I Saw You (March For Our Lives Orlando)

I saw you today; in a crowd of 25,000 on the streets of this city, I call my home.

I saw you amidst the sea of signs – some of my personal favourites being “As a girl, I hope to have as many rights as a gun one day,” “Arms are for hugs” and “I wanna be Emma Gonzales when I grow up.”

On this sunny, perfect, 70 degree weather day, with the palm trees swaying and the oak trees creaking as the Spanish moss floated from their branches – I saw you. Thick, brown curls with big hazel eyes and a caramel tint to your skin. You weren’t much older than 8 or 9. I saw you, the girl who embodies what I always imagine my future daughter will look like. You stood at your family’s side with a simple sign that read “Am I next?”

You’re a child. Thoughts of death, shooters, and bullets should be the furthest thing from your brain. Yet here we are. Here you are. Holding up that sign in a crowd of thousands like your life depended on it. And, that’s the terrifying thing because I can see that to you – it does.

As I walk past you towards the marching crowd now turning down the main drag of downtown Orlando, I see another sign right behind you. It says “I want to read books not obituaries.”

That sign is too held up by a child. I feel my chest tighten and the tears sting my eyes. Neither of you should have to be here. The kids from Marjory Stoneman Douglas shouldn’t have to be responsible for an entire social movement (a.k.a a whole new form of teenage rebellion as one sign said) while they’re still grieving and hurting.

I said it after the tragedy at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, which ripped my heart out, we should have been the last. Pulse should have been the last. The 49 should have been the last lives taken by an assault weapon. Yet here we are, still fighting, still hoping that these politicians can look at us and choose life over the gun lobby.

I’m marching down Orange Ave now; my sign hoisted high, my hair secured in the messiest of buns, the sun beating down on my burnt shoulders and with my friends and father by my side – you have long since disappeared into the crowd.

Though I can’t see you anymore, the image of you holding that sign won’t leave me and I promise you this; you will not be next. Neither will my future daughter – who I hope will look like you – because we will fight for you. The adults like myself, and the generation behind me, the teens, will fight.  By the time, my little girl is your age, and you’re mine sensible gun control laws will be the norm, military-style weapons will never haunt classrooms again, and you can start figuring out how to save the honey bees or anything else you feel the need to stand for.

 

That’s my promise to you. You are not next.

 

 

Another Day. Another Mass Shooting. Another Round of “Thoughts and Prayers”

On February 14^th, 2018, at 2:21 pm, after being dropped off in an Uber, nineteen-year-old Nikolas Cruz, used an AR-15 style rifle to shoot into classrooms and hallways at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, FL. By the time Cruz had completed his seven-minute shooting spree (Cruz had begun shooting at 2:21 and at 2:28 was seen running out with other students in an attempt to blend into the crowd), 17 lives had been snuffed out. By 3:41 pm, Cruz was in police custody, and America had gained another addition to its ever-growing list of mass shootings. This one becoming the second deadliest school mass shooting (the FBI defines a mass shooting as one where four or more people, not including the perpetrator, lose their lives) on record, second only to the Sandy Hook shooting in 2012 when 27 lives were taken. As the news broke, and as a community reeled from the horrific tragedy, politicians began their outpouring of “thoughts and prayers” via social media outlets.

“My prayers and condolences to the families of the victims of the terrible Florida shooting. No child, teacher or anyone else should ever feel unsafe in an American school,” tweeted President Trump at 12:50 pm on February 14^th. Florida politicians added their own version of prayers and condolences as well. Senator Marco Rubio tweeted “In the world, you will have trouble, but take courage, I have conquered the world – John 16:33,” on February 15^th in reference to the shooting. “Just spoke with @POTUS about shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School,” tweeted Governor Rick Scott “My thoughts and prayers are with the students, their families and the entire community.”  Senator Bill Nelson also chimed in, tweeting “Praying for everyone at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. Just spoke with Broward Undersheriff to ensure they have everything they need. And just spoke to FBI to make sure all federal resources are being made available to help.”

