A Woman, A Black Person, And A Lesbian All Walk Into A Bar At The Same Time. It Ended Horribly.

T. Miller has a small request. A desperate plea for you to just hear her story, and the stories of so many you have never even known existed. Just hit play and hear her out.

NSFW: She describes a violent crime and the awful words that came with it at 1:30.

T. Miller has a lot of experience with the struggle of being black, gay, a woman, and dominant in Detroit. She's lost many friends whose only crime was existing outside the comfort zone of people who don't bother to learn that people who are different from them exist in the world. And the stories of people just like her often get buried by our complacent media.

More people should know about those who have died. You should know the name Britney Cosby. You should learn more about Sakia Gunn. I would tell you more about what they were like, but nothing exists beyond a news story of their death. And there are countless other women out there, afraid not only of being murdered, but of no one ever knowing they existed. Because people never talk about them.

More people should acknowledge the humanity that is inherent in each of us. More people should learn what their indifference can do. Most importantly, more people could share this if they think these women's names should be heard. I hope you do. It's not that big of an ask, and the biggest struggle right now is making sure someone, anyone, knows that Sakia Gunn, Britney Cosby, and the many others you've never heard of existed.

And I hope you learn more of T's compelling stories by Liking her Facebook page.

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T. Miller: When black girls who look like black men are murdered for not succumbing to the cat calls of strangers, for not going home with men making promises of their penises, turning us back into women for holding our girlfriend's hands, tighter.

When walking past a crowd full of men who have had way too much rejection to drink, and is looking for a fight, and is looking for a dyke and is looking for a reason to use their judgment to paint the cement with our blood.

We are not remembered. Our deaths are so unceremonious. We die in the middle of the night at bus stops in dirty bathroom stalls. We are not remembered. They do not talk about us. They do not march for us. The feminists rarely start movements in our names. We don't even leave stains.

We disappear. We prove that the answer for minority multiplication is society minus a triple threat, three less questions that I have to worry about answering. Joke: A woman, a black, and a gay all walk in to the same bar, in the same body. Punchline: her life, punchline: her death. Punch her lying naked and beaten in the alley of that bar with the words nigger, fag, bitch burned into her skin, using her last breath to ask God why her identity had to weigh so much?
They don't remember Sakia Gunn. We are not woman enough, not man enough, too Ellen, not enough Trayvon Martin, don't look like we bleed monthly.

There's no market for us, no reason to believe that we could have been the next anything outside of shadows. Even our mothers can't figure out how to love us, can't believe that God gave them three burdens as a daughter. Fathers can't figure out who to show us off to, who to protect us from, don't know which guns to teach us how to use, so they raise us to believe that Alzheimer's is a disease that society catches after everyone's death.

There's nothing special about our forgotten except for the fact that we are women, black, and queer, feared by the prejudiced, the pope, the police, the people who want us to take off our hoodies, our skin, our vaginas, our sexuality and be more memorable. It's hard enough to get them to talk about our Oscar Grants. How dare us ask them to make noise for our Sakia Gunns, the other black men, the ones who chose to be this way, to look like we spent our lives practicing how to be targets. Black men are targets.

We are just imitations, not even worthy of being considered trash, never wanted to be considered trash, so badly to at least be noticed. We know that you are not going to stop killing us, but at least have enough decency to leave records of our deaths, hang us on trees near streetlights, give us names, tell our mothers that you are sorry for their losses even if you are not, just talk about us.

The black girls who look like black men wearing a quiet death as a cologne, even if you are going to kill us, at least start a conversation after we are gone.


There may be small errors in this transcript.

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