Britain’s Transgender Funeral

There’s no place like home. Except there is.

Photo by Karollyne Videira Hubert on Unsplash

I will never ignore what is happening to my community back home. Agony.

I have only ever attended two funerals in my lifetime. The first was a malaria-induced fever dream of wailing and fire-and-brimstone preaching in Liberia, West Africa. The second was a traditional, non-religious service for my grandfather. Neither experience was necessarily better, but their difference taught me much about the value of time. The service in Liberia may have lasted more than three hours, but it enabled dozens of family members, friends, colleagues from far and wide to be present, speak and pay their respects. In comparison, the service for my grandfather felt painfully concise. As soon as we left the service room, another funeral party entered. I had to break protocol to even give my own, very brief, remarks. I regret not learning more about my grandfather that day. That brevity let dozens of stories and memories slip away, to be forever unspoken.

More than a decade ago, I was a child growing up in the midlands of England, my life split between rural isolation and the schools in nearby towns. Being transgender was the terrible secret that burdened my youth. Sharks are very good at smelling blood in the water, and so I was brutally bullied for much of my childhood for being…