Remembering Brandon

When I was in the 7th grade, I briefly tried to get my friends to change my name to Michael.

Growing up in a conservative religious family in small-town Wyoming, I had had little exposure to LGBTQ+ people until then although later that year the first of my friends came out as gay. The concept of gender diversity was even further beyond my understanding. All I knew was that I didn’t fit into the roles assigned to me. I didn't feel like a girl and the changes my body was experiencing in puberty were hard and traumatic. My soul tugged toward something more authentic, even if I couldn’t yet name it. But after push-back and bullying when I tried to speak my truth to friends, I retreated.

Truthfully, even the attempt was half-hearted, my fear of rejection preventing me from approaching my parents. I disappeared into the performance of the roles expected of me. It would take decades before I was brave enough to try again.

Humans have always embodied gender diversity. Across cultures and throughout history, countless individuals and communities have lived and expressed truths that transcend rigid binaries. From ancient traditions to modern movements, gender diversity is not an anomaly but a vibrant and enduring aspect of humanity. Yet, for many of us raised in environments that demanded conformity, this rich tapestry of identity and expression has often been erased, dismissed, or misunderstood.

Transgender people have always existed, and our stories are woven into the fabric of every culture, era, and place. From the hijra of South Asia to the Two-Spirit people of many Indigenous nations, trans and gender-expansive identities have been celebrated and revered, but in other places they have also been suppressed and reviled. The memories of those lives have been lost to systemic violence and societal shame.

Many transgender ancestors lived and died in obscurity, their stories silenced under the weight of cis-normative narratives. Others were targeted, victims of violence that still echoes today. When we speak their names—if we even know them—we resist the forces that sought to erase them.

In my work speaking with congregations and religious organization, I’ve often spoken of Matthew Shepard, murdered in my home state of Wyoming for daring to be himself. Matt's death was a brutal reminder of the cost of authenticity in a society unwilling to accept difference. But there was another death—another story—in a neighboring state that pierced me even more deeply. For years, I have carried that story silently, unsure if I was ready to share its impact on my life. Today, I am.

In December 1993, Brandon Teena was raped and murdered in Humboldt, Nebraska, because of who he was—a transgender man. Brandon’s life and death were shaped by a world that demanded rigid adherence to gender norms and punished anyone who dared step outside of them. When Brandon died, I was living in Watertown, New York, far from Wyoming and Nebraska in distance but not in mindset. By then, I had gone so far into the closet that I was trying to fit in as a soldier’s wife and a young mother, donning the costumes and masks society expected of me. But when I learned about Brandon’s story, something inside me cracked. The town where Brandon Teena was murdered was not unlike my hometown, and as Matt's death demonstrated a few years later, both crimes were driven by the same bigotry against difference.

Brandon’s courage to live authentically—even in the face of violence—was an indictment of my own fears. The memories of his cut-short life forced me, eventually, to confront how much of myself I had erased to survive. Though I didn’t yet have the words to explain it, Brandon represented the freedom I longed for and the truth I wasn’t yet ready to claim and to live. But year after year, his memory planted a seed—a quiet, stubborn belief that one day, I might live as my whole self.

Authenticity is not a luxury; it is a fundamental human need. For many of us, the journey to authenticity is littered with moments of denial, fear, and retreat, but also with sparks of courage and connection. It is a process of listening to those echoes from the past, of honoring the lives of those who dared to be themselves even when the world sought to silence them. Brandon’s voice, like Matthew Shepard’s, remains a powerful reminder of the cost of authenticity in a world that clings to conformity. But it is also a call—a call to all of us to make the world safer for those who come after us, to ensure that no one else has to pay such a devastating price simply for being who they are.

When I reflect on my seventh-grade self, trying out the name Michael, I see a child longing for freedom to just declare loudly and proudly who they were. I think about how much earlier I might have embraced my authenticity if I had known people like Brandon Teena—not just his tragic death, but him alive, living a vibrant, complicated, beautiful life. I think about how different the world might be if we celebrated gender diversity as a gift rather than a threat. I watch the world around us, and wonder how we could be pivoting so hard back toward a version of the world that would dismiss Brandon Teena’s rape and murder as justified.

Brandon’s story is a heartbreaking reminder of the work still ahead, but it is also a guidepost for those of us committed to living authentically and building a world where everyone can do the same. It is a reminder that being true to the person inside of us is not just an act of personal liberation; it is an act of resistance, of hope, and of love.

The loss of transgender ancestors is not just personal; it is cultural. Each extinguished life silences stories that could have shaped our understanding of identity, resistance, and resilience. We have lost poets, healers, visionaries, and revolutionaries—people who might have transformed history had they been allowed to thrive. We have lost people who just wanted to live simple lives and love, like Brandon Teena. When we fail to honor these lives, we lose more than individuals. We lose traditions and ways of being that challenge binary structures and expand our collective imagination.

The loss of transgender ancestors is a call to remember, to mourn, and to act. It asks us to build a world where no one’s identity is erased, and no one’s life is considered expendable. By remembering them, we ensure that their lives—and their struggles—were not in vain. We carry their legacy forward every time we stand up for justice, every time we celebrate gender diversity, and every time we refuse to let their stories fade into silence.

Sometimes the past echoes, reverberating through time, and we hear again the voices of those who did not make it—those whose stories were silenced by oppression, whose struggles were erased by history, and whose dreams were cut short by intolerance. These voices call to us, reminding us of the battles fought and the lives lost, urging us to carry forward the work they began. Let us honor these beloved ancestors by creating a future they could only dream of, one where all transgender people are seen, valued, and loved.

As we close this Transgender Week of Remembrance, I hold Brandon Teena in my heart. I remember all the young ones today who, in this fraught political moment, are as scared as I once was, burying their dreams of being seen and loved for who they truly are.

To them, I say: You are beautiful. You are loved. And you are not alone.

Brandon Teena, buried under a dead name, but seen as he was. December 12, 1972 – December 31, 1993

image above, Brandon Teena mural by Wes Staley, Lincoln, Nebraska, December 2023

PS: I never became Michael. Instead, I am Kimi Floyd, two spirits inside me, male and female. I am authentic to me, and I am whole because of it.

PSS: Here is more about Brandon's life and death.