Massacre.
Terrorism.
These aren’t words I ever expected to hear connected to
Orlando. Actually, that’s not true. I think most of us who live in the area, in
the shadows of castles and other fantastic icons, in the post-9/11 world, have
acknowledged the possibility. Of
coordinated attacks against a park full of families. Of explosions and rubble. But a nightclub downtown? One person, armed
with guns and a hate-filled heart?
Sunday
I woke up to see a headline on my Facebook feed – a terror
attack in Orlando, twenty dead.
It took another hour before the US media seemed comfortable mentioning that Pulse, the nightclub where the attack happened, was a gay club. (UK media, LGBT-centric websites, and my local Orlando friends all pointed it out immediately) It was my first inclination that this wasn’t just another mass shooting.* I don’t think I’ll ever know whether law enforcement was willing to say “terrorism” before they were willing to say “hate crime,” or if that’s just how the media was playing it – either out of fear of offending the victims and survivors or to focus on another narrative. But within hours, Orlando’s LGBT leaders were holding press conferences, offering support to the community, and taking control of the story by using the words that others in the public eye were unwilling to say:
Hate Crime
This was a targeted attack against a specific
population. These people, already
marginalized by a huge percentage of the population, were targeted for nothing
more than who they loved. These were not
gang members or drug dealers. They were
people enjoying a good time with friends.
Most were gay. Some weren’t. Some just went to dance. Others worked at the club.
At a news conference around 10:30 am, Buddy Dyer updated the
press. Initially they believed there
were twenty dead inside the club. There
were actually fifty. The gathered press
audibly gasped. Sarah and I, sitting on
the sofa eating cereal, froze. It’s a
moment I will never forget. I looked
over at her, and she was still, except for her trembling lower lip. My heart tightened, and time froze.
Fifty dead bodies.
Fifty-three injured in the local hospital.
Just over one hundred people hit by bullets, in one place,
shot by one person. One hundred individual
human beings literally physically impacted by his actions.
Thousands of family and friends affected.
It didn’t take long before something amazing happened in the
community: tens of thousands of people mobilized to give blood that very day. Those who couldn’t donate brought water,
snacks, and umbrellas for the people standing in line in the sun. Local restaurants provided food free of
charge. There was such a tremendous
outpouring of love! Sarah and I tried to
give blood that afternoon. The Big Red
Bus was overwhelmed, and after an hour and a half of waiting (and eating and
drinking and being loved on by strangers) we realized we wouldn’t be able to
donate that day so we went home. I was
so shocked and overwhelmed to see people in a fairly conservative corner of my
world showing such support.
Seriously. Even after seeing long
donation lines in Orlando on TV, I thought Clermont would have its head in the
sand. Sarah asked if I thought there
would be a line, and I said that although I wanted to say yes, I seriously
doubted it. I underestimated them.
I also underestimated the world.
London, New York, Los Angeles… it seemed as though every
city in the western world had a rally or a vigil or a “come stand with us while
we send love to Orlando” gathering. They
came together to hug, cry, and show solidarity. And unlike the aftermaths of
other international tragedies, when major icons in cities are lit with the
colors of the flag of the country attacked, this time those same icons were lit
with all colors of the rainbow.
One World Trade Center
The Eiffel Tower
Fountains
Ferris Wheels
Entire City Blocks
All beautiful rainbows.
The message was clear: while #orlandounited became the
hashtag of choice, “Orlando” was simply a surrogate for LGBT. The world stood up and said “you have done
nothing wrong.” “You deserve
better.” “We love you and support you.”
We watched the Tony’s, and cried fresh tears as Lin Manuel
Miranda proclaimed “love is love is love…”
Monday
Like a textbook grief sufferer, I hit the “anger” stage hard
on Monday. I let hate seep in on my
periphery in a way I never have before.
I told Sarah that I wasn’t sure I could defend “those people”
anymore. I just couldn’t say with
conviction anymore that radical Islamic is not the same as Muslim. I started to
think that my friends who say “how many times do they have to attack us before
you believe they need to be stopped?” might’ve been right all along. Had I been naïve? Had my kindness been taken advantage of?
Yoda hit the nail on the head: “Fear leads to anger. Anger
leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” But I never before realized it was a
circle, and that the suffering led to more fear…more anger…more hate. My heart and mind were spiraling into a dark
place. Work and the rest of the world
continued around me, and I floated through, all the time wanting to dig in my
heels and yell “I’m not done hurting!”
We went to a vigil in Downtown Orlando that night, on the
lawn of the Dr. Phillips Center. We
broke out the rainbow tie-dye t-shirts we wore for the Rock ‘n Roll races in
Brooklyn and Savannah for the occasion. I
didn’t want to go. I’ve never been into
public grief…or rallies…or large group things overall. But Sarah wanted to go, and I thought it
would help her heal, so we went. And we
met up with Amanda there. When we got
there, we were surrounded by thousands of strangers – representing every letter
of LGBTQ+, and also bikers, politicians, Muslims, allies, friends, journalists,
and strangers. We were all so different,
but brought together by the pain in our hearts. People handed out flowers and
candles and bottles of water. Friends
hugged and cried as they found each other in the crowd. Rainbow flags flew. We held hands and watched the spectacle. There were more smiles than tears. The lawn was full of love and joy.
