Black Trans History You May Not Know, But Should

At Origami Customs, we know that history matters because the stories and narratives we tell shape who gets validated and empowered. It’s currently Black History Month in the United States, and so we’re taking some time to tell the stories of people whose names are too often left out of the story.

Last week, we focused on the lessons we can learn from the Black activists who changed the face of civil liberties and equality in the United States. This week, we’ll focus on the stories of Black trans and gender diverse people who changed the world while the world tried to erase them.

Black Trans People Have Always Led The Fight For Rights

Because the truth is this: Black trans and gender nonconforming people have always existed. Always. Long before the word “transgender” entered the public vocabulary. They were here, they were resisting, and they were leading. Many of them are the reasons that most of us have the rights we have today. 

From the earliest uprisings against police brutality to the legal strategies that dismantled segregation, Black trans people have been at the forefront of liberation movements in the United States. Not on the sidelines as we’re often told, but at the center.

Mainstream 2SLGBTQIA+ narratives have a habit of “polishing the edges,” spotlighting the most “palatable” figures, and quietly pushing Black trans leadership into the margins. It happens because of whose stories get funding, platforms, and preservation. This erasure isn’t accidental. It reflects the same racism, misogyny, and transphobia that these leaders were fighting in the first place.

So this month, during this time when the current US administration is doing its best to erase these truths, we want to fight back by making sure we continue to speak their names and tell their stories. If we want to build a future rooted in justice, we have to tell the truth about who built the path beneath our feet.

The History of African Gender Diversity Before Colonization

Across much of the African continent today, homosexuality is often framed as taboo, with leaders and laws claiming 2SLGBTQIA+ identities are a Western import that contradict “African culture.” But this narrative ignores history. In reality, long before European colonization drew borders across the continent, many African societies held expansive, nuanced understandings of gender and sexual orientation. Much of the homophobia seen today is rooted in colonial laws and Victorian moral codes, not in precolonial African societies themselves.

Historically Documented Same-sex Relationships in Africa

Anthropologists have documented woman-to-woman marriages in more than 40 African societies, including among the Igbo, Nandi, Kikuyu, and others. These marriages were socially recognized and legally structured. A woman could take on the social role of “husband,” pay bridewealth, and become the head of a household. Children born within the union were recognized as part of her lineage.

A 2020 report highlights that at least 21 cultural varieties of same-sex relationships have long existed across Africa. Some examples include the monarchical Zande culture of the Northern Congo, where younger men could be temporarily married as “wives,” with warriors paying bride price to their families. Or the Bantu-speaking Pouhain farmers in Gabon and Cameroon, where homosexual intercourse, called bian nkû”ma, was considered a form of wealth-transmitting medicine. 

In pre-colonial Benin, homosexuality was sometimes understood as a temporary phase for boys, while among Cape Bantu communities, lesbianism was associated with women training to become chief diviners, or isanuses. 

There are even ancient historical records of African same sex relationships. Cave paintings by the San people near Guruve, Zimbabwe, date back thousands of years, and depict intimate same-sex scenes, showing that such relationships were recognized and integrated into their society. And in Ancient Egypt, the tomb of Niankhkhnum and Khnumhotep shows two men depicted embracing as lovers. 

We even have an example of an openly gay king, King Mwanga II of Buganda. Historical records describe his relationships with men, a reality that colonizers weaponized to justify intervention in his rule. His life stands as evidence that sexual and gender diversity were present even in positions of power long before Western missionaries declared them taboo.

Indigenous Trans and Gender Diversity Practices in Pre-Colonial Africa

Trans and gender-diverse practices are also documented across pre-colonial Africa, with many diverse societies recognizing and honoring gender and sexual fluidity. These rich traditions were systematically undermined by colonial authorities, who imposed rigid binaries and demonized nonconforming identities, erasing centuries of inclusive practice and understanding.

Among the 16th-century Imbangala of Angola, men could wear women’s clothing and live among their wives, showing fluidity in gender roles and relationships. The Igbo and Yoruba of Nigeria didn’t assign gender at birth; instead, it was determined later based on societal roles and personal attributes. Similarly, the Dagaaba of Ghana recognized gender based on the energy a person expressed, rather than anatomy, demonstrating a spectrum-based understanding of identity.

The mudoko dako of northern Uganda lived as women and could marry men. The Mwami prophets of the Ila people in Zambia dressed as women, performed women’s work, and engaged in spiritual practices. Among the Lugbara, transgender mediums, okule (“like women”) and agule (“like men”) served as messengers between humans and spirits. In Angola, the  Chibados or Quimbanda were male diviners channelling female spirits, respected for their spiritual roles.

And again, we even have examples in positions of power. Queen Nzinga Mbande ruled Ndongo and Matamba in the 1600s with tactical brilliance. She led troops into battle and strategically navigated gender roles, at times insisting on being referred to as “King.” She also kept over fifty chibados (trans spiritual figures) in her court. Her authority disrupted European expectations of both gender and power. She did not fit neatly into colonial definitions of womanhood, and she did not try to.

