On what would have been Miss Major Griffin-Gracy’s birthday, a community of activists are celebrating the life of a transgender rights pioneer whose feisty and nurturing legacy shaped the Black trans liberation movement in Alabama.

A memorial is being held for Miss Major today at the Mosaic Templars Center in Little Rock, Ark. Miss Major passed away on Oct. 18., but not without accomplishing more than a half century’s worth of resistance work that stretches across coast-to-coast.

In June 1969, she spit in a police officer’s face during the historic Stonewall Riot in New York where transwomen of color, such as Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, led a melee against law enforcement officials who were harassing LGBTQ+ people. In the 1980s, she founded a group of trans caretakers who nurtured the sick during the HIV/AIDS epidemic called Angels of Care. In San Francisco, she supported and empowered incarcerated trans people as the director of the Transgender Gender-Variant & Intersex Justice Project (TGIJP). After making Arkansas her final home in 2018, she forged an oasis of rest and relaxation for trans people called House of GG.

Miss Major architectured multiple systems of care despite enduring conversion therapy as a teen and police violence as an adult. She lived her life based off her powerful mantra, “I’m still f**king here!”

This legacy set the foundation for the work of two Black trans led nonprofits that have fed, housed and cared for the transgender community in Alabama for over a decade: Transgender Advocates Knowledgeable Empowering (TAKE) in Birmingham, Ala., and The Knights and Orchids Society (TKO) in Selma. Both organizations have made history in a state that’s been in the forefront of a wave of anti-trans laws and policies. Alabama was the first state to make it a felony for medical professionals to provide gender-affirming care to people under 19. On Tuesday, the Alabama Public Library Service debated a policy that would ban books containing “transgender ideology” from the youth sections.

In 2017, TAKE opened the state’s first resource center specifically for Black and brown transwomen. That same year, TKO became the first Black and trans led AIDS service organization and STD/STI clinic in Alabama. TAKE founder Daroneshia Duncan-Boyd said Miss Major taught her about the power of community building.

“We have to stay together. We must continue to fight,” Duncan-Boyd said. “At the end of the day, we won’t be erased because we still f**king here.”

While Miss Major was fierce in the ways she pushed back against oppression, she nurtured other Black trans activists as if they were her own children. Duncan-Boyd was introduced to Miss Major’s mothering spirit when they first met each other about nine years ago during Black Girls Rulez, an annual convention of Black trans leaders hosted by TGIJP.

That day, Miss Major felt called to give Duncan-Boyd a bracelet that just so happened to match her outfit. From that moment, the two activists started building a deep bond with each other. Duncan-Boyd was invited into Miss Major’s room, where they chatted about each other’s organizing work. The conversation flowed like two close relatives chit chatting about old times. It didn’t take long for Miss Major to start referring to Duncan-Boyd as her daughter.

Duncan-Boyd said it was an honor to take in the wisdom from someone whose activism goes back as far as Stonewall.

“Once I heard that somebody was still alive from that era, I was like, ‘OK, I’m eager to meet this person,” Duncan-Boyd said. “She was cool. Laid back. Down to earth. Funny. I was just listening to her talk about the work and the things she had to offer the community. I was taking things from her that could possibly work for me.”

That first meeting with Miss Major happened when Duncan-Boyd was about four years into building an organization that was making a big impact with little means. After starting TAKE as a support group in 2013, Duncan-Boyd was rippin’ and runnin’ across Birmingham caring for trans people in need with just sex work dollars and unemployment checks in her pocket.

And the needs were great. A 2011 analysis published by the National LGBTQ Task Force illustrates how racism, sexism and transphobia produce several disparities. Black trans people experience an unemployment rate of 26 percent, which is four times higher than the general population. Homelessness was the norm for 41 percent of Black trans respondents of the survey, and 34 percent of Black trans people reported household incomes less than $10,000.

Now TAKE is addressing the issues affecting trans livelihoods today as a multimillion dollar-nonprofit financed by grants and donations. The organization’s services include job readiness training, legal help, wellness programs, a food bank and a boutique. Those who are unhoused can find comfort at TAKE’s emergency shelter called Gloria’s Safe Haven. The nonprofit’s Monica Roberts Freedom School trains Black trans people to be advocates of change.

Miss Major was a close mentor to Duncan-Boyd as she transformed TAKE into what it is today.

