In October of 2002, Gwen Amber Rose Araujo was murdered by four men, when they discovered she was transgender. To prevent transphobic monsters from picketing her funeral, LGBTQ+ organizations and funeral-goers wore angel wings to prevent Gwen’s mother from seeing the picketers. Gwen’s mother, Sylvia Guerrero, released 17 Monarch Butterflies to honor Gwen. One butterfly for each year of her life. Gwen debated on many names for herself, using mostly Gwen but often Lida and Wendy. If she was born a cis girl, her mother had planned to name her Amber Rose. After her death, Sylvia legally changed Gwen’s name to Gwen Amber Rose Araujo, partly to honor her, and partly to cease the lawyers of Gwen’s murderers from continuing to use Gwen’s deadname and male pronouns to refer to her during court procedures.
Amber Rose Petals
Gwen, I hope you could see
the angel wings and butterflies that
flew around your mother, that lonely day.
Surrounded by dozens of people,
who will never forget your real name,
and the petal that fell for you, Gwen.
Seventeen years is too short a life,
especially when for most of it
you weren’t seen for who you are.
And though short, it was full of the energy
and hope you felt discovering who you truly were.
Another petal for Lida, for the injustice of stolen potential,
for the robbery of your life, which the court
tried to write off, as if it were nothing.
But we know you were just a young
Latina, the world rejected for
daring to want to be loved.
A third petal for Wendy; the name that failed to fit you,
until you remembered how the music of
Gwen Stefani made you feel. I hope
you still know your mother’s love, and were there
the day she had your name changed to remember you.
Although you’ve been gone, almost twenty years now,
the last petal stays strong for Gwen Amber Rose Araujo.
I Won’t Forget You
The names on their gravestones are often not really theirs. I think that was the breaking point for me and when I started to cry, because the names on the gravestones weren’t theirs. A lot goes into a name, especially for a trans person. Our names are our renewal, our second chance at life. Sometimes a trans person reclaims their name, keeping it through the second womb of transition, but most of the time it’s something new and unique to us. Mine was a celebration of my great-grandmother’s life and the women in my family, but the names of others are theirs, and sitting there, reading how they were murdered, I cried. Because the names on their gravestones weren’t theirs, and now they were dead, and so were the names on their gravestones. The article explains that this woman was murdered when her partner learned that she was trans, condemning her without saying it outright. As if saying to me, “didn’t you know? Being trans means you’re not worthy of love, not worthy of life, and you’re a fool for even asking for it.” More than 38 trans people were murdered in 2022, and some of their families, ashamed of their child’s identity, hid their true name on their gravestones. Burying them, burying the family secret, burying a child who was full of life, of love, of passion, and empathy. Burying them forever, and as a final insult from this cruel world, the names on their gravestones are not truly theirs.
Puerto Rican Coffee
I cherish the days when Mama and I sit down,
and sip café together. She’ll drink and say,
“I just love Puerto Rican coffee.”
I always find that funny because I remember
when I was eleven, Dad did the math.
Our old coffee pot broke, and he discovered it would
be a lot cheaper to buy a Keurig coffee maker.
And we’d save more money, by no longer buying
our usual café bustelo.
Mama was not happy, and I recall
her so vividly telling him,
“We will not drink white people coffee.”
But we did, in the years since, get
used to different American coffee.
Over time, Mama forgot her promise
to not ever touch “white people coffee.”
She sips it now, in the mornings,
and tells me,
“I just love Puerto Rican coffee.”
And later, after dropping off Tío Edwin
at the doctor’s, Abuela and I went
to get coffee at Dunkin Donuts.
Still frightened over Tío’s health, she
relaxed for a moment to say,
“I love Puerto Rican coffee.”
That’s when I learned it was our secret,
passed down from daughter to daughter.
From when mi Mama was a child,
drinking café bustelo with just a little
milk and sugar, to when mi Abuela was
a child. And when her mother, Higinia,
would boil her family’s coffee in a pot,
unable to afford shoes for all her children.
The secret that any coffee we drank,
was Puerto Rican coffee. Because
we were strong and Puerto Rican,
and coffee,
is just coffee.
To the Ruffin Women
Josephine St. Pierre Ruffin was an African American civil rights leader, suffragist, writer
and editor during the Civil War, Reconstruction Period, Gilded Age, and Progressive Era.
Florida Ruffin Ridley, Josephine’s daughter, was a civil rights activist, suffragist,
teacher, writer, and editor, active in the Reconstruction Period, Gilded Age, Progressive Era,
Roaring Twenties, and Great Depression.
Despite all their work and monumental achievements, they’ve been mostly lost to time.
Many of their civil rights groups still exist to this day, and their work deserves to be
remembered.
To Josephine and Florida,
who used pen and paper to uplift fellow Black women,
to let their voices become one together,
against the surrounding storms suppressing their mothers, daughters, fathers, and sons.
To Josephine,
whose words recruited soldiers against the Confederates.
Who collected money and supplies for Black families in their exodus.
Who organized three groups dedicated to the voices of all women,
when their voices were stolen by men.
Who organized the National Federation of Afro-American Women, dedicated to the voices of all
Black women,
whose voices were stolen by everyone.
Who was denied the right to speak for herself, for the Black voices she carried,
because of the color of their skin.
Who was told that she couldn’t speak for herself and her group,
unless chaperoned by white women.
To Josephine,
who fought back against this, because her voice was her own.
To Florida,
daughter to a hero.
Who like her mother, found her voice with a pen.
Who was one of the first Black schoolteachers in Boston.
Who stood up against the vile lynchings of her people.
Who fought for all women to be able to vote.
Who archived the history of Black Americans,
like Salem Poor, Peter Salem, and James Lafayette.
Men who were brought to this country in chains,
Yet still fought against the British for its ideals of freedom,
And were erased and forgotten by white Americans.
To Florida,
who wrote alongside Pauline Hopkins and Dorothy West,
and edited the nation’s first newspaper, the Women’s Era, created by Black
women, for Black women.
To Josephine St. Pierre Ruffin and Florida Ruffin-Ridley,
you show all Americans the power of our words, both spoken and written.
And despite my privilege, taught me that when all seems lost
and powerless, the gift of language is the best tool
to creating a more equal and loving world.
Georgia Chesworth is a senior at Eastern Connecticut State University, majoring in English with a minor in Psychology. She lives with her family in Manchester, Connecticut. She is fascinated by poetry and prose that celebrates the authenticity and uniqueness of everyone’s life.