Banko Brown’s messages had become increasingly desperate in recent weeks. The 24-year-old San Francisco community organizer was often shy about his struggles, but now he told loved ones he was unable to get a housing spot he’d long been pursuing, had been turned away from multiple shelters, and was forced to sleep on the train.
Brown’s friends and family suspect he was severely exhausted and hungry on 27 April when a security guard at a downtown Walgreens confronted him for allegedly shoplifting – and fatally shot him. Brown, who was unarmed, had reportedly tried to take snacks from the store.
The killing of a budding activist, and the San Francisco district attorney’s decision not to release video footage of the incident or charge the security guard, has sent shockwaves through the city, sparking disgust at the quick use of deadly force by a private guard and protests about the city’s continued failures to provide housing, services and basic safety for Black trans youth like Brown.
“It hurts me that another trans person of color is gone without being seen,” said Juju Pikes Prince, part of Brown’s close circle and a trans woman who was previously unhoused. “We can’t keep screaming and hollering for Black Lives Matter when we don’t all matter. My people are not free.”
The tragedy comes as several human rights crises are colliding in San Francisco and cities across the US. As homelessness has reached record highs, calls for a crackdown on encampments have intensified and reports of vigilante attacks have increased. In the past two weeks, a former San Francisco fire official has been accused of “terrorizing” unsheltered people on the city’s streets with bear spray, two unhoused people in the university town of Davis, California, were stabbed, and Jordan Neely, an unhoused street performer, was choked to death on a New York subway. At the same time, trans people in the US are facing worsening discrimination and violence, with an onslaught of legislation banning their healthcare and rights to exist in public spaces.
It’s still unclear what exactly transpired on 27 April. One day after Brown’s killing, San Francisco police arrested the security guard on suspicion of murder, with the SFPD chief telling SF Standard: “You have to use force appropriately within the law.”
But two days later, San Francisco’s district attorney, Brooke Jenkins – elected on promises to “restore” order to the streets and harshly punish retail thefts – announced she was not pursuing murder charges, saying security footage “clearly shows the suspect believed he was in mortal danger and acted in self-defense”.
Activists, community organizersand the state senator Scott Wiener have since demanded the release of the footage, and on Tuesday the city’s board of supervisors unanimously passed a resolution urging the DA to disclose police reports, video and other evidence. So far, Jenkins has declined, citing the ongoing investigation.
On Monday, Jenkins did say she was still considering charges in Brown’s killing.
Finding family
Charges or not, advocates say, the tragedy that befell Brown is a symptom of the inequality and contradictions of San Francisco, considered an international LGBTQ+ sanctuary, but where the most vulnerable queer people languish in poverty.
Brown grew up in the city and navigated homelessness and the foster care system as a young child, said Julia Arroyo, co-executive director of the Young Women’s Freedom Center (YWFC), a California non-profit that has worked with Brown since he was 12 years old: “He was always inquisitive and a deep listener and really invested in other people’s lives. Even at a young age, I could see the seed of him being a leader. He did his own research inside of the system.”
Like many Black LGBTQ+ youth, who are disproportionately criminalized, Brown ended up locked in juvenile facilities and was keenly aware he was treated differently, Arroyo said: “He said, ‘How come everyone gets to go home but me? When is my turn?’ He saw it was always Black folks that get left behind.’”
Over the years, Brown formed his own family in San Francisco, building close bonds with other Black trans youth.
“He came to me and was like, ‘You are my mother,’” said Elle Raine Washington, a 24-year-old trans woman, last Friday at a gathering at the YWFC center where Brown’s family wept and swapped stories of his trials and triumphs. “He said, ‘You make me feel welcome, with no judgments.’ And I was like, ‘You want to be my son, then that’s what it is!’ … In his darkest times, we’d talk about his goals and how to be a better him. He really looked up to me and I really looked up to him.”
“All he wanted was family,” said Prince, 24, who became Brown’s auntie: “I could see the man he was becoming and I knew it was going to be beautiful. Banko was the definition of someone who was breaking through barriers.”
Brown found ways to be joyous and funny even while facing hardships. A volunteer organizer at YWFC, he would come into the center a ball of energy, bringing along other youth who needed help or interrupting meetings to show off TikTok choreography. Other times, he’d crash on the couch: “He’d come in hella loud and dancing,” said Ari Duarte, a close friend and YWFC organizer, “Or he’d be so tired of searching for rooms and couch-surfing, he’d fall asleep for half the day. I’d make sure no one disturbed him.”