“She told me that my leadership reminded her so much of her leadership at a younger age, and she was so glad to meet a young Black trans woman that’s so ambitious and from the South,” Duncan-Boyd said.

When TKO Executive Director TC Caldwell first learned about Miss Major about six years ago, they felt called to read every article and watch every clip there was about the trans icon. Caldwell was mesmerized by the way Miss Major hopped in her Cadillac and hit the streets to provide aid to Black trans women.

“That was her Batmobile, if you ask me because she would go around and check on her girls. It reminds me about Daroneshia,” Caldwell said. “In 2014 or 2015, people were trying to organize the Black Trans Women of Birmingham. But if you didn’t know their Daroneshia, they wouldn’t work with you.”

Miss Major has visited Alabama multiple times to support the work of both TAKE and TKO. Duncan-Boyd invited her to a screening of the documentary “MAJOR!” That night, the trans activist did more than just answer questions. She helped them discover their own power.

Together, they learned about trans history and cracked jokes. The group’s hospitality stirred up Miss Major’s love of Southern food and Grapico. Miss Major would take cases of the soda home for her to indulge in when she got back to Arkansas.

With an epidemic of violence claiming the lives of Black trans women across the nation, Duncan-Boyd believes it’s important for TAKE members to meet the trans elders who played a role in history. One of those icons is Sharyn Grayson, a TAKE staff member who helped Miss Major build the services needed to make the world a safer, healthier place for Black trans women.

“It just amazes me to see these ladies, still working at 50 plus years old,” Duncan-Boyd said. “That speaks to their level of dedication to the community.”

When TKO executive director Caldwell first met Miss Major in February 2024, they were looking for a guest to close out their Black Trans Future Fellowship program. TKO and the American Civil Liberties Union of Alabama had just spent five months sharpening the organizing and storytelling skills of Black and trans leaders as a way to combat anti-trans rhetoric and legislation. Miss Major seemed like the perfect candidate to speak to the fellows considering her pioneership in the Black trans liberation movement. She accepted the opportunity without hesitation.

Miss Major came to the event at Magic City Acceptance Center in Birmingham with a clear mission to empower and inspire the fellows through her fiery vernacular and nurturing spirit. Caldwell admired the way the trans icon engaged with people on a personal level. No one was turned away from a gesture of kindness from Mama Major. She also gave away free signed copies of “Miss Major Speaks,” a memoir Miss Major wrote alongside her longtime friend Toshio Meronek.

“Everybody got some type of hug, some type of love or some type of encouragement,” Caldwell said. “She wasn’t putting on no show. I’m used to a lot of our people wanting the glory, wanting to be in front of the camera like, ‘Look at this. I’m a trans activist.’ And there’s nothing wrong with that, but Miss Major doesn’t come into spaces like ‘Oh, I’m a trans activist,’ even though she is. She comes in like, ‘I’m a mother. I’m a caregiver. I care about y’all. What do y’all need?’”

Miss Major always addressed the needs of her community by keeping her ear to the ground.

During the 1990s, she listened to the unheard while leading a transgender drop-in clinic in San Francisco. When unhoused trans people expressed their uncomfortability about coming to the center, Miss Major addressed their concerns by hitting the streets and bringing clinical services to them.

Trans people are still in need of such resources today. A survey conducted by the nonpartisan Center for American Progress revealed multiple forms of discrimination towards transgender people seeking healthcare. Medical professionals were found intentionally misgendering and using the former name of trans clients, which is known as deadnaming.Thirty-seven percent of trans adults believed disclosing their gender identity would lead to inadequate care or a refusal of services.

TKO’s team of care coordinators assists trans people who are navigating a hostile medical landscape in the rural South. Clients over the age of 19 are connected to the nonprofit’s network of gender-affirming physicians. Those seeking financial help for rent, food or utilities can find emergency funds through TKO, which also improves mental and physical wellbeing.

Caldwell said learning about Miss Major helped them understand the importance of providing services from a place of compassion. Sometimes activists can get so caught up in shepherding people to proper channels of care that they forget to pause.

“Trans circles know, but I want the world to know that Miss Major not only changed the way we organize, but the way we love our people too,” Caldwell said. “She had a care first-approach to the work. We want people to jump through hoops to get resources. But people like Miss Major are like, ‘Baby, let me make sure you’re taken care of first. We’ll worry about this paperwork and sh*t later.’”

