The Fight Is Not Ours Alone
Model-actress Isis King opens up about reconciling her personal success with the struggles and loss of her Black Trans sisters
This story is part of Know Their Names, a collection of articles illuminating and celebrating the lives of Black Trans women.
Two months ago, I attended my first Emmy Awards ceremony, alongside my When They See Us family. I watched my co-star and on-screen brother Jharrel Jerome win for outstanding lead actor in a limited series, and I posed for pictures with many of my fellow artists, including my friends from Pose, Mj Rodriguez and Indya Moore. It was a beautiful night to remember.
Inside, however, I struggled with lingering insecurity. I wasn’t consumed by it, and I knew it would pass. But it was still there.
From the moment I walked into the Microsoft Theater in Los Angeles, I was excited and grateful. I was also fully aware of my presence as a Black Trans woman navigating spaces that haven’t always accepted women like me. Soaking up the energy of the night, I found myself grappling with my place in the room, even though I was welcomed by others. Even though I am having an incredible year — my best ever — which brought more acclaim to my career when I played Marci Wise, a Black Transgender woman who was killed, in When They See Us. Even though I made history in 2008 as the first Transgender woman to compete on America’s Next Top Model. Even though I beat the odds of homelessness and an abusive relationship more than a decade ago. Even though I worked hard as a model and actress for that evening to take a seat among TV’s elite.
So, I sat up straight in my seat and remembered that I earned this moment. Any room I walk into, I belong. More importantly, Black Trans women, we belong.
Nine days later, as I celebrated my 34th birthday, I reminisced about that Emmy Awards moment and my journey. I’m grateful to be another year smarter, more confident, and more discerning. At 34, I’m still goofy and silly, and feel just as young as I did at 21. Although I am leaning into the goodness of my life, stats about women like me are very real and very concerning. News reports paint a grim reality for my community.
Trans women of color have a life expectancy of 35 years. As I get closer to that age, I often think about how so many of my sisters don’t make it this long simply because they choose to live their authentic lives. So many don’t get to experience what it means to belong.
We deserve dignity.
I feel like I’m just starting to find out who I am and what I want in life, and many of my Black Trans sisters don’t get that chance. I am devastated that at least 19 Black Trans women have been murdered in the United States this year. And that number represents only the reported killings we have heard about — I also think about the Black Trans women who were killed in previous years and the murders that are unreported and unsolved. The majority of the killings this year were gun-related, with men arrested and charged in many of these cases. Of the 19 women, at least 14 of them did not reach their 30th birthday, including 17-year-old Bailey Reeves. She was one of three Black Trans women shot to death in Maryland, where I’m from.
We deserve dignity. Instead, many of us are struggling, and dying.
In America, which is supposed to be the home of the free, it’s obvious that the promise of freedom for Black Trans women rings hollow. To be a Black Trans woman means living within oppressive transphobic, sexist, and racist systems that create barriers and deny us basic liberties and protections around employment, health care, housing, and access to things like a proper ID or legal assistance.
With the anti-Trans stigmas that exist in the Black community, sometimes our families don’t accept or support us. This all leaves Black Trans women detrimentally neglected and more vulnerable to poverty, homelessness (which affects 51% of Black Trans women), and anti-Trans violence, especially if the circumstances of their lives lead them to survival sex work. People shun Black Trans women for this work without looking at the deeper issues and recognizing that we’re trying to survive in a world that grants us little to no access to fundamental rights and resources.
Some of what I just mentioned I’ve experienced in my own life. I was a 19-year-old college student in Philadelphia when I was in a physically abusive relationship with a man who had no regard for me. Thankfully, I was able to leave that relationship, though the experience left me emotionally wrecked, and I had to move back home temporarily. Still, I believed a better life was possible. A life where I could be me.
Shortly afterward, I moved to New York City. I bounced around, living in shelters through the Ali Forney Center, which provides housing and social services to LGBTQ youths. I worked in clothing retail, where I saw my hours dwindle after managers discovered I was Trans. (More than a decade later, the Trump administration is currently fighting to allow employers to discriminate against Trans people.) Eventually, I secured stable housing as part of the Ali Forney Center’s Transitional Housing Program. With this support, I was able to focus on getting steady work.
At one point, I was juggling three jobs before landing a full-time front-desk reception job — with benefits — at Bumble and Bumble, thanks to Sophia Connie Voines, a kind soul who recommended me for the role. I was also a part of the New York City ballroom scene, with hopes of becoming a professional model and actress. In 2007, I was in the documentary Born in the Wrong Body, which details lives of Transgender people. And then, at the age of 22, I made history when I became the first Trans woman on America’s Next Top Model. I finished in 10th place.
