I don't have any advice or wisdom. This is just really, really hard. A gunman walked into a gay club in Orlando and shot up to 103 people, killing 49 of them. It is hard as a gay man to face that, to know that happened, and to see, blinders off, the level of hatred that exists toward me and my queer siblings. |
It is hard to know it could have been a club where I were the one dancing with my shirt off one second and dead on the floor the next. It is hard to know I am relieved that it was not me and it was not my friends.
It is hard to see the racism and Islamophobia that is flying around, and it is hard to know that I felt it, too, however briefly. It is hard to despise that reaction because in order to do so I have to pretend I do not understand it or I have to despise myself. It is hard because, even so, I want to destroy every person who uses these gay deaths as an excuse to further their own agenda of hate.
It is hard the amount of hate I feel.
It is hard the amount of sadness I feel.
It is hard to post things, share things, say things knowing that my tears are useless, my rage is impotent and my actions are without result because it is already too late.
It is hard that the sadness and the hate disappear in a moment when something else distracts me, and harder still when they come crashing back inside my soul, without warning or reason.
It is hard to acknowledge that I wish it had not been a Latin night in that club because I cannot handle the continuous horror of more and more and more dead, brown bodies in this lifetime, and it is hard to know that had it been mostly white people the reaction would have been greater, stronger, and more active. It is very, very hard to see, again, that there is a difference between white, straight death and brown, queer death.
It is hard to be a queer and have every fear from every time somebody called me a faggot come slamming back in a heartbeat and take my breath away.
It is hard to know that I live in New York City where my life is easier and my openness is celebrated, especially as a white cis-gendered male. It is hard to know that somewhere else – many somewheres – there are screams of agony emitting from love broken by death and that I do not have to scream from inside my white, Manhattan bubble.
It is hard to post those things about moving on, actively continuing my queer life in spite of this act of hate and in defiance of this violence because I know I am lying. I know that I am just looking for a viable reason or a justifiable excuse to continue on in my life and to do the things I was going to do, the things I planned to do before 49 beautiful, gay, dead bodies hit the floor in a club I have never entered.
It is hard to leave the house, to laugh, to converse.
It is hard to not try to make opportunity from this.
It is hard to see our politicians use this as a means to win an election and it is hard to know that I also demand that of them.
It is hard to know, inherently and intrinsically, that if Sandy Hook did not change the gun laws in this country, then this will not change them either.
It is hard to be ashamed to be an American because this country is disgusting, spoiled, violent, racist, sexist, homophobic, and evil. It is hard because those qualities benefit me, and I am not willing to give that up.
It is hard because the deep, core-level sadness I feel has no outlet, no words, and no use.
It is hard to be a queer person and to be secretly afraid all of the time – a fear we are normally able to mask – and it is hard to know I am angry at those people who died because their death makes me so, so, so scared. It is hard to know I should blame the gunman for my fear, but that fear is something I was able to hide and hide from until those people died on a dance floor. It is hard because I want them to stand up and live and hard because I cannot stop shaking.
It is hard because it is dishonest - every post, word, hug, feeling, action, call to action, and tear is a lie. They are all just an effort to remove that single image from my head: A beautiful Hispanic man moves through the haze and flashing lights as a Latin dance beat pounds gloriously. His hips sway, his eyes exude sex, and just as he tosses a sly, beautiful smile toward another dancing man . . . me . . . and he raises his hands above his head, a bullet smashes open his skull and he dies. It is hard do everything I can to erase that image and it is hard that everything fails.
It is hard because I want to love everyone and my fear and my rage and my sadness consume all of my emotional space. I want to reach out to those families but I am scared to get too close to that death. I want to go to Florida and organize a rally but I am rendered inert by an overwhelming resignation to the futility of it all. I want to dedicate everything I do to stopping this from ever happening again but I am powerless, useless, and weak and that is hard. My own inability to add, solve, or change anything is really, really hard.
49 queers are dead because some lunatic hates us. 49 more will die. And then 49 more. It may never end, it may never change, it may never get better.
That is really hard.
It is hard to see the racism and Islamophobia that is flying around, and it is hard to know that I felt it, too, however briefly. It is hard to despise that reaction because in order to do so I have to pretend I do not understand it or I have to despise myself. It is hard because, even so, I want to destroy every person who uses these gay deaths as an excuse to further their own agenda of hate.
It is hard the amount of hate I feel.
It is hard the amount of sadness I feel.
It is hard to post things, share things, say things knowing that my tears are useless, my rage is impotent and my actions are without result because it is already too late.
It is hard that the sadness and the hate disappear in a moment when something else distracts me, and harder still when they come crashing back inside my soul, without warning or reason.
It is hard to acknowledge that I wish it had not been a Latin night in that club because I cannot handle the continuous horror of more and more and more dead, brown bodies in this lifetime, and it is hard to know that had it been mostly white people the reaction would have been greater, stronger, and more active. It is very, very hard to see, again, that there is a difference between white, straight death and brown, queer death.
It is hard to be a queer and have every fear from every time somebody called me a faggot come slamming back in a heartbeat and take my breath away.
It is hard to know that I live in New York City where my life is easier and my openness is celebrated, especially as a white cis-gendered male. It is hard to know that somewhere else – many somewheres – there are screams of agony emitting from love broken by death and that I do not have to scream from inside my white, Manhattan bubble.
It is hard to post those things about moving on, actively continuing my queer life in spite of this act of hate and in defiance of this violence because I know I am lying. I know that I am just looking for a viable reason or a justifiable excuse to continue on in my life and to do the things I was going to do, the things I planned to do before 49 beautiful, gay, dead bodies hit the floor in a club I have never entered.
It is hard to leave the house, to laugh, to converse.
It is hard to not try to make opportunity from this.
It is hard to see our politicians use this as a means to win an election and it is hard to know that I also demand that of them.
It is hard to know, inherently and intrinsically, that if Sandy Hook did not change the gun laws in this country, then this will not change them either.
It is hard to be ashamed to be an American because this country is disgusting, spoiled, violent, racist, sexist, homophobic, and evil. It is hard because those qualities benefit me, and I am not willing to give that up.
It is hard because the deep, core-level sadness I feel has no outlet, no words, and no use.
It is hard to be a queer person and to be secretly afraid all of the time – a fear we are normally able to mask – and it is hard to know I am angry at those people who died because their death makes me so, so, so scared. It is hard to know I should blame the gunman for my fear, but that fear is something I was able to hide and hide from until those people died on a dance floor. It is hard because I want them to stand up and live and hard because I cannot stop shaking.
It is hard because it is dishonest - every post, word, hug, feeling, action, call to action, and tear is a lie. They are all just an effort to remove that single image from my head: A beautiful Hispanic man moves through the haze and flashing lights as a Latin dance beat pounds gloriously. His hips sway, his eyes exude sex, and just as he tosses a sly, beautiful smile toward another dancing man . . . me . . . and he raises his hands above his head, a bullet smashes open his skull and he dies. It is hard do everything I can to erase that image and it is hard that everything fails.
It is hard because I want to love everyone and my fear and my rage and my sadness consume all of my emotional space. I want to reach out to those families but I am scared to get too close to that death. I want to go to Florida and organize a rally but I am rendered inert by an overwhelming resignation to the futility of it all. I want to dedicate everything I do to stopping this from ever happening again but I am powerless, useless, and weak and that is hard. My own inability to add, solve, or change anything is really, really hard.
49 queers are dead because some lunatic hates us. 49 more will die. And then 49 more. It may never end, it may never change, it may never get better.
That is really hard.