SpaceLab
Today I want to present Ashlee Marie Preston. Ashlee is an African American transgender writer, communications strategist, and activist based in California. She first became known through online commentary and blogging, where she wrote about race, policing, poverty, and transphobia from her own lived experience as a Black trans woman. Much of her early public work focused on how Black trans women were often excluded even within broader LGBTQ spaces and how media narratives frequently ignored violence affecting them. She later moved into political communications and advocacy work, including serving as a surrogate during the 2020 U.S. presidential primary, which made her one of the first openly transgender people to hold a visible role in a national campaign communications effort. Beyond electoral politics, Preston has spoken publicly about incarceration, homelessness, and reentry, drawing from her own past experiences to argue for rehabilitation and social support systems rather than purely punitive approaches. Her public presence has always been tied to conversation and accountability. Preston often uses media appearances, writing, and speaking to challenge both institutions and community spaces about race, misogyny, and respectability politics. Her work reflects a broader pattern in Black trans history where visibility is used not simply for representation, but to force discussions about who receives safety, opportunity, and dignity in practice rather than in theory.
For today, I want to highlight Imani Barbarin, a Black transgender woman whose advocacy connects disability justice and social equity. Imani Barbarin is a writer and public speaker known for her work in disability rights and accessibility advocacy. Through essays, speaking engagements, and online education, she has helped people understand how race, disability, and gender identity intersect in everyday life. Her work emphasizes that access to healthcare, transportation, employment, and safety are civil rights issues, not optional accommodations. What makes her impact important is how she broadens conversations. Rather than separating movements, she explains how marginalized communities often face overlapping barriers and why solutions must include everyone. Her writing and education have helped many people recognize accessibility as a shared responsibility, showing that Black trans women are not only part of social movements but leaders shaping how justice is understood.
Today's wonderful woman is Janet Mock, a famous Black transgender woman whose work changed how many people first understood trans lives. Janet Mock is a writer, speaker, and cultural commentator born in Honolulu who became widely known after publishing her memoir Redefining Realness in 2014. The book was one of the first bestselling memoirs by a Black trans woman and openly discussed growing up trans, family relationships, poverty, and finding identity in her own words rather than through media stereotypes. It reached readers who had never heard a trans person narrate their own life before. Her visibility mattered because she insisted on control over her story. Instead of being interviewed only about transition, she spoke about education, relationships, safety, and dignity. By appearing on national media and publishing widely read work, she helped move public conversation from curiosity about trans people toward listening to them. Janet Mock’s influence helped create space where later generations of Black trans women could speak publicly about their lives without being treated as a spectacle.
Today, I want to remember Koko Da Doll, a Black transgender woman whose life was centered on telling the truth about survival. Koko Da Doll, born Rasheeda Williams, was an Atlanta based Black trans woman who became known through the documentary Kokomo City, where she spoke openly about the realities Black trans women face, including housing insecurity, sex work, safety, and community. What made her presence powerful was how direct and human she was. She wasn’t framed as a symbol or a debate topic. She spoke about everyday life, humor, friendship, fear, and resilience in her own words. In 2023 she was killed in Atlanta, becoming one of many Black trans women lost to violence. After her death, the film reached wider audiences and many people encountered her story for the first time. Remembering Koko is not only about tragedy, but about listening to what she was already saying while she was alive: that Black trans women are often forced to create their own support systems and protect each other because broader society frequently fails to. Her voice continues to matter because it documented lived experience, not theory, and it reminds people that behind every statistic is a full person who had a life, relationships, and a future that should have been possible.
Today I want to highlight Tracey Norman, a Black transgender woman who quietly made history in fashion years before the industry was willing to acknowledge it. Tracey Norman began modeling in the early 1970s and quickly found success, appearing in major campaigns and magazines including Essence. At the time, she was living openly as a woman and working professionally in an industry that had rigid expectations around gender and image. For several years she modeled without public controversy, building a legitimate career based on talent and presence rather than novelty. Her career changed when people in the industry discovered she was transgender, and she was suddenly shut out of modeling work despite her success. The silence around her removal reflected how the industry handled trans people for decades. Years later, her story resurfaced and she returned to modeling, finally receiving recognition for what she had already accomplished. Tracey Norman’s life shows that Black trans women were shaping mainstream culture long before society was ready to give them credit, and that many pioneers were erased not because they lacked talent, but because they existed openly.