Black Trans Future fellow and TAKE member Sinseriti Banks is being guided by Miss Major’s legacy. Banks has kept herself busy doing trans advocacy work for multiple LGBTQ-centered organizations, such as the Human Rights Campaign and Third Wave Fund. She’s currently four months into establishing her own program called the Pardon Me Project, which will help formerly‐incarcerated trans women fight the prison industrial complex. According to a report from the Vera Institute of Justice, trans people experience disproportionate amounts of harm while imprisoned. Almost 90 percent of the 280 trans people surveyed were placed in solitary confinement, putting them at risk of permanent, psychological damage. More than half of them endured sexual assault during their prison sentence.

Miss Major also advocated for the needs and rights of Black transwomen who were being harassed by law enforcement in California. Banks was mesmerized by the way the trans trailblazer refused to water herself down in oppressive spaces. She said being around that energy taught her how to speak her truth, to tell her story free of shame and to find power in her authenticity.

“She was the mother of the movement,” Banks said. “Miss Major was one of those people who, when she walked into a room, she’s going to command it. No matter what type of verbiage she used she was respected.”

Along with using her boldness to advocate for change in an anti-trans world, Miss Major also lived a life that showed how resistance and restoration go hand-in-hand. Duncan-Boyd was encouraged by Miss Major to organize two retreats with other Southern Black trans women in Hot Springs, Ark., and Virginia Beach. Miss Major tagged along for the trips at a time when she was in the beginning stages of launching her own retreat space: House of GG.

“She empowered me to get my rest because that’s what the House of GG was about: making sure that we rest,” Duncan-Boyd said. “She also taught me about building a life and legacy that we want to leave behind. We’re not going to be here forever. The legacy I want to leave will be, simply, just knowing I did my best while I was here”

Caldwell believes joy and justice have to coexist in order for resistance to be sustainable because transphobia doesn’t operate on a schedule. Activists still have to dodge the sting of discrimination coursing throughout their lives.

“When other people clock out and go home from work, that’s it. That’s the end. When trans people clock out and go home, I gotta go through the same barriers that I’m helping my clients go through,” Caldwell said. “‘Who’s gonna misgender me today? What bathroom can I go to today? Is my Lyft driver gonna misgender me or say something off the wall about trans athletes again?’”

Miss Major was very intentional when she created a sanctuary where trans people can just exist in their joy. The House of GG offers a relaxing atmosphere with whimsical touches. Luscious greenery surrounds the pool and hot tub. A brightly-colored pathway, painted to resemble the yellow brick road from “The Wizard of Oz,” leads to a guesthouse and a large screened-in porch. There’s also a carousel modeled after a park ride Miss Major enjoyed during her childhood. House of GG makes space for trans visitors to purge themselves from the harms of the world.

“It’s a chance to get away, get yourself together and then go back and give ‘em hell,” Miss Major said in a 2023 report with the Arkansas Times. “It’s for Black trans people, male or female. On occasion, white people get to come out. But primarily it’s for Black people because we don’t have a lot of places to go, especially ones that have a relaxing atmosphere. It’s rush, rush, rush.”

TKO prioritizes joy by hosting multiple events where trans people find restoration by being in community with one another. Pain transforms into poetry during the nonprofit’s open mic nights. Feelings of isolation are alleviated during TKO’s multiple support groups for trans youth and adults.

“When Black trans folks have each other, there is just something healing about the gathering,” Caldwell said. “Yes, we’re fighting for justice. We’re fighting for these things. But please don’t forget your joy. Please don’t let these people have everything because they will take everything.”

Miss Major may have passed, but her spirit is still alive. Banks named the trans leaders who have carried Miss Major’s legacy with tenacity and care: the late Monica Roberts, award-winning writer and founder of TransGriot, ACLU of Philadelphia’s Naiymah Sanchez, TGIJP’s current executive director Janetta Johnson, and of course Duncan-Boyd. Banks included herself in a family of freedom fighters who won’t let the loud legacy of a trans ancestor go quiet.

“We’re gonna chant her name till we can’t chant no more. No matter what the universe says, she’s still alive,” Banks said. “She’s alive within every trans advocate that gets up every day and fight this fight, every trans person who stands before someone and commands their respect – not ask for it. Command it. That’s how I want people to understand about Miss Major. She command the room, and she didn’t play no games, and she’s still f**king here.”