A Tribute to Dana Holley

Who I Am and How This Helps:

My name is Tanner Holley, and I’m a transfeminine/non-binary actor, artist, and substitute teacher currently living in Los Angeles and doing everything I can to make a life for myself doing what I love.

The life of an artist (or an educator, for that matter) however, is not the most well-paying or consistent, and while I’ve managed to scrape by and build a life of my own over these past few years, in no way, shape, or form was I—or could I have been—financially prepared for all of the fallout that happens when a loved one passes on.

My mother was never the most forward-planning person, and any kind of life insurance policy or anything that might help cover the cost of funeral-related expenses was beyond her scope of vision, especially towards the end of things.

I’m asking for help not only to raise money to pay for the handling of her body (cremation costs, etc.) but to also help me purchase plane fare back to South Carolina in order to hold a memorial service for her on the beach, in the place she was born and raised with all of the people she loved and that knew her for the person she truly was. I’m also hoping to use some of the funds to help me cover the personal costs of having to take time off of work to attend the service and to spend some time with my family to grieve without having to deal with the extra stress of if I’ll be able to make my own rent payment or not.

I know times are hard for all of us, and for the whole world to be honest, and I am really not the type of person to outright ask for help—in fact I quite loathe it—but at this point I am desperate and have no other option but to ask my friends and community for help.

Any amount that you could give would be so so valued and appreciated and goes straight toward the costs of getting my mother's ashes and having a service in her honor in South Carolina.

Thank you so much for reading her story, our story, and for learning about the person she truly was.

I love you forever mama, and I can't wait for the day that I can see you again.

Your baby, always.

Tanner Holley

If you would like to read my mother's story, please continue on.

Her Life in Words:

My mother Dana Lynn Holley was born on November 6, 1964 in Greenwood, South Carolina to my grandfather, Graham Holley, and my grandmother, Frances Hafner. The second of four children, I grew up hearing stories about how my mother could have done anything she wanted with her life. She was smart, beautiful, kind, and determined—and people were endlessly attracted to the love she gave so freely and the light that shone from her very being. She was a social butterfly and truly loved people…sometimes to a fault, and sometimes she had compassion for people who truly didn't deserve the love she gave.

But she gave it anyway, and in watching her compassion, I learned those lessons of giving love and kindness for myself.

She dabbled in many careers throughout her life—from a cocktail waitress at a gentleman’s club to a real estate agent to a bartender to a dog breeder. She gave birth to my brother Logan in her early 20’s, and I came along about 7 or 8 years later in December of 1993.

I wish I could tell you that our life was easy, that things were peachy and beautiful and that I had a picture perfect childhood. The fact of the matter is, my mother and I both experienced a lot of trauma, both in our own ways. And we also experienced a lot of trauma together.

My grandfather was very physically abusive towards my grandmother, and my mother being the second oldest, she was a witness to a lot of it. And as she watched and internalized those traumas, those patterns inevitably repeated themselves in her own relationships that I was a witness to (and most of the time, I threw myself into these fights as well in an attempt to defend her). For years, it seemed like it was one ordeal after another.

Physical fights, guns, the police, alcoholism, drugs, and constantly moving around were themes in our lives for what felt like the majority of my childhood, as well as brief periods of homelessness. In dealing with all of these traumas, the light that once shone from her was slowly but surely replaced by a deep depression that never really went away.

In many ways she sacrificed herself for those she wanted to give her love to, be it platonic, romantic, or maternal. We never had a whole lot, but my mother was always ready to give it all away to whoever she thought was less fortunate than us.

When my older brother overdosed and passed on in early 2015, my mother had only just started to show signs of mental illness, or perhaps a spiritual awakening gone awry. She started hearing voices, becoming increasingly paranoid and at the same time, self-destructive. She survived many suicide attempts, from shooting herself point-blank in the middle of her forehead to multiple drug overdoses, and delving deep into methamphetamine use—but somehow, some way, she always seemed to survive. I used to joke that she was like a cat with 9 lives. But even cats run out of luck eventually.

By the time things had gotten really bad, I had already graduated from college and moved across the country to California to follow my own dreams and passions. With my older brother gone and the rest of my family scattered, there was no one in South Carolina to really look out for her or her best interests, and slowly but surely more and more needy souls came to her. But instead of helping them as she had so often tried to do in her life, they inevitably drug her down further into the depths with them.

Though she was in no safe mental state to be behind the wheel of any kind of motorized vehicle, she eventually found a way to purchase a moped to get her around, and this choice would be the one that ultimately led to her downfall.

