Not very well at all.
Sunday, June 12th, 2016 marks the largest LGBT hate crime in American history. This tragedy will be remembered as one of the most brutal and terrifying incidents of mass violence our country has ever confronted. Several issues have been raised in response to the attack. Gun control. Terrorism. Global attitudes to the LGBT community. Homeland security. Public safety. Hate. These are important conversations, and should be conducted with open hearts, a clarity of purpose, and a common dedication toward urgent resolution.
I keep saying those things to myself, because I cannot connect to them yet. I’m sure that in time I will. Right now, on the day after, it’s the little details that haunt me. I think of the investigators processing the scene at Pulse, trying to tune out a cacophony of cell phones ringing with calls from loved ones hoping for a confirmation of safety that will never come. Text messages between the soon to perish and their terrified families. People hiding under piles of bodies in hopes they could evade their own butchering. The smell of gunfire. Slipping in pools of blood while fleeing from unclear danger. Families, so many families, hoping for word that their loved ones had possibly survived this nightmare, and the crushing weight of learning that their hope was in vain. Screaming. Chaos. Horror. I keep visiting these things over and over. I’m not ready for the big conversations yet. I’m still stuck on the event itself.
It was closing time at Pulse. I’ve closed out a few gay bars in my life, and I’m usually drunk, tired, and ready to go home. I imagine it was much the same at Pulse that night. You’ve had a full evening. The energy is high. Maybe you’ve met new friends, or had a good time with old ones. Maybe you’re planning for where you’ll get a post-club sandwich or trying to figure out which late night diner might be open. The weight of the real world is 10,000 miles away. Then you hear a noise. The atmosphere in the room shifts. You notice people dropping. Then the entire world changes. For some of you, it will be the very last change.
As a gay man, this hits very close to home. Most of us have been in a place like Pulse at one time or another. Nightclubs, bars, cabarets, and other safe spaces where members of the LGBT community congregate are supposed to be just that. Safe. When I first came out, unsure of my footing, at a later age than most, it was a club in Davenport, Iowa called Fusion that made me feel welcome. As I grew into some measure of confidence, it was places like Fusion, like Pulse, like countless other similar establishments across the country, in which I could feel comfortable being myself. I knew my community would be there. I like to think about them, in all the bars, in all the towns. A legion of LGBT people getting to know each other, finding community, feeling free to be who they are. A place where you don’t have to ask yourself the question, “Is it okay to be gay here?”
But we are never as safe as we think. Members of the LGBT community have always been targets for violence, as this tragedy demonstrates. We will fight, we will love, and we will win. I’m confident of that. The LGBT community has tremendous strength, and we will require every ounce of it in the weeks and months ahead.
Still, I’m filled with a profound sense of loss. The struggle has more casualties than it should. I think about Kimberly Morris. She was a 37 year old bouncer at Pulse. Her only crime was punching a time clock. I think about Jason Benjamin Josaphat. Jason was just nineteen years old. Nineteen. You’ve barely begun to live your life at nineteen years old. He liked photography and studied computer science. I wonder what he would have become? Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon and his partner Jean Carlos Mendez Perez went to Pulse together that night. They died together. Leroy Valentin Fernandez. Angel L. Candelario-Padro. Amanda Alvear. The list goes on, and on, and on. The pain their families and friends are going through must be incomprehensible. My god, the size and depth of that pain. I didn’t know any of these people personally, but each of their stories hits me like an arrow to the heart.
Today I will leave the punditry to other, more organized minds. I don’t want to think about the political ramifications for the campaigns, or the need for comprehensive gun control, or anything other than these beautiful people that we’ve lost. That ground will be well tended without me. I don’t want to hear about the madman behind this tragedy. At the moment, I don’t particularly care why he did what he did, or what particular brand of monster he’ll ultimately prove to be. I’ll eventually care deeply about each of these issues, but today I don’t. Today I grieve for the families. I grieve for the fallen. I grieve for each safe space that now feels a little less safe. I grieve for my community, who has lost so much over the years, despite all we’ve gained. We must remember these people, their faces, and their stories. We will make our places safe again. We will find ways to bear such unbearable tragedy. But we shouldn’t have to. We really shouldn’t have to.
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Photo:Â Toronto Vigil for Orlando Shooting
Image by Lws & Clrk via Flickr and a CC license