In the last month, Brown had grown increasingly distressed, Arroyo said. One organization where he was on a housing waiting list had told him his case manager was on vacation, she recalled: “He showed me all the phone numbers he’d been calling and was just heartbroken. Tears were pouring down his eyes. He said, ‘They’re on vacation? I’m sleeping on Bart [Bay Area Rapid Transit]. I’m tired. I’m not myself. I want to shower and take care of myself.’”
YWFC connected him to a temporary hotel room, but stable housing remained out of reach.
A shortage of beds
It’s a challenge many young trans people in the city face. Brown was killed blocks away from the Transgender District in the Tenderloin neighborhood, considered the world’s first legally recognized trans cultural district. The city also has a trans initiatives office, a commitment to end trans homelessness by 2027 and a guaranteed income pilot program for low-income trans people.
“We’ve made this amazing progress, but it doesn’t help everyone,” said Aria Sa’id, one of three Black trans organizers who founded the trans district.
She noted San Francisco’s reputation of being awash with resources and the “best” place to be unhoused, yet every night 7,750 people in the city are unhoused, according to the 2022 count, a single-day estimate that is considered an undercount. Trans groups struggled to stretch “morsels of crumbs from the city’s budget and philanthropy”, Sai’d said, and young people on the streets still resorted to stealing food and toiletries to get by.
When Sa’id came to San Francisco in 2009, she was unhoused and did sex work, the most common survival gig among her peers. The luckiest Black trans women, she said, worked as makeup artists or in HIV prevention. She said there were more resources these days, but still not enough to meet the growing need.
Our Trans Home SF, which runs housing programs for trans and gender-nonconforming people, has roughly 150 people on a waiting list for rental subsidies, said Sathya Baskaran, the housing director. Anecdotally, he said, he had observed an influx of young trans people migrating to San Francisco from states passing anti-trans laws restricting life-saving medical care and other basic rights. When they got to California, they might find themselves feeling unsafe or unwelcome at some shelters: “Trans youth face a really compounded struggle.”
The homeless count found 1,073 unhoused youth under age 25 in the city, with surveys estimating more than 400 are LGBTQ+.
Citywide, however, there are roughly 45 housing spots designated for LGBTQ+ youth, said Sherilyn Adams, executive director of Larkin Street Youth Services, a youth housing program: “We still have a long way to go.”
‘Banko was home’
Emily Cohen, spokesperson for San Francisco’s homelessness and supportive housing department, said the city had expanded youth programs, with 891 beds and units and 346 subsidies for youth ages 18 to 24. She also noted a 16% decrease in the homeless youth population in the last five years and pointed to the city’s plan to buy a 42-unit building meant to provide housing for historically marginalized young adults leaving homelessness.
San Francisco police declined to comment. The DA did not respond to interview requests, but said in a statement that releasing the footage would be “unethical”, and added: “Banko Brown’s killing was a tragedy that has deeply impacted our city and our diverse communities. My heart goes out to Banko’s family and friends.”
Brown’s loved ones said they wanted him to be remembered for his resilience and selflessness – how he’d gone to the state capitol to advocate for foster youth, fought to close the youth jail, was a regular presence at rallies and town halls.
Seated at YWFC, Arroyo scrolled through her texts with Brown, revisiting chats where he had celebrated his first bank account, showed off a new haircut, requested help paying for hormones, and admitted he felt unsafe in a housing situation. She said she was thinking about the estimates that the city spends $1m a year to jail a single youth and how transformative that funding could be for someone like Brown.
“Banko made everyone feel at home. Banko was home,” said Carlos Santiago Magaña, 23, another close friend. He said the killing was hard to process and sparked fear: “Who’s next? Me? You?”
Next to him, Washington wore around her neck two photos – one of Brown and another of Ivory Nicole Smith, a best friend and a Black trans woman and advocate who also died this year: “We’re all we got.”
A few blocks away from the center, a makeshift memorial stood outside the Walgreens, with photos of Brown plastered on a fence and signs saying “Justice for Banko” and “Gone But Never Forgotten”. Inside the crowded store, a long line of customers were waiting to check out. Near the door, an armed guard stood watch, his gun visible in his holster.
