Remembering the Late, Great Miss Major Griffin-Gracy
Written By: Muriel Tarver
Where do I even begin? Black Trans Revolutionary? Trailblazer? Stonewall Veteran? Author? Activist? Pioneer? Producer?
I could talk all day listing who she was. And somehow, I think it still wouldn’t be enough to describe how major Miss Major was.
Miss Major never asked for permission. Generally, she said what needed to happen and somehow, whatever that thing was... shortly after she said it.... You were watching it come to fruition. Some people are born as nouns. Well, Major Griffin-Gracy was a verb. When she was told she couldn’t create a space in an empty building next door to a resource center where she worked in San Francisco, she took a sledgehammer and knocked a hole in the wall so the Trans Gurls in the Tenderloin could come in from off the streets and have a place to be safe, freshen up, and rest. She knew she was going to be fired, but she did it anyway
because that was Miss Major being “Major.” Always on task with her mission: you only had to be around her a little bit to realize that mission was as focused at almost 80 years old as I can imagine it was when she was organizing the girls on the streets of New York City in her twenties. The mission was to care for her Trans Gurls of color.
Today, as we approach the anniversary of her earthly passing, I think about the person whose life was so large; the fact that she’s not physically with us anymore may seem like a loss to some... but she lived her life so legendary that her own words will forever be true: Miss Major will always be “Still Fucking Here!”
A Stonewall Veteran who, after moving to San Francisco in the 80s, started a home health care agency called the Angels of Care to take care of people with AIDS, when their own families were afraid to be in the same house with them. She was so far ahead of her time... she single-handedly found a way to create gainful employment for Trans ladies (who were mostly dependent on sex work for survival), and she offered the service of care and love for those dying from a disease that no one yet could quite understand. Alongside a dear friend with a borrowed van from his job, she created the first needle exchange program as a boots-on-the-ground way to combat the AIDS epidemic, even when Clorox said they didn’t want their name associated with
it. Miss Major moved to Little Rock, Arkansas, after retiring as the first Executive Director of TGIJP, in search of a home for the Griffin-Gracy Educational Retreat & Historical Center known as “House of gg.”
At House of gg, Trans leaders, especially Trans women of color and members of what Miss Major lovingly called “The Alphabet Soup,” are able to benefit from her vision that rest is the most powerful way to resist. Miss Major would always say... everybody else has what they need, or they can get what they need. But Black Trans Gurls always get left out. Through that single truth, she created a space to remind her Gurls that they truly deserved to be cared for. She created a space that encouraged young Trans activists and advocates to slow down long enough not only for her to talk to them, but also for them to hear themselves. Miss Major showed those who would listen the power of resilience through her life, and her life was a testament to the struggles and triumphs of Black Trans resistance, Black Trans excellence, and Black Trans hope.
When she felt like the Gurls weren’t paying attention to what was going on in the world, she got up from her rocking chair and started traveling across the country. How powerful was Miss Major's call to action? With an aging body and a voice worn from screaming through the decades, she spoke to whoever would listen, and the message was always the same. She warned
her Trans communities not to become complacent, but to stay vigilant and pay attention to what was going on around them. She always said.... “Fight like your life depends on it, because it does.” This was the tilifi Tour... And she was never shy about (telling it like it fucking is).
At almost 80 years old, she saw groups at her house twice a month, traveled across the country once a month... and stopped for her book tour whenever she got a call to make an appearance. I know some 30-year-olds who can’t even go to work on time every day, but Miss Major was a machine. Her body oftentimes did not cooperate, and in between Gatherings at House of gg or traveling on the tilifi Tour, she would get sick. But did that stop her? From her hospital bed, she would ask when the next group was coming or when the next trip was, because she was adamant she didn't want to let anyone down. If she told you she was coming, she tried to be there... no matter the cost.
Miss Major’s sacrifices are evident in every successful Black Trans woman around the world... each success stems from Miss Major’s sacrifices and example. So let's take this moment to activate her spirit within us. Miss Major had the ability to give your ass permission to be the person you never in your wildest dreams thought you could be. She could see the greatness in people that they couldn’t even see in themselves. And even though she is not physically here today, she left a mark on this world that will never, ever be erased. She made you feel like survival was not something to be ashamed of, but something to be proud of. Like every scar, every heartbreak, every door slammed in your face was proof you were still here—and that being here meant something. Miss Major didn’t just talk about liberation; she lived it, breathed it, demanded it, and then turned around and made room for the rest of her Gurls and Guys to imagine it for themselves.
And the funny thing about Miss Major was that she even made room for someone like me, who wasn’t Trans and who didn’t fit into a neat little box, but she hired me to do a job and then taught me what I needed to know to be able to show up for the community with respect, humility, and love. She didn’t make me feel like I had to have all the answers — she just expected me to listen, to learn, and to do the work. In her own way, she taught me that allyship wasn’t a title you gave yourself, but a responsibility you practiced every day. And because of her, I became not only better at the work, but better as a person. That was Miss Major’s magic: she made space for you, and then she helped you grow into it.
When the Gurls and Guys were in her presence, I witnessed transformations, almost like watching them be silently reminded that they were not broken, not too much, not disposable. I watched her show Trans youth what was possible. I heard her tell her Gurls that they were worthy. Watching them gravitate to her was a message so powerful, so electric... Miss Major and every Black Trans Gurl, as an extension of her, were part of a lineage of fighters, dreamers, troublemakers, and truth-tellers who refused to disappear. That was her gift. She didn’t just empower people with speeches or slogans — she empowered every life she touched by believing in them so fiercely that eventually you had no choice but to start believing in yourself, too.
Miss Major taught the world that freedom is not polite. It is not quiet. It does not wait to be invited. Freedom arrives in heels, with attitude, with tenderness, with fire, with love, and declares, no matter what, “I am still fucking here.”