Since it's Friday the 13th I want today's black trans woman to be Angelica Ross, who made history inside a major modern horror franchise. Angelica Ross appeared in multiple seasons of American Horror Story, including 1984 and later Red Tide, becoming one of the first Black trans women to hold a recurring acting role within a mainstream horror anthology series. Horror has a long history of using gender variance as a twist, a disguise, or a source of fear, but Ross’s characters were written as actual people within the story rather than metaphors about transness. She existed in the genre as a character first, not a reveal. What makes this significant is how different it is from earlier horror eras. For decades, trans identity in horror was something written by outsiders and attached to villains or shock endings. Ross’s presence marked a shift where a Black trans woman was not the horror device, but a participant in the narrative world itself. Her work helped move horror from depicting transness as something frightening toward allowing trans people to occupy space in the genre as performers, creators, and storytellers.
Today's black trans woman to highlight is The Lady Chablis, a Black transgender woman whose presence and personality made her a local legend long before trans visibility was common. The Lady Chablis was born in 1957 and grew up in Georgia, eventually making Savannah her home. She lived openly as a woman in the South during a time when doing so carried real danger and social risk. Known for her sharp humor and confidence, she became a fixture at Club One, where she performed cabaret and built a reputation not just as an entertainer but as a personality people came specifically to see. Her life gained wider attention when she appeared as herself in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, refusing to tone herself down or be presented as a joke. What made Lady Chablis significant was how ordinary she insisted her life was. She did not present herself as a symbol or spokesperson. She simply lived openly, wrote her memoir, and demanded to be addressed with respect, even correcting people who misgendered her in public and on camera. In a region and era where many trans women had to remain hidden to stay safe, her unapologetic visibility helped normalize the idea that a Black trans woman could exist publicly, socially, and confidently as herself.
TodayI want to highlight CeCe McDonald, a Black transgender woman whose story brought national attention to how self defense and survival are treated differently for trans women, especially Black trans women. CeCe McDonald was a young trans woman living in Minneapolis in 2011 when she and friends were harassed outside a bar with racist and transphobic slurs. The confrontation turned violent and McDonald was physically attacked. During the assault she defended herself, and one of the attackers later died from injuries. Instead of being treated as a victim of a hate motivated attack, she was prosecuted and ultimately sentenced to prison. Her case sparked widespread conversation because many people saw how systems failed to protect her long before the incident. While incarcerated she advocated for herself and other trans prisoners, including issues around safety and placement. After her release she continued speaking about criminal justice, violence, and the realities trans women face when trying simply to survive. CeCe McDonald’s story highlights how survival itself can become criminalized, and why so many Black trans women have historically had to fight not just individuals, but institutions, for recognition and safety.
Today's wonderful woman is Mya Taylor, a Black transgender woman whose life story represents resilience and visibility in a way that felt new at the time it happened. Mya Taylor grew up in Texas and experienced homelessness and survival sex work after being rejected by family as a teenager. For years she lived on the margins, navigating safety, housing, and basic stability while still holding onto humor and self confidence. Her life changed when she was cast in the independent film Tangerine (2015), where she played a character inspired by experiences she knew firsthand. Her performance earned her an Independent Spirit Award, making her the first openly transgender actor to win a major U.S. film acting award. More than the award itself, her impact came from audiences seeing a Black trans woman portrayed with personality, flaws, and humanity rather than tragedy alone. Taylor’s visibility helped open doors for future performers and reminded people that trans women had always been telling their own stories, even when the world was not listening. Mya's performance in Tangerine is actually in my top 5 favorite supporting actress performances of the 2010s and I wish and hope she gets more work in the future.
Today I wanted to highlight Sir Lady Java, an African American transgender woman whose fight against policing and discrimination happened years before most organized LGBTQ rights protections existed. Sir Lady Java was a Black transgender woman living in Los Angeles during the 1960s who worked as an entertainer in local nightclubs. At the time, the city enforced “Rule No. 9,” a regulation that allowed police to shut down performances by anyone they believed was impersonating another gender. Rather than quietly stepping away, she directly challenged the rule, organizing protests and bringing public attention to how gender nonconforming people were being criminalized simply for existing in public spaces. Although the courts ultimately dismissed her case, the pressure surrounding her fight contributed to the repeal of the policy not long afterward. Her activism predated many well known LGBTQ legal victories and showed early resistance to policing of gender expression. Sir Lady Java’s story reminds us that Black trans women were contesting discriminatory laws long before broader movements recognized them, laying groundwork for freedoms many people now take for granted.
