High up, above the elegant marble pillars of the United States Supreme Court, lies the inscription “Equal Justice Under Law.” For nearly a century, everyone who enters that space—those seeking justice, the attorneys arguing their cases, the administrative assistants making it all happen, the cleaning staff, the security officers, the cooks—pass beneath those words. But how many leave truly believing in their promise?
On December 4, 2024, the Supreme Court heard oral arguments in the case United States v. Skrmetti. Maybe you have read about it, or maybe you have turned away from the news because it’s too painful to watch nine highly privileged, non-trans people decide how difficult it will be for trans and non-binary youth to access life-saving medical care. Either way, this story is not about what transpired inside the building beyond those elegant marble pillars, it is about what happened outside of them.
When dawn broke, long before the Crier chanted “Oyez, Oyez, Oyez” at the start of the arguments, a DJ began spinning tunes. Trans people and trans allies danced and sang to music across genres and decades, and we looked damn good doing it. We danced because we were alive, because we were together, and because the 20-degree weather made it impossible to ignore the cold creeping into our toes. But we also danced to drown out the noise of the anti-trans rally happening five feet away from us.
Perhaps it was morbid curiosity or an instinct to “keep your enemies closer," but I found myself walking through the anti-trans rally. I can report that the signs and speakers were boring and the messages blatantly untrue. Eventually, I retreated from the hostility—physically pursued by strangers wielding a camera, verbally harassed for daring to exist.
Meanwhile, inside, the first openly trans attorney to ever argue before the Court stood at the lectern responding to the bewildered justice who asked if there was any history of trans discrimination. Outside, the trans community rallied, not only to defend our rights but to uplift and celebrate trans youth. Buses from major cities across the east arrived, bringing hundreds of friendly faces just as a powerful line-up took the stage. The crowd of trans people, family, and allies grew so large that the Capitol Police were forced to block off the road.
The speakers were senators, trans youth and their families, actors, and activists, most of them trans or non-binary, many of them Black trans women. We listened, fully attentive, for hours as they spoke truth to power, teaching us how to find joy even when the world seems bent on our demise. These were the community leaders I had longed to hear from, voices of a magnitude that could have easily spoken at the March on Washington sixty years ago. We laughed together until our bellies ached, and we cried when an eleven-year-old trans girl shared her heartbreaking wish: that she didn’t have to stand before the crowd, discussing the most intimate details of her life to justify medically necessary health care.
I cannot know what my colleagues and friends sitting inside those elegant marble pillars felt as the justices attempted to dismantle their humanity. But I know what I felt outside, surrounded by my community who acknowledged, understood, and valued my humanity. That day, something inside me shifted because of those Black trans women. Fierce, brilliant, and compassionate, they taught me that my happiness and survival are not tethered to the outcome of a Supreme Court case. I do not need to wait around hoping for the “Equal Justice Under Law” that so many discard as they walk out of that building. It does not matter whether the Supreme Court will protect trans people. We will protect and provide for each other. And that is the only way it has ever been.
Pelecanos is a non-binary attorney who believes a more fantastic future is possible because of trans people. In support of that future, you can find Pelecanos arguing in courtrooms and educating in backrooms across the country.