Gwen was laid out in a beautiful black dress, impeccably made up. Her nails were perfectly polished. She looked beautiful. When the family allowed media in and cameras surrounded the casket in the Chapel of the Roses, Gwen¹s grandmother cried out and fainted. It was just too much. 

Last week my colleague Loren Javier and I were in Newark, Calif., to support the community and the family of Gwen Araujo, the 17-year-old Latina transgender teen who was brutally murdered in early October. 

We arrived expecting that, among other things, we'd be helping to shield the mourners at Gwen's service from a protest by notorious hatemonger Fred Phelps and his band of picketers. Phelps had threatened to protest at the funeral, and media from all over the country were there to cover the event. 

Hundreds came to the church that day (though not Phelps, whose clan instead paraded its "God Hates Fags" and "Eddie in Hell" signs outside the grieving family¹s home the night before).

Gwen¹s relatives and friends carried flowers. Some of Gwen's former classmates wore t-shirts with Gwen's picture and the words, "We really love you underneath it all" ­ lyrics from No Doubt singer Gwen Stefani¹s latest song. 

Back when she was going by the name Eddie, Gwen adopted her name in homage to her musical heroine. And in one of many acts of compassion that day, Stefani had called Sylvia Guerrero, Gwen¹s mom, to offer her condolences.

It was attorney Gloria Allred, hired to represent the family, who had invited and escorted us into the church. And later, as we walked out together, Gloria dropped her professional veneer and began to cry. 

She hugged me for the longest time, saying, "Thank you, thank you for the work you do." I was so overwhelmed, I couldn¹t respond. The outpouring of love and compassion for Gwen and her family was remarkable. Even in a moment of horrific grief, a palpable sense of hope quietly transformed us. That ability to turn tragedy into hope is something I have seen time and again as the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community has struggled to understand the hatred, intolerance and violence that is so often directed against us.

Our community's search for answers and understanding amid tragedy was apparent during the days following Gwen¹s funeral as community leaders, organizations and individuals gathered throughout the Bay Area to honor Gwen's life and memory. 

Groups like AGUILAS; the Community United Against Violence; the San Francisco Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Community Center; GLAAD; El Proyecto ContraSIDA Por Vida; the Transgender Resource and Neighborhood Space; and many others from different backgrounds and histories came together to do what we always do at times like these -- speak, cry, honor, pray and work together in hope that it won't happen again. 

At Gwen¹s funeral, students from Newark Memorial High School¹s production of "The Laramie Project" came to support the family. Dressed in their angel costumes, they lined the sidewalk as Gwen¹s casket was carried into the church. Afterward, they gathered in a circle to join hands and sing "Amazing Grace" -- and slowly, people in the crowd began to sing with them.

I looked around and saw Latino, African-American, Asian, Caucasian, lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, heterosexual, old and young people singing together.

The experience reminded me that in too many cases, when tragedy strikes, we're not always there for one another. When Matthew Shepard was murdered, the LGBT community stood united in its grief and outrage. Yet others attacks have not connected us in the same way. When Chicana lesbian Juana Vega or Colombian gay activist Eddie Garzón or African American MTF transgender woman Tyra Hunter or openly gay Two-Spirit teenager Fred Martinez were murdered, fewer people took notice -- despite the work of our community to focus attention on their lives and the intolerance that fueled their deaths.

Make no mistake about it: anti-gay and anti-trans harassment and hate-violence are realities that many in our community face each and every day, whether the nation takes notice or not. And the solidarity and outpouring of support we've seen in response to Gwen's murder tells me that it's up to each of us -- whether we're community leaders or allies, media professionals or high school students -- to tell our stories. Because that's the only way things are going to change. 

I hope I never lose my sense of horror at terrible, heinous crimes like Gwen¹s murder. But I am glad to know that tragedy and mourning are not the only outcomes of such crimes. They can empower and bring a community together. On November 20th, the LGBT community will commemorate the Transgender Day of Remembrance (<http://www.rememberingourdead.org/day >) in different cities around the country. This day has been set aside to memorialize those who were killed because of transphobic hatred or prejudice.

I¹ll be there on that day, along with hundreds of others. But I look forward to a day when hate-motivated violence is just a footnote in history books -- not the headline in today's newspaper. That¹s what I and so many others work for every day ­ so that people like Gwen can live their lives freely and without fear.