Today, I wanted to spend a moment remembering Monica Roberts, a Black transgender writer and activist whose work focused on making sure people were seen, named, and not forgotten. Through persistence and care, she built spaces where trans lives were documented with dignity at a time when very few people were paying attention. Monica Roberts was a Black transgender activist, writer, and community historian from Houston, Texas. At a time when mainstream media barely covered violence against trans people, she created the blog TransGriot, which became one of the most important archives documenting the lives, deaths, and achievements of transgender people, especially Black trans women. She reported on murders that news outlets ignored, corrected misgendering in media coverage, and made sure victims were remembered as human beings rather than statistics. What made Monica a trailblazer was that she understood visibility required record keeping. By documenting names, stories, and injustices year after year, she created a living history written from within the community rather than about it. She also advocated for inclusive policies in sports, healthcare, and civil rights protections, while mentoring younger activists and writers. Much of what we now know about patterns of violence against trans women exists because Monica Roberts insisted those lives mattered enough to be recorded. Her work reminds us that preserving memory can itself be activism, and that history only exists when someone refuses to let it disappear.
Today I want to focus on a Black trans woman whose work has focused less on recognition and more on making sure people actually survive: Ceyenne Doroshow. Ceyenne Doroshow is a Black transgender activist from New York City who has spent years supporting trans women who are unhoused, incarcerated, or living in extreme poverty. Having experienced homelessness and survival sex work herself, she built her advocacy around the needs she understood firsthand. Rather than speaking only in policy spaces, she focused on direct care and immediate help for people who were often ignored even within LGBTQ organizations. She founded G.L.I.T.S. (Gays and Lesbians Living in a Transgender Society), which provides housing assistance, food, healthcare support, and resources specifically for trans people, particularly Black trans women. Doroshow’s work shows that activism is not always speeches or headlines. Sometimes it looks like helping someone get a place to sleep, access medication, or simply be treated with dignity. Her legacy is still being written, but her impact is already clear in the lives she has helped stabilize and protect, reminding us that community care has always been at the center of Black trans history.
For today, I want to highlight a Black trans woman whose life challenged legal, medical, and social boundaries decades before the modern civil rights era: Lucy Hicks Anderson. Lucy Hicks Anderson was a Black transgender woman born in 1886 in Kentucky who lived openly as herself for most of her life, at a time when doing so was almost unimaginable. As a teenager, she asserted her identity and was supported by a local doctor who allowed her to live and be recognized as female, an extraordinary occurrence for the early 1900s. She later settled in Oxnard, California, where she became a well known community figure, running boarding houses and earning respect for her presence, style, and leadership. For years, she lived openly as a woman without public controversy, navigating her life with confidence and determination. Her life became a national story in the 1940s when authorities targeted her for fraud after discovering she had been assigned male at birth. Lucy was arrested, publicly humiliated, and imprisoned, not for harming anyone, but for insisting on living authentically. Even in court, she refused to deny who she was, stating plainly that she had lived as a woman her entire life. Lucy Hicks Anderson’s story is not one of celebrity or performance, but of everyday resistance. She reminds us that Black trans women have always existed, built lives, and demanded recognition long before the language of rights or visibility was available. Her courage stands as an early cornerstone of Black trans history, rooted in dignity, self determination, and survival.
Today I want to highlight a Black trans woman whose influence shaped an entire cultural movement long before it was recognized by the mainstream: Crystal LaBeija. Crystal LaBeija was a Black transgender woman, performer, and visionary who emerged from New York City’s drag and ballroom scenes in the 1960s. She came to wider attention through the 1968 documentary The Queen, where her refusal to accept racism and bias in drag pageants became a defining moment. At a time when Black performers were routinely excluded or sidelined, Crystal spoke openly about the discrimination she faced, naming what others were expected to endure in silence. Crystal LaBeija went on to found the House of LaBeija, widely recognized as the first house in ballroom culture. What began as a response to exclusion became a radical new family structure, offering mentorship, protection, and belonging to Black and Latinx queer and trans youth who had nowhere else to turn. Her legacy lives on every time ballroom culture is celebrated, performed, or referenced, even when her name is left out. Crystal LaBeija reminds us that Black trans women have always been architects of culture, not just participants, building worlds where survival, beauty, and community could exist together.
