Throughout my life, I have always been told to be careful. To be wary of the world because it isn’t too kind to “people like you” — i.e. young Black girls turned Black teenage lesbians turned Black trans men.

I still remember how brightly the sun shone into my sister’s navy blue Nissan Altima when she told me that one of her high school classmates, Mel Roberts, had been murdered. 

“Mel had always been kinda different,” my sister recounted. “And it wasn’t until he got out into the world that he was able to be himself. He was a real, real cool dude. Smart as hell, too.” 

He was shot multiple times. My sister said in his chest, but the news said in his upper body. Mel drove himself to Merit Health Hospital in Jackson, Mississippi — our hometown — and collapsed upon arrival. He was only 25. I was 17. 

“I’m not saying you gotta stop being who you are or dim your light or anything,” my sister told me. “I’m just saying I need you to be careful. We can’t lose you, D.” 

Three years and some change later, I still find myself sitting in the passenger seat of that car, wondering how the sun could shine so brightly while the world seems so dim for people like Mel. People like me.

In the years after Mel’s death, I made sure to be careful. Though I continued to wear my — as my sister named it — “carpenter-wear,” I was much more lenient with how people addressed me. I didn’t tell people my pronouns if they didn’t ask. Whatever people assumed I was, was what I was. If people assumed I was a lesbian, I was that. If people assumed I was nonbinary, I was that. If people didn’t even care to ask, hell, that was perfect. I rarely clarified. Because that’s what I was supposed to do.

Despite my friends’ encouragement to use the men’s restrooms, I continued to use the women’s. Even when people re-checked the door sign when they walked in on me washing my hands. Or when I saw the janitors scan my body to make sure that I truly was in the right place. Or when mothers pulled their daughters closer to them when I stepped out of the stall. Because that’s what I was supposed to do. 

I identified (and still do) as queer instead of straight because “you’re not fully a boy, though, right?” I deepened my voice and hunched my shoulders around men to mimic the threat of masculinity. I softened my eyes and loosened my stance around women to evoke a less-threatening form of it. I stayed quiet in conversations about sex. Or romance. Or marriage. Or family-making. I stomached the dubious nature of being trans, of being seen as not-really woman but not-yet man. I accepted it all. Because that’s what I was supposed to do.

And nothing — not the misgendering or the side-eyes or the hecklings — stopped.

I realized, after all of the years of trying to be “careful,” that the only way for me to truly avoid danger is to not be trans at all. It is, of course, not an option to be a trans person, but I am presented with an unfortunate option of how to exist. And considering the 517 anti-trans bills under consideration in 2025 alone, six of which have already passed, simply hiding my trans identity is an option that seems more logical as the days go on. 

In this time and at all times, if we’re being completely honest, trans people need allies. They need not just “allies” who hold their trans-inclusive ideology within themselves but those who are willing to be vocal about their support, and there are multiple ways to do so: 

1. Actively call out the transphobia in your life.

Of course, you should be safe/smart with these callouts (avoid “DM wars”). But the reality is that most of us don’t even address the smaller instances of transphobia in our lives, such as misgendering or questions about genitalia, whether they be asked in “good faith” or not. We need to become more comfortable with respectfully correcting others just as we need to be ready to protect trans people when the time calls for it.

2. Take away “I believe” language.

Subjective language takes away the conviction of the message. Stand on what you say. Speak with authority. “Trans women are women.” “Trans people should be able to play in sports alongside cis people.” “So-and-so uses such and such pronouns” instead of “prefers.” If you truly believe what you say, then there is no reason to dampen its impact.

3. Include trans people.

This connects to the calling-out-transphobia piece, but it is more directed toward ways to include trans people in our day-to-day lives. For example, question if groups truly need to be divided by gender. If they do, allow trans people to go into the group that best aligns with their identity. Don’t limit experiences to the man/woman binary. Don’t equate penises to manhood or vaginas to womanhood in conversation. It will take a minute to unlearn, but be aware of who you’re including and excluding with your speech and actions.

4. If you work with children, teach them inclusivity.

Working with young children myself, my coworkers have done an amazing job of correcting students when they use the incorrect pronouns or ask the ol’ reliable question of, “Are you a boy or a girl?” It is much easier than expected to tell children about trans people. Even if they don’t fully understand — which they most likely won’t — it’s better to nudge them toward a more tolerant mindset than to let instances of transphobia go unaddressed.

5. Be a safe space for trans people in your life.

It should go without saying, but there’s no need to flaunt your knowledge of gender theory or flex all of the queer lingo you know or express an unprecedented amount of pity toward the transgender condition. The people who have validated me the most in my identity are those who give me space to express myself in the way that I see fit. They let me rant, vent, and eventually crack jokes about my struggles of navigating the world. They don’t ask questions about identity or new aspects of my presentation. They continue to call me “boy” even when I speak about my period or titties or vagina. Because that’s what they’re supposed to do.

While this list is not comprehensive by any means, it is meant to be a jumping-off point for people out there who are unsure of ways to be more vocal in their everyday lives. The more intensive forms of allyship — such as joining a nonprofit or understanding the roles in which misogyny and racism play in the perception of trans people — should be something that we as a society strive for. And even if that sounds too optimistic, hopefully you as a reader will feel inclined to take a few small steps. That’s what you’re supposed to do.