All Blogs by SpaceLab

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.