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Vianna Faye Williams
Location: Jersey City, New Jersey |
Remembering Vianna Faye WilliamsShe had been working for sometime down in the Meatmarket in New York City—a notorious place for she-male street hookers. Vianna was turning tricks, and saving her money for her SRS, skirting the edge of Nothingness to save herself. Vianna Faye Williams was doing what a young trans immigrant from Jamaica could do to get by, and get on. Youthful and sweet, she became friends with David, my close friend, the one who was there for me from my coming out through my surgery. I never met her, never even knew about her until a month before my sojourn to Montreal. She was scheduled for surgery the week following mine. She was looking forward to the end of sex work. Vianna was trying to line up a normal job. She knew her degradation and she knew she had to get out of it. SRS would provide her with a second freedom. It would end her nights as a chick-with-a-dick for hire. But with all this she was able to maintain a lightness of being that few “straight” people could exude. David told her about me and visa versa, and we were both looking forward to meeting each other, one done and one to go, both of us surviving our own nightmares, triumphant over our own demons. The day after my release from hospital, David called. I could here it in his voice—anxious, distraughtful. He kept asking me if I was okay, I had to do the same. “You’re sure there’s nothing wrong, David?” Just some personal matter that would work itself out. I asked about this young new-woman-in-waiting and all he could say was “don’t worry, it’s going to be alright.” She never did show. I though it might have had something to do with Ice Storm 98, which crippled Montreal with a two foot layer of ice the day of my SRS. As soon as I got back I called David. “She didn’t make it up to Montreal, David. Was it because of the Ice Storm? I heard they didn’t let anyone into Quebec Province for over ten days.” No. On Christmas Eve, 1997 the doorbell rang. It was the neighbor’s twelve year old boy. He came to give Vianna something, at least that’s how the rumor goes. Vianna Faye Williams was stabbed over forty times by a twelve year old boy whom it was later rumored confessed to the police that he hated faggots. The police never released any official details about the murder despite press inquiries. David didn’t want to tell me about her death. He even pretended that everything was alright when I mentioned her days after Christmas. He wanted me to go into surgery and heal with a clear mind. But he just had to call me afterwards. He had to know that at least I was alright, that I made it though, and he would see me again. As soon as I was healed enough I went over David’s. He was treating me to dinner, a quiet celebration of my second birthday. The talk turned to Vianna. It had to. How, how could a horror like this occcur? It wasn’t an occupational hazard rearing it’s brutal head, it was a twelve year old on Christmas eve. Promises of delight, little angel ornaments dangling from trees, smiling faces on glowing children. The gift of the little drummer boy. We broke down in tears and he cried on my shoulder. At least I made it. Vianna Faye Williams, murdered on Christmas Eve, 1997. |
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