Last year, 28 transgender people were killed in the United States — the highest number ever recorded, according to the Human Rights Campaign and the Trans People of Color Coalition, at a time when hate crimes and political attacks against LGBTQ people are on the rise.
For artist Luis Venegas, the violence was a call to action.
“I wanted to honor people currently alive, and ask them words of wisdom, words they would have said to their younger selves. A lot of times we only learn about people’s stories after they have passed,” said Venegas, 25.
Venegas is among the artists and writers participating in the Queer Ancestors Project in San Francisco. Founded in 2010 by Katie Gilmartin, the program provides free workshops in printmaking, writing and queer history, connecting the participants to those who have come before them.
“Growing up, I remember thinking I was the only one and this was only happening to me,” said Venegas, who goes by the pronoun they. For their prints, Venegas interviewed three trans women, including Orchid, who provided the quote “Know History, Know Self. No History, No Self,” which appears in bold capital letters in the show that recently opened at Strut in the Castro and runs through May 19.
Printmaking has a long been used to make protest art, pasted on walls or carried on signs during demonstrations. Working together on the press is a communal activity that fosters camaraderie, said Gilmartin, who teaches the printmaking class.
“It makes you feel less isolated, and you learn that the resistance has been going for decades, if not centuries. That throughout the world, there have been cultures where resistance wasn’t necessary, and that a rigid binary system isn’t universal.”
When Ben Panico came out to his father, he asked, “Do you know who Chaz Bono is?” referring to the singer Cher’s transgender son. “At the time he was the only celebrity trans person I could reference. I’d heard about things like Stonewall, but through this project, I’d learned so much more.”
For his project, Panico read the diaries of Lou Sullivan, a San Francisco trans man who identified as gay and advocated the separation of sexual orientation from gender identity. Just before Sullivan passed away, he published a biography about Jack Bee Garland, who was alive at the turn of the 20th century.
“I like this idea of trans men learning about each other, writing and documenting each other’s history as we move forward,” said Panico, 25. “I’m not the first one; there was Lou Sullivan. He said, ‘I’m not the first one; read about Jack Bee Garland.’”
Often, though, this history has remained in the shadows, in the margins. “It’s not documented, but we know it happened. They’re encouraged to do the research, so they know the context,” Gilmartin said. “For some artists, it’s about inventing queer and trans history and imagining it into being.”
As a novelist, I’ve found fiction can flourish in the places where the official documentation ends and that often the most compelling stories are found in the people missing from history.
Last fall, Queer Ancestors began offering a writing program, led by Celeste Chan, whom I know from Bay Area writing circles. Students get immersed in the work of artists and activists Audre Lorde, James Baldwin, Cherríe Moraga, Justin Chin and more.
“I believe in the power of art to document the times we live in. As a queer person, the community has been attacked and this is the only way to fight back,” said Benny Avalos, who said he’s been writing almost nonstop in his notebook after starting the class.
For the reading he and other students will give at the Queer Ancestors closing reception, he’s inspired by an uncle who he suspects might have been gay — the youngest of four, who grew up in East L.A. and died two years ago.
“He was young and handsome and never married and never had children. I went on his Facebook and started finding out more about him. He had a lot of dudes on his friends list with nice eyebrows.”
The 24-year-old plans to expand upon the remembrance he wrote for his uncle’s funeral, and may turn to fiction to portray his life.
After the political turmoil of the election campaign and the Trump administration that followed, Avalos said he often felt like he was walking in darkness. “I lost myself. I’d have a good day, then hear the news, and feel physically sick.”
In 2016, there were 77 anti-LGBT homicides reported, including the 49 killed in the Pulse nightclub massacre.
“A year later, we’re still here,” he said. “We’re never going to stop fighting. I know we have to focus on pain and trauma, but that’s not all I am. Celebration is part of the active process of revolution, too.”
For more information, go to www.queerancestorsproject.org
Vanessa Hua’s column appears Fridays in Datebook. Email: firstname.lastname@example.org