In many societies, gender variance was not pathologized but sacred. Dual-gendered identities were linked to spiritual power, divination, and healing. Colonial authorities, bringing Christian doctrines and rigid binaries, often demonized or erased these roles, replacing centuries of inclusive tradition with restrictive norms. The legacy of this erasure underlines the importance of reclaiming and honoring these precolonial understandings today.

Erasing the History of Black Trans Activism in the United States 

When people talk about the birth of 2SLGBTQIA+ liberation in the United States, the spotlight almost always lands on 1969 in New York. But three years earlier and nearly 3,000 miles away, trans women were already fighting back. And many of them were women of color.

The 1966 Compton’s Cafeteria Riot

Although there are certainly other undocumented instances of Black trans resistance in the US, the Compton’s Cafeteria riot is one of the first documented instances of Black trans people standing up against police brutality, racism, and transphobia.

In 1966, in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district, there was a diner named Compton’s Cafeteria. It was not glamorous, but it offered community and was one of the few places where trans women, drag queens, and gender-nonconforming people could gather. Many were Black and Latinx, many were young, and many were surviving through sex work because trans employment discrimination left them with few options.

Police harassment of these women was routine. At the time, so-called “female impersonation” laws made it illegal to wear clothing that did not match the sex assigned at birth. Trans women were arrested for how they dressed, for how they walked, for standing on the sidewalk too long, for any excuse. Officers regularly entered Compton’s to intimidate and remove patrons.

In August of 1966, something shifted. That night, when a police officer attempted to arrest one of the women, she had reached her limit. She threw a cup of hot coffee in his face.

Within moments, chaos erupted. Sugar shakers flew. Windows shattered. A police car outside was vandalized. The women who had been policed, beaten, and humiliated fought back. These women did not wait for permission to resist. They did not wait for a more “acceptable” moment. They fought because they had had enough and their lives demanded it.

For decades, the uprising at Compton’s was barely remembered. Records were sparse, and arrest reports were said to have “disappeared.” It wasn’t until historian Susan Stryker uncovered archival references that the story began to resurface. Her 2005 documentary, Screaming Queens, preserved the testimony of the women who were there and restored Compton’s to its rightful place in history.

Why Was The Compton’s Cafeteria Riot Erased?

So why don’t more people know about Compton’s? The answer is uncomfortable.

As the gay rights movement gained visibility after 1969, many mainstream organizations sought legitimacy through “respectability” politics. They prioritized images that felt palatable to lawmakers and the broader public. Respectable meant white. Respectable meant middle class. Trans people, especially trans women of color, especially women who had no option but to survive through sex work, were often pushed aside in that process.

Early Pride marches sometimes excluded drag queens and trans women. Black and trans activists who had been on the front lines were told to step back so the movement could appear “serious.” The very people who had risked the most were framed as liabilities.

Compton’s did not fit the polished storyline. It was messy. It was led by trans women of color. It unfolded in a neighborhood stigmatized for poverty and sex work. It challenged not just police brutality but the broader social order.

Erasure is rarely accidental. It reflects who society deems worthy of remembrance. But when we recover Compton’s, we recover more than a riot. We recover the truth that Black and brown trans women were not waiting in the wings of history. They were already at the front, and they were done being quiet.

Stonewall and the Whitewashing of History

If Compton’s was the spark no one archived properly, the Stonewall Riots became the explosion the world could not ignore. But even here, the story we are told is often simplified into something neat and cinematic. History, in reality, was far more collective and far more complicated.

What We Know About the Stonewall Riots

In the 1960s, queer bars in New York City operated in the shadows. Liquor laws prohibited serving alcohol to known homosexuals, which meant many bars were owned or controlled by the Mafia. The Stonewall Inn was one of them. Patrons paid inflated prices for watered-down drinks in exchange for something priceless at the time: a place for queer people to gather.

Police raids were routine. Gender nonconforming people were especially targeted. Officers would storm in, line people up, check IDs, and arrest those wearing clothing that did not match the sex marker on their identification. Harassment was not exceptional; it was policy.

On June 28, 1969, when police arrived yet again to shut the bar down, something shifted. Instead of dispersing quietly, the crowd resisted. Tension turned into confrontation, which turned into an uprising. The rebellion lasted for days.

The History of Stonewall Still Tries to Erase Trans Women of Color

The question that popular culture loves to ask is “Who threw the first brick?” As if the first stone thrown outweighs all the individuals who were fighting for their rights. In 2015, a major Hollywood film about Stonewall centered a fictional white cisgender man as the instigator of the rebellion. Horrifying. Because when we whitewash history, we do not just distort the past. We reshape who gets credit and who gets protected in the present. 

The truth is that queer and trans people of color were at the forefront. They were tired of raids, tired of being disposable. And all of their efforts deserve to go down in history, not whitewashed out of it.