Less than six months ago, politicians were sending out a similar round of prayers and condolences messages in regards to the Las Vegas shooting, where 58 people lost their lives to a gunman firing into a crowd, and less than two years ago I listened as politicians communicated similar sentiments in regards to the Pulse night club massacre. The Pulse shooting happened two blocks away from my apartment complex and like so many I watched and waited to see if there would be any action to accompany those thoughts and prayers.

Eight days after the Pulse shooting on June 20^th, 2016, multiple proposals were brought forward, by both Republicans and Democrats in regards to gun control. Charles E. Grassley (R-Iowa) proposed strengthening federal background checks while Sen. Christopher S. Murphy (D-Conn.) proposed expanding background checks to include gun show and internet sales. Both failed. There was then a proposal by John Cornyn (R-Texas) that would have given investigators 72 hours to prove a citizen on the no-fly or watch list had no ties to terrorism before being able to purchase a gun. That proposal failed along with Democrat Dianne Feinstein’s proposed amendment that would have barred any individual on a terrorist watch list from purchasing a gun. It failed 47 to 53.  Florida Republican Senator Marco Rubio voted against the amendment. Omar Marteen, the Pulse shooter, was listed on the terrorist watch list but was still legally able to purchase a 223-caliber AR-type-rifle and 9 mm semiautomatic pistol.

After the Las Vegas shooting back in October 2017, there was talk of legislation to ban bump stocks. Bump stocks are an accessory used on AR-15’s and other semi-automatic assault rifles. Bump stocks are not banned under federal law despite the fact that the adaption allows a semi-automatic rifle to fire nearly at the rate of a machine gun without technically converting it. Twelve of the rifles Stephen Paddock had in his hotel room in Las Vegas were modified with bump stocks. Politicians vowed changed, beginning with banning the public sale of bump stocks to private citizens. By November no legislation had been proposed and the conversation, seemingly as always, fizzled out. And now here we are, another day, another mass shooting, and another round of thoughts and prayers that no doubt will fuel the conversation of gun control for a few weeks before we become distracted by our everyday lives. While the conversation fades, the victims of the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School shooting will be laid to rest and the survivors and families of the dead will attempt to piece back their lives that will never be the same again.

The cycle continues, but this time might just be different. The teenage survivors of this latest mass shooting are speaking out, despite their pain and grief, and are organizing. This week, during the Sunday morning political shows, a group of survivors made the nation pay attention, calling out the stagnation and hypocrisy of politicians who send thoughts and prayers but lack the ability to take concrete legislative steps towards change. “My message for the people in office is this: You’re either with us or against us,” said survivor Cameron Kasky during a live interview with CNN “We are losing our lives while the adults are playing around.”

On March 24^th students will converge on Washington D.C for a march entitled March for Our Lives. According to the March for Our Lives’s mission statement the event is student-driven “March For Our Lives is created by, inspired by, and led by students across the country who will no longer risk their lives waiting for someone else to take action to stop the epidemic of mass school shootings that has become all too familiar.”

March for Our Lives will take place in Washington D.C, but will also have sister marches around the country. Additionally, two school walkout events are planned. One on March 14^th, which will mark a month since the shooting, and another on April 20^th, which marks 19 years since the infamous Columbine high school shooting in Colorado. Both walkouts are encouraging students to calmly and quietly leave their classrooms for a pre-determined amount of time in protest. So far more than 22,000 students have signed an online petition agreeing to walk out of their classrooms at 10 am on April 20^th.

In a fiery and emotional speech delivered at a gun control rally this past Saturday in Fort Lauderdale, survivor Emma Gonzalez, a senior at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, denounced the perpetual cycle of thoughts, prayers, and inaction stating, “Every single person up here today, all these people should be home grieving. But instead we are up here standing together because if all our government and President can do is send thoughts and prayers, then it’s time for victims to be the change that we need to see.”

Gonzalez’s speech, which has been uploaded to various outlets, has racked up 1.1 million views through CNN’s YouTube account since it was uploaded on February 17^th. It is a small indication that perhaps, people are finally willing to listen and perhaps this time will be different. The survivors, more so than perhaps any other shooting, are not backing down. These survivors, these children, most of whom have yet to graduate high school are demanding a break in the cycle. “We are going to be the kids you read about in textbooks. Not because we’re going to be another statistic about mass shooting in America, but because, just as David said, we are going to be the last mass shooting,” said Gonzalez during the rally this past Saturday “Just like Tinker v. Des Moines, we are going to change the law. That’s going to be Marjory Stoneman Douglas in that textbook, and it’s going to be due to the tireless effort of the school board, the faculty members, the family members and most of all the students.”

