I have long had an admiration for flags, ever since the second grade when I used to turn to the corner of the room where the United States flag hung solemnly and we recited the Pledge of Allegiance. In the Cub Scouts when I was a little older, there was a lot of flag raising and lowering, and while it was all great and impressive, the impact of just what it represented hadn't truly hit home.
It was at Emily Post Junior High School that I began to understand why people were so heated and passionate about this cloth that hung on a pole. The Vietnam War was being fought and the only young man that I knew loved me, Richard McCoy, had been drafted. He was very handsome and a lifeguard. He was invigorated and excited to go to battle. He returned home in a box covered with the American flag. As I sobbed and watched them fold the flag in that special triangular way that they do, to hand it to his mother, I began to realize what this flag meant to so many people. What it was starting to mean to me.
Then the riots came in Detroit in 1967. Many people were killed and it was over civil rights. I thought the flag was supposed to be for everyone, and yet people of color did not have the same rights as those white people who fought and served under the same flag? How could this be? Why was my race being denied the right to vote? Why were they being discriminated against, when there was nothing anyone could do regarding the color of their skin? I just didn't get it. Eventually, I began to truly understand. My mother had explained it best when she said that people were not going to like me for the color of my skin. I just didn't see how someone could dislike me for something none of us could do anything about.
It was then that I became an anti-war protester. We had sleep-ins, and protests, and even saw people burning the flag. This was all new to me. Flags meant pride and honor, and not all of these men were willing to go to war for this piece of cloth, some choosing to leave the country for other places than to serve in a war against others by the United States of America.
Then our family friend's grandson, Dwight H. Johnson, won the Medal of Honor. Only to return home to be shot on the streets of Detroit. It was then that I realized that if I did not take control of my fate, surely I would be drafted and die somewhere on foreign soil, with my head blown off. So I took control in the only way I knew how, I joined the United States Navy, and had my rate guaranteed because of my high scores, and stayed stateside for my entire tour of duty. I guess flags for me have always been synonymous with fighting for something, be it rights, life, or freedom.
Somehow, I thought the fight was over, and that I was free to be, but how naive I was. The fight had only begun, as at the age of 25 I transitioned from male to female. So, now instead of one thing to fight over (race) I have had multiple factors over the last 29 years. I am African American/Native American (Chickasaw), trans, female, a person living with AIDS, senior citizen, U.S. veteran, and licensed vocational nurse. I helped pioneer change by being a longtime fighter for the underdog, as you can see, that was usually me. However, I have a voice and have used my voice and everything I have to help others, even at detriment to myself. That is who I am.
When I asked to fly the trans flag at Harvey Milk Plaza on the Transgender Day of Remembrance, it was always about the community. It took the Merchants of Upper Castro and Market one whole month to say, "No." So, I put up an online petition and rallied 1,295 people from all over the world to tell MUMC to fly the flag. The fact that it was an issue in San Francisco, the bastion of everything LGBT, was really unconscionable. They needed a group, and I gave them our Trans March group. I did everything they asked of me, and yet they couldn't say or explain anything to my face at a meeting? What sense did that make? All that drama, just to get to where we should have been allowed to go in the first place; the ability to fly our flag just like everyone else. No special treatment, just equal rights.
While we have made many inroads, and been the pioneer in trans studies and research, I find that we are still underserved and marginalized. This is especially true if you are a trans person of color. The flag was to fly Tuesday, November 20, the Transgender Day of Remembrance, which is as important as is the correct chronicling of our trans history. All too often we are still the "last on the list" or "expendable." Agencies gain money by claiming to serve us, and yet we are still underserved. The trans flag flying will be a beauty to behold, but it will be bittersweet. Brandy Martell of Oakland – and the many trans people who are murdered, just for being who they are – will not get to witness this historic moment. May all of their killers be apprehended.
I now understand flags, and the power they hold. I would gladly lay my life down for these pieces of cloth and material, and the significance that these things represent.
Veronika Fimbres is a hospice nurse by profession. She was the first out trans person appointed to a city panel, when she served on the Veterans Affairs Commission under the Board of Supervisors and Mayors Willie Brown Jr., Gavin Newsom, and Ed Lee.