I grew up in the Pentecostal Church. Ever since age 7 when I was baptized, the church was my life. At age 15, I stood in front of a congregation—250 or 300 people—and delivered my first sermon. After that I began preaching regularly, traveling to different states when churches would request me. I spoke in a very Pentecostal style that drew a flock. As a youth pastor I got to know many of the children in the church community, and would sometimes be asked to visit their homes on ministry assignments.
In the church community in Lebanon, Tennessee, nobody talked about nothing to do with LGBTQ+. I’d known for a little while that I was undercover, but I couldn’t openly explore “the lifestyle.” That was a sin, period. In church I heard sermons all the time about Sodom and Gomorrah, about the stain of homosexuality and the destruction it caused. Nobody ever talked about it any other way.
When I was 17, I was messing with a guy I wanted to bring to church with me. He started to get to know the other members, and word got out. It wasn’t long after that when I was told a detective wanted to ask me some questions about accusations of sexual abuse against boys in the church.
I went down to the county jail on my own. I had never had any type of involvement with the law before, and I just assumed that since I hadn’t done anything, it made sense to go answer their questions, if they were looking for me. Later the fact that I went voluntarily would be used against me as a sign of guilt.
During the interview the detective said things like, It’s okay that you did it. We can offer you classes, we can help you. I kept responding, No, I didn’t do nothing like that. No, I don’t know where the accusations are coming from. But he said that I had to give him something he could take back to his boss; that that was the only way he could let me go home. So eventually I said what he wanted. I was charged with nine counts of child rape. This was a few weeks after I’d turned 18.
I didn’t really realize I’d pled guilty until later. My attorney had told me to just answer every question with, “Yes, sir.”
I didn’t understand a lot of what was said in court. But I knew I was not guilty, and so I did not want to plead guilty; I wanted to go to trial. However, my attorney kept saying that was a bad idea because I’d get a worse sentence that way. The minimum punishment was 25 years, so I could get 225 years if the sentence was to serve the nine counts consecutively, instead of concurrently. But at the time, all I really knew was that I had to plead guilty in order to get leniency. I didn’t know that I still had the right to go to trial, even if my attorney told me not to.
I did plead guilty. But I didn’t really realize that’s what had happened until later. My attorney had told me that every time the court asked me a question, to just say, “Yes, sir.”
Then he told me I should choose a bench hearing—where just the judge would decide my sentence, rather than a jury. In the end, I did.
I’ll never forget that judge. He told me I would never see the light of day again. He sentenced me to the maximum without parole and said that since my life was over anyway, it didn’t matter whether he gave me to 25 years or 225 years.
Some of the sentencing enhancements he applied were later overturned because he justified them using his personal views, which judges aren’t supposed to do. For example, one was for causing injuries that are “particularly great.” He said that, even though the prosecution hadn’t submitted any evidence of harm, “we’ve all seen it in prior cases.”
In 2010 the Supreme Court issued a landmark ruling that it was cruel and unusual punishment—a violation of the Eighth Amendment—to sentence juveniles to life without parole for non-homicide convictions. When I used this to appeal my sentence, the court found that it didn’t violate the Eighth Amendment because a 225-year sentence isn’t technically a life sentence. But the law says someone’s punishment shouldn’t be more severe than is necessary, and the judge had said it was all the same as long as I died in prison. So I was resentenced to 50 years.
Members went to the chaplain accusing me of being a homosexual, saying he had to do something about it.
Before I got to prison I didn’t know that they are full of people, Black people especially, whose lawyers pushed them to plead guilty by saying it was their only chance to avoid a long sentence. I didn’t know nothing about prison when I got here. I had never been around gangs or drugs or violence. I was nearly raped almost the first moment I arrived. One thing that I was familiar with was the feeling that it was not safe for me to be myself, because I was in a place where there was no such thing as LGBTQ+ community.
I joined a peer-led ministry where we facilitated our own services. After two years or so, the rumors started again: Tavaria’s undercover. I was called into meetings and asked to confess whether it was true I was homosexual. My peers dismissed me from the service, saying I needed to get my life together.
I found a small choir led by an outside volunteer. One Sunday night I started co-pastoring with her, and from there I helped grow that service from 10 members to 100. And once again the rumors began. Members went to the chaplain accusing me of being a homosexual and saying he had to do something about it. The chaplain went to the volunteer, who was the only one who could dismiss me this time—and she stood by me. I stayed until she retired.
Time and again the church had turned against me by saying homosexuality is a sin. But I refused to let die the vision engraved inside of me. Not long after the church volunteer retired, I founded Be the Change, the first openly LGBTQ+ community in the Tennessee prison system. We know of no other group like this in any US prison system.
Through BTC I found my way to begin living as the transgender woman that I am. This community is not one to judge anyone, but to love them as they are. We keep each other safe. We help each other grow.
I’ve been incarcerated for 13 years now. At times I struggled to understand the path my life has taken. But as BTC has flourished, as our membership has begun to reach other queer people and allies in other prisons across the state, I’ve seen that this path took me from something to nothing, and from nothing to something even greater. To bring community to those who had been alone.
Image via Wikimedia Commons/Creative Commons 3.0
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