. Dean has now directed his efforts toward the ongoing fight of ensuring Black trans people are safe. There is still so much work that needs to be done, and we have to re-imagine safety and make sure we can truly see those we are fighting for.
Fighting for my people reminds me that we make the road by walking, which is to say there have been moments when I’ve felt unsafe and then cherished in subsequent breaths. On one night, in particular, queer, straight, trans, and cisgender people alike were all in the streets protesting the murder of Rayshard Brooks. We all saw that our humanity was under attack so long as those with badges were emboldened to execute us in the streets like animals.
We were building coalitions to make our voices heard and demand justice when a Georgia Highway State Police Officer assaulted me. He had an air of righteousness, ego and disgust in his eyes. I prayed as he zeroed in on me and pushed me to the ground. I was sure I’d be arrested that night, but I was unsure how much further he and his “brothers” would take it.
The officer grabbed my arms and, simultaneously, I felt my belongings being snatched out of my hands by two white allies. Then, two Black cishet men pulled me away from the police officers, asking me, “What do you want us to do? What do you want us to do?” and pushed me into the crowd where I was ushered to safety.
My safety was on the line; my leadership was recognized and honored by those around me. At that moment, I was grateful for my life but also for my leadership. I was thankful they took the time to see me. In that moment of conflict, they looked to me and recognized that I was a leader and my guidance was crucial. I caught a glimpse of our future.
This is why Deeper than Visibility is essential to our communities. It is exciting that we are celebrating the 13th year of Trans Day of Visibility; there are still acts of non-visibility and inclusion that are not enough to address the systemic issues that are hurting Black and LGBTQ+ communities across Atlanta. Our Deeper Than Visibility report is a call to action for Atlanta’s elected officials to move beyond superficial acts of inclusion and take immediate efforts toward creating long-lasting, concrete improvements in the lives of Atlanta’s most marginalized communities.
____
Toni-Michelle Williams is the Executive Director at Snap Co.