Marsha P. Johnson, affectionately known as “Pay It No Mind,” was a Black trans woman, drag performer, and tireless organizer. She later co-founded Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries, or STAR, building housing networks and mutual aid structures for trans youth who had been abandoned by their families and the state. Marsha herself said she arrived after the uprising had already begun. What mattered more than the first object thrown was what she built afterward.

Sylvia Rivera, a Latina trans activist and Marsha’s co-founder of STAR, was equally central. Rivera was unapologetic, loud when necessary, and relentless in calling out the gay rights movement when it sidelined trans people. She once clarified that she did not throw the first Molotov cocktail, but the second. Even in that correction, there is a reminder: resistance was collective.

Then there is Stormé DeLarverie, a butch lesbian, person of color, and performer. Accounts describe her being forcibly shoved toward a police wagon that night. She reportedly turned to the crowd and shouted, “Aren’t you going to do something?” That call pierced through the fear. The crowd responded.

Other Trans Women of Color Who Have Shaped American History

Black trans and gender-expansive people have shaped U.S. law, culture, and liberation movements for centuries, yet their names are often left out of the record.

Mary Jones was one of the earliest documented Black transgender women in U.S. history. She was arrested in 1836 and publicly scrutinized for “cross-dressing.” But despite newspapers sensationalizing her identity, she still appeared in court in a dress and wig, was mocked publicly, and ultimately sentenced to prison. 

Frances Thompson survived the 1866 Memphis Massacre and became the first known Black trans woman to testify before Congress, helping expose racial terror during Reconstruction and influencing the national reckoning that led to the Fourteenth Amendment. 

In the twentieth century, Pauli Murray laid the legal groundwork for Brown v. Board of Education and co-founded the National Organization for Women, articulating a vision of intersectional justice while living a profoundly gender-expansive life. 

Sir Lady Java challenged discriminatory performance laws in Los Angeles with support from the American Civil Liberties Union, helping end the enforcement of Rule Number 9. And Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, a veteran of the Stonewall Riots, has spent decades organizing for incarcerated trans women through the TGI Justice Project and House of GG.

These women and other trans people of color like them were not peripheral to history. They were constitutional witnesses, legal architects, cultural resisters, and movement builders. Their erasure is not accidental. It is political. And remembering them restores the truth: trans people of color have always been central to the fight for freedom.

Why Remembering Matters Trans People of Color Matters

The word trancestry was popularized by CeCe McDonald, a Black trans activist, artist, and prison abolitionist whose own survival became part of our collective record. Trancestry is a braided word: Trans + ancestry. It names what has always been true: we come from somewhere.

Trancestry insists that trans people are not anomalies that appeared in the late twentieth century. We are part of a lineage. Some of our ancestors are documented. Many are not. All of them matter, and to claim trancestry is to refuse erasure.

Storytelling becomes resistance when the archive has been curated against you. Especially when it comes to trans people of color, where the media literally edits you out of your own uprising. Every time we talk about the historical records of transness or of gender diverse people of color, we interrupt the silence that power depends on.

Trans History Reminds Us That We Can Win

Stories are blueprints that teach us how people survived laws designed to crush them. How they built mutual aid before nonprofits existed. How they loved each other through epidemics, riots, raids, prisons, and courtrooms. They show us that what feels unprecedented often is not. Someone has walked through fire before, and someone has mapped an exit.

Liberation is intergenerational.

It does not begin and end with one riot, one court case, one charismatic leader. It moves like a relay. One generation carries the weight as far as it can. Then it places the baton in another set of hands. Trancestry reminds us of those who got us here. And it reminds us that the work we do now will become someone else’s inheritance. 

We Stand on The Shoulders of Trans People of Color

Black trans history is not a sidebar. It is the backbone of LGBTQIA+ history. From Compton’s Cafeteria to Stonewall, from Frances Thompson’s testimony to Miss Major’s lifelong organizing, Black trans and gender-diverse people have shaped the fight for freedom, justice, and dignity for all of us. Their courage has always illuminated the path forward, even when the world tried to erase them.

Colonialism tried to flatten gender into a binary. White supremacy tried to edit trans people of color out of liberation movements. Respectability politics tried to sideline the very people who risked the most. And still, they resisted. They created mutual aid before it had a name. They demanded constitutional protections. They took the stage. They threw the coffee. They kept going.

That lineage is trancestry. When we honor that history, we inherit both responsibility and possibility. There is hope here. There is power. The knowledge that collective action, mutual aid, and unwavering resilience have carried the most marginalized communities through centuries of oppression. 

Thanks For Being Here

If Black History Month can teach us anything, it’s this: Black trans history is not a footnote. It is a foundation. From precolonial African societies that honored gender expansiveness, to the uprising at Compton’s Cafeteria, to Stonewall, to courtrooms, classrooms, and community groups, trans and gender-diverse people of color have always been building the world we’re still fighting to live in.

At Origami Customs, we know that clothing can be a tool for affirmation, but storytelling is a tool for survival. When we speak these names out loud, we interrupt erasure. When we teach this history, we can be empowered by all of the incredible individuals who gave us a blueprint and hope for a path forward.