I don’t remember all of the speakers, or what they
said. I was heartened to hear Orange
County Mayor Teresa Jacobs say, “we stand behind you,” but when she added “and
we will stand in front of you and beside you,” my heart leaped in surprise. There were religious leaders saying
prayers. There were community leaders
promising support. The pastor of the AME
church in Charleston, which suffered its own hate crime, brought me to tears. She must’ve said “love” a hundred times. “We love you.” “I love you.” And somewhere in
her message, I realized what I knew all along – it’s not okay to hate. The day I allow myself to wallow in hatred of
“those people,” evil has won. It felt
like a gentle rebuke – a reminder of the way I was raised. The President of the HRC also spoke, and I
don’t remember a single thing he said.
But his words also lifted me up.
Someone at the vigil spoke about Pulse, and about its
importance to the LGBT community. I
realized then that it’s not EASY to be part of that alphabet soup, even when
you live in a city as diverse as Orlando.
For many people who go to these clubs, it is the one place where they
feel free to take off their masks and be themselves. Where there are no
bullies. For those of you who have ever had a guest-facing job at Disney,
picture all the time working in the heat, reminding parents that it’s not safe
for a toddler to stand on a 10-foot wall to watch a parade, answering the same
question 100 times, and always have a smile on your face. Now picture that half hour in the break room
where you get to relax your cheek muscles, make a sarcastic joke, and eat a
sandwich. For many members of this
community, their LIFE is lived “on stage,” and clubs are their respite. And today those safe havens are going to feel
a little less safe.
Note: there was also a very strong anti-gun message woven
through the vigil. I’m uncomfortable
mixing grief with politics, but I understand the timing of a call to action.
All the Feels
Orlando is now part of an increasingly less exclusive club. In the past few days, Buddy Dyer has spoken with mayors from Newtown, Aurora, San Bernardino, New York... Obviously these folks can say "I know how you feel" in a way no one else can. It's wonderful that this unofficial fraternity supports one another, but terrible that it exists. I imagine the calls go something along the lines of "I'm sorry for your tragedy. Here's your grief manual. Here's the list of friendly members of the media. Let me know what I can do for you." The Aurora PD recorded a video for Orlando Police, saying "we're here for you." I dare you to watch it and remain emotionless.
It’s been fascinating to scroll through my Facebook feed
recently. Many friends far and wide have
proclaimed their solidarity with Orlando, and I don’t have any egotistical
misconception that their gestures are in support of me personally. For the ones
out of state, I happen to be geographically located near to the event. For the ones in state, I’m near the bottom of
the list of people they know who might’ve been connected to Pulse. Still, I’ve gotten texts and calls and
Facebook messages from a handful of friends and family, likely veiled attempts
to check on my mental state, and I am grateful for their love and concern.
Here’s the weird thing with me - I don’t necessarily feel a
deep connection to the Orlando LGBT community.
I don’t actually easily, comfortably identify with any of those
letters. I’m only half joking when I say
“I’m not gay, but my girlfriend is.” All
of my past romantic relationships have been with guys, and it surprised the
heck out of me to realize that I had fallen in love with my best friend, who
happens to be a woman. I’ve never been
to a Pride event. I’ve only once been in
a gay bar – on my 21st birthday, with Bill and his then
boyfriend. I’m pretty sure that most of
the people I work with don’t know the nature of my relationship with Sarah,
although I’ve slowly gotten more comfortable using the phrase “my girlfriend”
in mixed company. She was my date to
two family weddings, and she’s in most of my Facebook photos. At this point, if any of my personal contacts
haven’t connected the dots, they are severely unobservant! I don’t know who
cares, who wants to know, who doesn’t want to know, who would be uncomfortable,
or who would be supportive. I’d be lying
if I said none of that matters, but I can say definitively that it doesn’t
matter much.
Because of this complicated self-identity of mine, I
sometimes feel like I’m not “grieving right.”
I mean, this was an attack on a place I’ve never been, against people I
didn’t personally know. So why can’t I get through a day without crying like a
crazy person? Rationally, I know there’s
no such thing as “grieving right,” but I’m a little sheepish about yelling
“Hey! This affects me!” when I’ve never actually yelled “I’m gay!” But really, I think we’re all affected
whether it’s personally, geographically, because we lost a loved one or friend,
because we could’ve been there, or just because we’re members of the human race
an capable of empathy. So I’m allowing
my tears. I’m listening to friends who
need to talk. I’m talking to friends
willing to listen. I’m hugging – probably
too long and too tight. I’m having angry
conversations with God (though that’s a whole different topic for another day). I’m donating blood. I’m volunteering.
I’m proud to be a member on the outskirts of this community. My heart
breaks for you, and with you. This
shooting – this hate crime – has left its mark on me. But it’s also shown me that unimaginable love
and support exists near and far, and given me the strength to keep moving
forward. Orlando is stronger. The LGBT community will emerge from this
stronger. And I’m hopeful that perhaps
the world has come one step closer to understanding to appreciate differences
instead of fearing or tolerating them.
* How the f--- did we
get to a point where “just another mass shooting” is a thing people say with no
irony behind the words??
