For Bryn

I have not written about Bryn’s death because it knocked the stuffing out of me. We were not close friends, by any means; we knew each other the way two people who do trans work and live in Brooklyn know each other; she hung out with people we know, she dated someone we know, she was at things we went to.

But she was 10 years younger than us, part of a younger set of trans people we met through theatre and writing and activism; I used to say there was something in the water in our part of Brooklyn because it was as if everyone we knew was trans or dating someone who was.

And there is something about being a decade older than a lovely, bright, spiky, vivacious young person that makes you hope that their struggle will not be as hard, that they will find a way to make a good living and find love with someone who respects them, or, if they don’t, that they will find ways to make art that will allow them to feel loved and respected; that they will have friends to drink with and dress up with and at least have great sex with. But mostly, that they will live to be old, at least as old as you are, so that together you might end up at a party and look at the people a decade younger and wish together that their lives might not be as hard, that they will find a way to make a good living…

Bryn had both an old soul and a young, young heart. She was beautiful – the kind of beautiful you tried not to stare at – and she wore her beauty as if it was nothing important. I know it had to be because of the work she did – hair and makeup for others – and she seemed the same about her writing. My memory of her was that she had a “this old thing?” ready for any compliment paid her.

Then you read this, this big hearted, funny, sexy, deeply loving piece that she wrote to her fellow trans women, and you wonder how in the world we will get along without her voice:

“I love your profound insecurity. I love you even when you lash out at the world, at your loves, and at yourself. I love you when you’re hurting. I love the myriad forms your pain takes. I love how funny you can be when you’re ripping someone to shreds with your tongue. I love that when you observe something hilarious that no one else has noticed, because you’re so good at noticing the ridiculous. I email my love to you when you stop talking to anyone for three days. I love your wild and volatile sexuality. I love your quiet and conscious affection. I love your emotional acumen and your emotional black spots that you could drive a truck through. I love female energy, whatever the hell that is, all I know is that you got it. I love getting all our bodies and ourselves over the nitty gritty stuff that our bodies go through, and the ingenious methods we invent to access care. I love how we are each other’s best therapists and worst enemies. I love it when you embarrass me. I love it when you inspire me. I love it when you make me laugh. I love it when you read me the filth. I love it when you make yourself vulnerable. I love it when we feel safe with each other.” 

(You can watch her read this piece at the 33:27 mark of this video.)

I wish there had been something, anything, I could have done or anyone could have done to keep her with us.

Please, my beautiful trans peeps, grow old so that I can run into you at a party and we can look at the younger people in the room and hope against hope that their lives will not be so hard, so full of struggle, that they will find a way… Mostly I want to run into you at a party and wish, with you, that all the beautiful fucked up young people will live to grow old and join us in wishing that next bright generation a bright, smart, glamorous, sexy kind of peace.

Love to you Bryn. You took a piece of this skeptical, disappointed heart with you, and I’m sure you had no idea how many of us loved you. & Love to all of you who knew her well, who knew far better than me what kind of light we have lost. Please take care of each other, and please never ever think twice about reaching out to me if you need to.

Her memorial is on February 6th at Saint John the Divine at 7:30PM. I so wish I could be there. I am hoping those of us who can’t be there might spend the day reading her work, alone or to others, but if you haven’t, make sure you read her Other Balms, Other Gileads.

Helen Boyd

is the author of My Husband Betty and She's Not the Man I Married.

One Comment

  1. I met Bryn at our trans Women’s group meeting at Sage. She was to be our permanent facilitator for our bimonthy meetings. We had a wonderful meeting, sharing each of us had chosen our names.

    We liked her and she us. We looked forward to next meeting. It was never to be. Her passing hit all of us hard. I will be attending the memorial service on Feb. 6.

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