It already feels so long ago. And yet, at the same time, like it just happened minutes ago.
When I woke up to news of the shooting deaths of what initially were thought to be “about 20” victims at Pulse nightclub, a gay bar hosting a Latinx night in Orlando, Florida, on Sunday morning, my initial reaction was pure anger that America had allowed another mass shooting to take place.
Later, it was confirmed that 49 people had already died in the shooting and at least 53 others were wounded in what some have deemed the deadliest mass shooting our nation has ever seen, at least in recent years. It was reported that the shooter, whom I refuse to name in this piece, was openly homophobic and racist despite repeatedly frequenting the gay nightclub prior to the shooting. He was familiar with his target and also pledged allegiance to a terrorist organization.
None of these victims were blood family of mine. But they were family. That's how queer people used to refer to each other: "Family." And it still holds. All queer Americans lost dozens of family members in Orlando.
As this story has continued to unfold throughout the week, my emotions as a queer-identified person living in this nation have been on a non-stop cycle — from sadness to apathy, full of fear one moment, full of rage the next. I haven’t been sleeping well, waking up in the middle of the night to make sure my windows are locked. I feel sick to my stomach, everything tastes salty. I can’t concentrate and I’m constantly on the verge of tears. My sweat somehow smells different.
I feel like a different person. A sadder person, but maybe a less naive person. A more engaged and enraged person.
Maybe that’s a good thing?
On Monday, I was sitting at my desk in my office, trying to focus on my work. I typically report on food and water issues in America, and was attempting to work on stories that felt significant in those areas. Compared to the tragedy unfolding all around me, nothing seemed to pass that test.
One moment, I found myself reading about Juan Ramon Guerrero and his boyfriend Christopher “Drew” Leinonen who reportedly planned to marry one day. They can’t do that now, because they were gunned down by a man with a history of domestic violence and being on a terror watch list who still managed to get his hands on a semi-automatic rifle designed for military use. Instead, their families are now planning a joint funeral.
I burst immediately into tears, bolted from my desk and ran into one of my office’s private phone rooms, where I sobbed uncontrollably for 10 minutes. When I emerged puffy-eyed from the room, none of the 10 or so officemates I rushed past — I couldn’t accurately count them through my tears — asked me how I was doing or if I was all right.
The answer, then, was “no.” The answer, still, is “no.” I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable to read if you're a well-meaning coworker or friend of mine, but it’s the truth.
We’re expected, as queer people, to somehow proceed with our lives like nothing happened, but everything — at least for me — is harder to do. Even mundane tasks like getting the mail, walking down the street or returning a phone call. I feel uncertain and like I’m in a fog, forcing a smile or a laugh or an “I’m doing better” here or there.
One of the hardest aspects of experiencing what happened in Orlando as a queer person in America is being reminded just how many people out there in this nation and world today still explicitly hate people like me and my queer brothers and sisters. Some are even celebrating the shooting. And no, I'm not talking about "radicalized" Muslims in a faraway land. Muslim leaders around the world have condemned Sunday's violence and I'm not about to pin one U.S.-born gunman's crime to an entire faith. I'm talking about born-and-raised Americans. I'm talking about our neighbors.
In the days that have passed since the shooting, I’m also reminded of how many people simply don’t understand or care to learn how to begin to understand what it feels like to move through the world after experiencing this layer of trauma on top of the already overwhelming feelings of fear and grief.
I do recognize my privilege as a white person who is read as male living in a city (Chicago) with a relatively visible and active queer community in all of this. I understand that for many people who do not look like me, particularly queer people of color, are already much more accustomed to these feelings of vulnerability and fear. It’s a privilege I’m attempting to reconcile as I hope I'm not contributing to a white-washing of this tragedy which explicitly targeted queer Latinx people.
The bottom line is that no one should have to move through the world feeling this way. It’s unacceptable, and yet the expectation is that it’s time to move on. Time to stop crying and time to start healing, right?
For me, that process truly started on Wednesday night at Burly, a monthly queer night in a “straight” bar in Chicago’s Logan Square neighborhood that I co-host.
Going into the night, I questioned what we would do if violence broke out at our queer enclave. I double-checked where the emergency exits were. I thought, for a very brief second, that maybe going ahead with the event in light of what happened in Orlando wasn’t the right decision.
Very quickly, my co-organizers and I knew we’d made the right decision to move forward. The bar was packed all night as we danced to Drake and Selena, Whitney and Rihanna, Beyoncé and Donna. The night’s guest DJ, [X]P, helped flip the vibe of our typically low-key, candlelit party into a late-night rager. Queer nightlife has never been more needed or more important than it is right now. This is our church, this is our sanctuary.
At the end of the night, we disassembled the tiny altar dedicated to the Orlando victims and distributed the flowers to our friends who had stayed and danced right up past last call. We collected our earnings from the bar, all of which were donated to the victims’ fund, and went home to join our loved ones in bed.
That night, I went to bed genuinely smiling for the first time all week.
But I’m still having a hard time. And I know many of my closest friends — my chosen family — still feel completely devastated. Even hopeless at times.
So how long are we allowed to mourn? Is it one week? Because I’m going to need a lot longer than that. And I’m sure the same can be said for many other queer people as well as their loved ones and supporters. Please be patient with them. Be patient with us. Continue to check in. Something as simple as a text can go a lot further than just another Facebook post or retweet. Failure to do so can feel like an endorsement.
It’s hard to know if you’re feeling “better” when you’re not even sure who “you” are anymore — you smell a little different now, you walk a little different now.
Maybe we’ll never be the same again.
Because you also love a little different now. Looking around at your queer family, as they’re tearing it up on a dance floor or holding their partner’s hand a little tighter, you feel closer to them than ever before. You hug them a little tighter. You laugh a little louder. You kiss longer and harder. You feel more determined than ever to make sure this never happens again.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
Before You Go
