Brooklyn Lindsey’s Magnetic Personality Made an Impression
She was best known for being bubbly and upbeat
This story is part of Know Their Names, a collection of articles illuminating and celebrating the lives of Black Trans women.
Kris Wade first met Brooklyn Lindsey in 2008 at a weekly support group for homeless women at The Justice Project of Kansas City. “Brooklyn was a very, very sweet person,” says Kris, the executive director of the organization. “[She had a] very sweet nature. Funny. Intelligent. She understood common courtesy, the art of conversation.”
Others recall Brooklyn in the same way. On Instagram, the nearly 160 posts listed under the hashtag #BrooklynLindsey are all dedicated to the 32-year-old, Kansas City, Missouri, woman who left a positive impression on those around her.
“She was sweet and always upbeat always said hello 💔💔💔,” Instagram user @carleneshannon posted. She knew Brooklyn from seeing her in and around Kansas City’s Northeast neighborhood. “She never failed to give a smile. I looked forward to seeing her when I was out and about and when I did, I made it a point to say hi. [S]he just had a really sweet magnetic personality and I never felt like I was speaking to a stranger.”
Despite her bubbly persona, Brooklyn was navigating a world of challenges.
“Towards the end, she was very desperate,” says Kris, whose work at The Justice Project provides criminal justice and social systems advocacy for women in poverty who are impacted by sexual exploitation.
She just had a really sweet magnetic personality, and I never felt like I was speaking to a stranger.
That desperation, Kris says, came from the difficulty that Brooklyn had in sustaining a social safety net. While The Justice Project helps vulnerable women like Brooklyn to find and secure housing, Kris describes Missouri as a “punitive state” in which it is “very difficult” to access “foundational services.”
Kris believes that changes to Missouri’s Medicaid program left Brooklyn and some of the younger women they see at The Justice Project vulnerable. They were tossed off of Medicaid and food stamps, leaving Brooklyn in a “downward spiral to figure out ways to survive,” Kris says.
“Being Trans she had not had a very good family relationship for some time. She was close to some folks, but some of them — not all, but some — had a tough time accepting her gender identity,” Kris says. “Pushed out by family, not accepted, she was out there motoring around on her own.”
In and around Kansas City, more and more organizations are beginning to partner to develop coalitions in support of the Trans community.
“We have been working with GLSEN to start a coalition with other surrounding organizations,” says Cassie Myers, president of PLUS of Franklin County, Kansas, an organization providing education, resources, and advocacy for and about the LGBTQIA+ residents of the county, which is a part of the larger Kansas City metro area. [GLSEN is an organization that was formerly known as the Gay, Lesbian & Straight Education Network.] “I think that we are making major progress to share resources and come together as a state and talk about resources, education, and what is lacking. I think that many agencies such as domestic violence centers [in addition to] police officers, teachers, et cetera, are making a major push to educate as well.”
With all the goodness Brooklyn exuded in the world, her bright light was taken by violence in the early hours of June 25.
According to the charging documents from the Jackson County prosecutor’s office in Missouri, officers were dispatched to the scene following reports of a body on the porch of an abandoned house. They found Brooklyn’s partially nude body riddled with gunshot wounds.
Five 9 mm shell casings were found on the scene. The accused gunman, Marcus Lewis, 41, says he shot Brooklyn after she allegedly tried to solicit him and a physical altercation ensued. Marcus was arrested and charged with second-degree murder, felony armed criminal action, and unlawful felony possession of a firearm.
Brooklyn was murdered at the same intersection where a Latina Trans woman, Tamara Dominguez, 36, was also killed four years ago. “[Transgender people] have been a part of our neighborhood a lot longer than most of it’s [sic] current residents,” said @carleneshannon, who posted, “BACK OFF!! ONE FOR SURE TWO FOR CERTAIN THEY WILL FIGHT BACK AND HAVE PLENTY OF SUPPORT…I am so sorry Brooklyn 💔💔”
Kristin Smith, who lives in the Kansas City area, works for a community program that serves Transgender people, and is mother to a Trans daughter, also posted a tribute to Brooklyn on social media. “Someone else hung posters of murdered Black Trans women and Brooklyn was included,” she says. “I kept her memory alive during my shifts. It seems right in a place where no one probably knew her personally.”
“Even though Brooklyn never resided in our community [of Franklin County, Kansas] we felt the impact of her murder in our hearts,” Cassie says.
Following her murder, PLUS of Franklin County held a back-to-school dance in Brooklyn’s honor. “We all wanted to recognize the fact that women of color who are Trans are being murdered at a rapid rate and no one is speaking on it. We decided to ask for donations upon entry and give that to the Kansas City Anti-Violence Project as they served Brooklyn when she was alive,” Cassie says.
The Kansas City Anti-Violence Project raised over $2,000 in a separate fundraiser to help Brooklyn’s family with expenses, and they held a vigil just days after her murder during the last weekend of Pride Month. Among the mourners were Brooklyn’s best friend Raven Johnson and her aunt Joanna Lindsey, who both carried posters that said “SAY HER NAME.” The two arranged balloons, stuffed animals, and placed pink and white candles on the corner of Independence and Spruce Avenues near where Brooklyn’s body was found. They did this to honor Brooklyn and other Trans women who have lost their lives.