For today, I want to highlight a Black trans woman whose trailblazing work in music was decades ahead of its time: Jackie Shane. Jackie Shane was a Black transgender soul and R&B singer who rose to prominence in the early 1960s, long before there was language or safety for openly trans people, especially Black trans women. Born in 1940 in Nashville, she later moved to Toronto, where she became a major figure in the city’s music scene. Shane performed openly as herself at a time when doing so meant risking arrest, violence, and career destruction. Her voice, style, and confidence challenged rigid ideas about gender and respectability, even if the world did not yet have words to celebrate what she was doing. What makes Jackie Shane a true trailblazer is how unapologetic her presence was. She did not frame her identity as a novelty or explanation. She simply existed, performed, and demanded to be taken seriously as an artist. Her 1962 recording “Any Other Way” stands as one of the earliest known songs by a trans performer to directly address loving and living authentically. Though she eventually stepped away from public life, Shane’s legacy lives on as proof that Black trans women have always been shaping culture, even when history tried to erase them. Her life reminds us that visibility did not begin in recent years, and that courage has always existed, often without applause or protection.
For today, I want to highlight someone whose humanity deserves to be remembered far beyond the circumstances of her death: Muhlaysia Booker. Muhlaysia Booker was a Black transgender woman living in Dallas, Texas, who was known by friends for her warmth, humor, and resilience. Like many Black trans women, she navigated a world that constantly put her at risk simply for existing. In the months before her death in 2019, Booker had already survived a brutal, widely circulated assault that was treated by many as entertainment rather than a hate crime. Despite the trauma and public scrutiny, she continued trying to live her life, showing a strength that should never have been demanded of her in the first place. Muhlaysia Booker was murdered later that year, becoming one of the many Black trans women killed in a pattern of violence that is both predictable and preventable. Her death was not an isolated tragedy but part of a broader failure to protect trans women, especially Black trans women, from harm. Remembering Muhlaysia is about more than mourning loss; it is about naming the violence, refusing to normalize it, and honoring her as a full person who deserved safety, joy, and a future. Her life matters, and her name deserves to be spoken with care, not reduced to a statistic or headline.
For the 2nd day this month, I wanted to highlight someone whose impact may not always be talked about loudly, but whose work has kept countless trans women alive: Miss Major Griffin-Gracy. Miss Major Griffin-Gracy is a Black transgender activist who has spent her life showing up for the most vulnerable members of the trans community, especially incarcerated and formerly incarcerated trans women. Born in 1940 in Chicago, she came of age in a world where being Black and trans meant constant danger, criminalization, and survival on the margins. She later moved to New York City and was present during the Stonewall uprising in 1969, experiencing firsthand the police violence and resistance that helped spark the modern LGBTQ rights movement. What makes Miss Major’s legacy so powerful is how deeply rooted it is in care. After surviving homelessness, incarceration, and systemic violence herself, she dedicated her life to protecting others from the same harm. As a longtime leader of the Transgender Gender-Variant & Intersex Justice Project, she has fought for the dignity, safety, and humanity of trans women inside prisons, a group often completely forgotten. Miss Major reminds us that trans liberation is not just about visibility, but about making sure people survive, are loved, and are not abandoned. Her work is a cornerstone of Black trans history and continues to shape how we talk about justice, care, and community today.
With it being Black History Month in the U.S., I wanted to do a short blurb each day of the month to highlight a trans woman of color in our country’s history. With everything going on in our country regarding bigotry, particularly racism and the heightened focus on demonizing the LGBTQ community (with the trans community being the primary target), I wanted to take a moment each day to highlight a trans woman of color for visibility and to focus on the strength and power of the community. For this first day I figured I might as well focus on arguably the most famous trans advocate of all time, Marsha P. Johnson. Marsha P. Johnson was a Black transgender activist, drag performer, and one of the most influential figures in LGBTQ history. Born in 1945 in Elizabeth, New Jersey, Johnson moved to New York City as a teenager, where she became a central presence in Greenwich Village’s queer community. She is most widely known for her role in the 1969 Stonewall uprising, a pivotal moment in the modern LGBTQ rights movement, where she and other trans women and gender-nonconforming people resisted police violence and harassment. At a time when Black trans people faced extreme poverty, criminalization, and exclusion, Johnson lived openly and unapologetically, embodying both resistance and survival. Beyond Stonewall, Johnson dedicated her life to caring for those most marginalized within the community. Alongside Sylvia Rivera, she co-founded STAR (Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries), an organization that provided housing, food, and support to homeless trans youth, many of whom were Black and Latinx. Johnson was also active in ACT UP during the AIDS crisis, advocating for people dying from HIV/AIDS while the government largely ignored them. Her legacy is foundational to Black trans history: she showed that liberation work includes mutual aid, visibility, and radical compassion, and her activism continues to shape conversations about racial justice, gender identity, and LGBTQ rights today.