Pride month is almost over. And in honor of that, and of the people who fought so hard to make it so, I want to share an experience I had back in 2016. (It’s a long one, bear with me.)

It was late August. I had just moved into a new apartment in the East Village of Manhattan, and I felt so comfortable there- I had every street memorized. So when a colleague messaged to say they were visiting from out of town, I immediately offered to take them out for a drink.

It was a Monday night, so the first place we tried was closed for business. The second was dead, but we settled in at the bar anyway. I drank half of my drink, and excused myself to go the bathroom. I came back, sat down, and sipped my drink.

This is the last thing I remembered.

I woke up the next morning in my bed. I knew almost instantly I’d been slipped some sort of drug and I began to piece things together from later in the evening where I could, though a large chunk is still missing to this day. But one thing was crystal clear in my mind:

At some point in the night, I was laying on the sidewalk, lost, and crying for my mom when a Black transgender woman and her boyfriend found me. He wanted to leave. She insisted that they stayed. She picked me up, and walked me to the nearest bodega to call my mom.

For the rest of the night, she carried me. Literally, she carried me in her arms. She used her boyfriend’s phone to call my mom every hour to tell her I was safe. She finally woke me up enough to say where I lived, and she walked me there. She held me as I cried, over and over.

When we got to my place, I couldn’t even handle my keys enough to open the door. She didn’t judge. She sat with me, on the steps of a church, and told me her story. About how she supported herself through sex work. How her boyfriend was the first man to treat her like a human.

She told me that she’d been homeless ever since she was diagnosed with HIV due to a bigoted family member and how she couldn’t afford her medication. She told me that she had found me while she was looking for a place to sleep that night. We held each other, and we cried.

When I finally sobered up some, I tried to insist she stay with me, but she refused and said something I will never forget: “I only wanted to make sure you made it out of this night alive. I am not your burden to bear.” Then she walked away without letting me say a word.

Without a doubt, that woman saved my life. She cared for me when I offered her nothing. She kept me safe when she was in infinitely more danger just for being alive.
So far in 2019, 11 Black trans women have been killed. The life expectancy of a Black trans woman is only 35 years

The murder and poverty of Black trans women is a crisis that we need to be paying more attention to. They are one of the most highly targeted demographics for physical and sexual violence in the country, and yet they still act as the backbone for the entire LGBTQIA+ community.

Black trans women are not, and never will be, a burden. They are a prize worth protecting.
This Pride month, please consider giving back to those who made us and honor those who continue to save us by donating to the TransWomen of Color Collective in NYC: http://TWOCC.us