Since then, I have appeared in ad campaigns and runway shows, acted in TV series, and designed a fashion collection. Even with a recognizable name, fashion show appearances, and acting credits, I’m still in survival mode. That part, unfortunately, hasn’t left me. The work is inconsistent, and the pay fluctuates. After Top Model and all the headlines I made, I worked as a makeup artist at MAC Cosmetics in New York, from 2013 to 2016, to supplement my income.
I’m one of the lucky ones though. I’m fighting to live a good, safe, and healthy life. So many of us are. But I’m very aware that the privileges I have — my passability; the resources given to me for hormone therapy, counseling, and surgery; the employment I’ve had; the rooms I’m welcomed in; the platform I have — help me survive and live out my dreams. I do wrestle with all of this — where I’ve been, where I am — as I mourn the loss of my sisters, who deserved every opportunity to dream big and live freely as themselves.
Each time I audition, walk a red carpet, and give a motivational speech, I use any bit of my celebrity to put on for my community. To claim space.
While our pain and trauma are very real, Black Trans women are so much more than that. We are resilient people who do incredible work. Whether we’re working in the civic sector, entertainment, or government, we help run this country (I see you, Chela Demuir Cartier, Blossom C. Brown, Hope Giselle, Dominique Jackson, and Andrea Jenkins), all while fighting to get others to treat us equally.
Each time I audition, walk a red carpet, and give a motivational speech, I use any bit of my celebrity to put on for my community. To claim space. When I hear stories about how I saved a Black Trans woman from suicide, or how I encouraged them to keep dreaming big, it makes me hold myself to a higher standard. My successes aren’t mine alone. This is for us.
As I look at the widening discussions around Black Trans women’s issues, especially online and during the LGTBQ presidential forum, I am hopeful that the conversations will keep going and growing. We see more visibility of Black Trans women in front of and behind the screen, booking multiple gigs (I see you, Laverne Cox, Janet Mock, Angelica Ross, and Alexandra Grey), and showing up at awards shows (though I wish Black awards shows would step up and show us love). This keeps me optimistic, as increased Black Trans representation in media matters.
Which brings me back to my Emmy weekend experience.
I attended the annual Evening Before the Primetime Emmy Awards event. It’s the big pre-Emmys event and has a star-studded guest list. As I walked in the door, I spotted Niecy Nash, the actress who played my on-screen mother in When They See Us. She called me over and greeted me: “My baby, jump in this photo.” I did, right beside Jharrel, who was also there. I didn’t see who else was in the picture, because it was such a quick moment. After a few snaps, we went on to enjoy the rest of the evening. The next day, I saw the picture. There I was with Niecy, Jharrel, Viola Davis, Regina King, Billy Porter, Don Cheadle, Michael Ealy, Yvette Nicole Brown, and Gina Torres. “Black excellence” was the caption.
I thought to myself, “Wow. I belong here.” It was a validating moment for me.
Being in Hollywood and moving in industry circles, however, doesn’t come with a guarantee of physical safety. I still watch my back when I leave my home. I’m careful while dating. (I prefer dating apps, because I like to say up-front that I’m Trans. That doesn’t promise protection from harm, but telling a cisgender man I’ve randomly met while I’m out that I’m Trans is nerve-wracking.) If I have to walk past a group of guys, sometimes it gives me pause. I don’t walk around in fear, but I’m vigilant, because we see how people don’t value Black Trans women’s lives.
With less stigma comes more acceptance. With more acceptance comes fewer of my sisters being killed.
While there are many people who do care — I don’t want to discount them — let’s be real for a moment. As Indya Moore reminded us in a recent social media post, we need to care about Trans people beyond those who are celebrities. We need to care about the everyday Black Trans woman moving through a world that is dangerous to her.
There’s more work to be done to destigmatize and understand the community. The work, however, shouldn’t fall only on the shoulders of Black Trans women. This is not our fight alone. Do the work with us. See us as your sisters, your aunts, your cousins, your loved ones. See us as we are. And while you’re at it, give Black Trans women jobs. Use proper pronouns. Don’t police our humanity. Don’t tell us we’re trying to trick people — we’re not trying to be anyone but ourselves.
With less stigma comes more acceptance. With more acceptance comes fewer of my sisters being killed.
Black Trans women deserve a full life that allows us to take up space, to show that we are here.
And we belong.
