In the winter of 1993, a 21-year-old named Brandon Teena arrived in the small town of Falls City, Nebraska, looking for a fresh start. Brandon was said to be charismatic and kind and he quickly made friends and began dating a local girl. But Brandon was keeping a secret - he was a transgender man living in a place and time where that truth could be dangerous.

 In the winter of 1993, a 21-year-old named Brandon Teena arrived in the small town of Falls City, Nebraska, looking for a fresh start. Brandon was said to be charismatic and kind and he quickly made friends and began dating a local girl. But Brandon was keeping a secret - he was a transgender man living in a place and time where that truth could be dangerous.

When his identity was discovered, everything changed. Two men he had trusted, John Lotter and Tom Nissen, brutally attacked him. They raped him, then threatened to kill him if he told anyone. Brandon went to the police, but his report was met with indifference and invasive questions. No arrest was made.

A week later, on New Year’s Eve, Lotter and Nissen found Brandon hiding at a rural farmhouse. They shot and stabbed him to death, along with two others, Lisa Lambert and Phillip DeVine, who happened to be there.

Brandon’s murder shocked the nation and exposed glaring failures in the legal system’s treatment of transgender people. His story became the basis for the Oscar-winning film Boys Don’t Cry, and his name became a symbol in the fight for LGBTQ+ rights.

In the years that followed, investigators and journalists began to uncover just how deeply the system had failed Brandon. The sheriff who handled his rape report had known about the attackers’ violent histories, yet chose not to act. Instead of protecting Brandon, law enforcement treated him as a curiosity, focusing on his body rather than the crimes committed against him. This negligence would later become a central part of public outrage surrounding the case.

Brandon’s mother, JoAnn Brandon, refused to let her son’s story fade into silence. She became an outspoken advocate, pushing for accountability and greater awareness of violence against transgender people. Civil lawsuits were filed, and in 2007, the U.S. Supreme Court allowed a case to proceed against the county sheriff, recognizing that Brandon may have been denied equal protection under the law. While no ruling could undo the loss, it marked a rare acknowledgment of institutional wrongdoing.

The murders of Lisa Lambert and Phillip DeVine also highlighted how far-reaching the violence was. Phillip DeVine, a Black man with a disability, was largely overlooked in early media coverage, exposing how victims at the intersections of race, disability, and sexuality are often erased. Their deaths were not collateral—they were part of the same hatred and lawlessness that took Brandon’s life.

Over time, Brandon Teena’s name became more than a tragic headline. It became a rallying cry. His story is taught in schools, discussed in legal studies, and remembered each year during Transgender Day of Remembrance. For many transgender people, Brandon represents both the vulnerability of living openly and the courage it takes to do so anyway.

Yet, decades later, Brandon’s story still feels painfully current. Transgender people continue to face disproportionate levels of violence, discrimination, and disbelief—especially when seeking help from authorities. Remembering Brandon Teena is not just about honoring his life; it is about confronting the systems that failed him and insisting they do better, so no one else has to pay the same price for simply being who they are.