The last time columnist Ga lo Vann saw her, it was on the news: The Black trans woman had been found hanging from a noose in a tree
Ga lo Vann is an enrolled member of the Cherokee Nation of Eastern Oklahoma and a prisoner at Oregon State Correctional Institution in Salem. Read more of his columns.
I first met TeTe Gulley in 2015. She was in the medical unit of the Multnomah County Detention Center, where we were both imprisoned. I was the orderly for the entire fourth floor, responsible for cleaning both solitary confinement areas, the administrative segregation unit and the acute mental health and medical unit.
The Multnomah County Sheriff’s Office was clearly still on the front end of adjusting policies to accommodate trans prisoners more humanely, much to the dismay of the deputies who staff the jail. The medical unit TeTe and I lived in was a mixed-gender unit. Males, females and gender-fluid inmates could all find themselves housed in the medical unit if they suffered from serious injuries, diseases or substance withdrawal. Many times, trans inmates were placed in medical before the jail staff made a determination about their gender identity and the validity of their claimed identity. Uniformed deputies were vocal about their disgust of jailed trans people and their resentment of having to recognize them at all. Once a trans identity was honored, the inmate might be moved to another unit.
During the eight months I was detained in downtown Portland’s jail, I shared a unit with TeTe the three separate times she was booked. I wrote about TeTe’s victimization early on in my incarceration as an example of the bigotry rife among the Multnomah County Sheriff’s Office senior deputies who hold the most influence. Not only was there overt verbal prejudice, but discrimination in the amount of time trans inmates were allowed out of their cells to watch TV, shower or use the phone.
Cisgender males such as myself enjoyed the most walk time. Females second, and trans inmates were fortunate to receive one out the maybe six walk hours available daily. TeTe never complained. She knew what to expect as a Black trans woman.
She was both extroverted and modest like a recluse performer switching on only for the limelight. The identification sign on her door was posted with her deadname, and she did not correct me when I called her by it, offering extra food or iced tea through the food ports in occupied cells.
She was aggressive with hypermasculine frauds and reserved when met with kindness. I behaved aloof and distant in my gestures with a cowardly kindness as though social decorum demanded it like when you know your grandma is watching you from a distance. I feared that my admiration and draw toward TeTe would alienate me from the privilege I was granted by officers and cisgender male prisoners and, worst of all, call into question my heterosexuality. My fragile masculinity evoked insecurity and cowardice for which I still feel ashamed today. In weakness, I did not offer honest friendship.
The second time I met TeTe, it was football playoff season. Linsey had moved into the cell next to me, and we spent our weeks in running dialogue through our food ports. Linsey had an unabashed, charismatic vulnerability, and we pulled everyone around us into conversation, granting equal footing. Reserved and quiet at first, TeTe became a third part of the social force in the unit after instructing me to quit calling her by her deadname. Linsey was blond and white and easily attracted male attention: the perfect buffer for my insecure hetero positioning.
In chauvinist maneuvering, I was free to be friendly to TeTe through my affiliation with Linsey. It is the rationalization of white progressives and good German soldiers, and it is harmful. Linsey got TeTe to talking by extracting that the Kansas City Chiefs were her favorite team, pulling more from that starting point. Linsey did that with all of us so effortlessly, I wondered if it was the grift, survivalism or purity. For a short time, the three of us shared camaraderie.
The third time I saw TeTe, she was brought in detoxing, spitting, cussing, screaming; anthropomorphized trauma with another’s eyes. It took days for the spirit to leave her body and allow her control again. Before that, I viewed myself as though I intentionally chose to collide with and kill Dale, even though I had not. (Editor’s note: The author is incarcerated for manslaughter after he caused a collision that killed Dale McConachie while he was driving under the influence.) An elder came to visit me to say, “Alcohol is a spirit and was in control when Dale died.” I invited the spirit in, but I was not me after a point. I could not grasp the concept until I saw TeTe that way. She made me come to where I could begin to forgive myself and still be accountable. It is a rare gift to offer or receive a truth. That is who TeTe is to me.
The fourth time I saw TeTe, her picture was on the news. It read something like “Black trans found hung from tree.” TeTe was found hanging lifeless from a noose. Despite witnesses claiming otherwise, Portland’s law enforcement ruled it a suicide. After the Portland Mercury published a story saying TeTe’s family had spoken to a potential witness, Portland Police Bureau announced it had opened an investigation, but TeTe’s family claims police never actually investigated. Now, more than 1 million people have signed a petition asking the bureau to follow through.
In death, as in life, those in law enforcement, white and people of color alike, refuse to protect her. Their attitudes welcomed her abuse and her death, then protected the perpetrator. It was not until the lynching of George Floyd one year later that renewed interest in TeTe’s death arose. Her life was of great value to me. I will not be a coward in this way again.
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