One day, while was out and about, she tried merging into a lane, but scuffed the side of the car that was already in the lane, causing her to lose control of the moped and suffer horrifying physical damage. She was not wearing a helmet and was in a coma for months, all the while seemingly just up and disappearing to the rest of us. At this point, however, it was common knowledge that my mother was a wildcard and there was no telling where she was or who she may have been with. It wasn’t until the hospital finally got in touch with my Aunt that any of us even realized there had been an accident.

From there it was a mad dash for us to try and get a handle on the situation, from a last minute trip to South Carolina, to jumping through all sorts of legal hoops to try and become her legal guardians, to figuring out what exactly we were going to do to try and keep her safe. Her body was broken and her brain even further damaged, and she would never ever be the person she once was, the person I knew and loved and formed my whole identity around.

Eventually we managed to get her into a long-term care facility and made sure she was cared for. But I know that, on a deep soul level, she was tired. Eventually, she stopped eating on her own, and over the course of months, her body finally just gave out…and her spirit freed itself.

In many ways I am at peace with the fact that her soul is no longer suffering through the hellish physical reality she faced everyday, but in other ways, in the ways a child loves and mourns their mother, I am devastated and have cried for her just about every day. There are so many things she’s going to miss, and I will mourn for her and the way I hoped life would be for us for the rest of my life.

My last duty to her as her child is to make sure she can rest peacefully, and to live my life as myself authentically, as the best reflection of the best versions of her. I hope that in the years to come, I’m able to look up to the stars and tell her that we made it, that all of the pain and suffering was worth it in the end, and that I was the one to finally break the cycle of pain and abuse as I hope to have a family of my own some day.

My Mama:

My mama was everything to me. My father was never present in my life, and so from the time I could open my eyes, she was all I’d ever known. I didn't even learn to walk until I was almost 2 years old because she would carry me everywhere.

When my grandmother finally asked why she was carrying me all the time, her response was heartfelt, but simple.

“Well…this is the last baby I’m ever going to have.”

I was born in the early 90’s in the South, and from the very beginning I was an anomaly—a very queer and very obviously trans child, and while the world at large may have shunned and shamed me into submission, my mama never did. Where other parents of the time (and geography) would have likely been angry and cruel in their handling of the situation, my mother was always my biggest advocate. She was my very best friend. Our life together was nowhere near perfect, and in many ways she wasn’t always present in the ways I needed, but I never doubted that she loved me with her whole heart and wanted nothing but for me to be safe, happy, and to thrive.

She even loved me enough to let me go.

Middle school was rough for me for many reasons. Not only because of the constant teasing and bullying I faced for being “different,” but because of the never-ending drama that was playing itself out in our lives at home. Essentially homeless (we were crashing with my mom’s friend and her kids at the time), finishing my 8th grade year was a feat in and of itself, and when I left South Carolina to visit my grandmother in Philadelphia (she had gotten married and moved there was I was 9) for the summer, as I did every summer, I had every intention of going back. But fate had other plans, and when I auditioned late and was accepted into the Philadelphia High School for the Creative and Performing Arts in 2008, my mother knew that it was for the best that she let me be free to pursue the passions I had within me from the time I could even talk.

But even with distance, I was never without her love and guidance. We talked on the phone just about every day. She knew and loved all of my friends without ever having met them, she shared in my joys and in my sorrows, and we even bonded over the struggles we both dealt with in being raised by my grandmother.

I’ll never forget the Christmas of my senior year in high school. She had come up to Philadelphia for the holidays after dealing with a heart-shattering loss of her own, wherein her boyfriend at the time had overdosed and died in the bed right next to her. But what did she do but take the money that he had in his pocket and use it to buy me my very first car?

She set up a little scavenger hunt in my grandma’s house, with little note cards with clues that would lead me to the next clue, and the next, eventually leading me outside to see a white ’98 Oldsmobile Jeep with a big red bow on the dashboard. I was in utter SHOCK. And, also in awe of just how lucky I was to have a mother like that.

Even after I first moved to California and was dealing with the struggle of finding my footing as a young adult, she was always there. But once her mental illness and drug addiction started really catching up to her just before the pandemic, our relationship became strained and distant. But never for one second did I ever doubt that that love I had always known was there, even as she was becoming more and more lost to me.

My mother gave me the love and strength I needed to learn to love and fight for myself, and I will always mourn the life I believe we should have had, where I finally “made it” and got to pay her back for all the love and support that she’s given me my entire life.

Sadly, that’s not the story that fate had in mind. But even still, I’m determined to live the rest of my life as a true testament to her and to the person she raised me to be. I only hope that I make her proud and that she’ll continue to look after me from the other side.