With Gonzalez’s speech and the events planned in response to this latest tragedy, there is an undeniable undercurrent of hope that these survivors may be the ones to break the gridlock once and for all, but only time will tell if elected officials will respond to their grievances with more than thoughts and prayers. Yet, one thing is clear, these survivors will not be giving up the fight anytime soon and if elected officials do not respond with more than thoughts and prayers, their days in office are numbered. “We’ve sat around too long being inactive in our political climate, and as a result, children have died,” David Hogg (a survivor who appeared with Gonzalez and Kasky on CNN) said, “If our elected officials are not willing to stand up and say, ‘I’m not going to continue to take money from the NRA because children are dying,’ they shouldn’t be in office and they won’t be in office because this is a midterm year and this is the change that we need.”

 

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Article  originally written on February 20th, 2018

Image credit: Joe Raedle/Getty Images

 

 

Six Months Later (Pulse Reflections)

It’s 1:40 am. I’m in sweats and an old t-shirt. I almost didn’t go. I tried to convince myself that it would be the same if I went by myself in the morning, after my doctor’s appointment and before work. But my gut told me I was wrong. I made myself stay up and go to my car.

This time of morning the roads are empty, not a soul to be seen, and the blanket of hazy light produced by neon signs and old street lights hovers. I park on a residential street across from Pulse. There is a candle lighting and a moment of silence planned. It’s been six months since the attack. Six months. Once again, time has escaped me.

As I walk from my car across Orange Ave to Pulse my legs seem to turn to stone, dragging slowly behind me. There is a small irrational fear that tells me it won’t be safe – that maybe someone will see this as a perfect opportunity for round two.

“Just drive, you can always drive past it if you changed your mind,” I told myself. I forced myself to follow through on my commitment to attend. There are cameras set up on the street across from Pulse and the reporters are pacing – hungry for interviews. I go to the fence and begin to read the messages scrawled across the canvas – messages of hope and love. A reporter asks me if I knew anyone that was there that night. I tell them no and they move onto juicier prospects.

I turn the corner to go through the opening in the fence, and as I am scanned and patted down by security I’m not paying attention to the process. It’s the first time I’ve seen the doors of Pulse since before the shooting. A lump lodges in my throat. A circle is gathered in front of the building. They’re reading the names, the 49.

 

Stanley Almodovar III, 23 years old

Amanda L. Alvear, 25 years old

Oscar A. Aracena Montero, 26 years old

Rodolfo Ayala Ayala, 33 years old

Antonio Davon Brown, 29 years old

Darryl Roman Burt II, 29 years old

Angel Candelario-Padro, 28 years old

Juan Chavez Martinez, 25 years old

Luis Daniel Conde, 39 years old

Cory James Connell, 21 years old

Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25 years old

Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32 years old

Simón Adrian Carrillo Fernández, 31 years old

Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25 years old

Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26 years old

Peter Ommy Gonzalez Cruz, 22 years old

Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22 years old

Paul Terrell Henry, 41 years old

Frank Hernandez, 27 years old

Miguel Angel Honorato, 30 years old

Javier Jorge Reyes, 40 years old

Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19 years old

Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30 years old

Anthony Luis Laureano Disla, 25 years old

Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32 years old

Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21 years old

Brenda Marquez McCool, 49 years old

Gilberto R. Silva Menendez, 25 years old

Kimberly Jean Morris, 37 years old

Akyra Monet Murray, 18 years old

Luis Omar Ocasio Capo, 20 years old

Geraldo A. Ortiz Jimenez, 25 years old

Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36 years old

Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32 years old

Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35 years old

Enrique L. Rios, Jr., 25 years old

Jean Carlos Nieves Rodríguez, 27 years old

Xavier Emmanuel Serrano-Rosado, 35 years old

Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24 years old

Yilmary Rodríguez Solivan, 24 years old

Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34 years old

Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33 years old

Martin Benitez Torres, 33 years old

Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, 24 years old

Juan Pablo Rivera Velázquez, 37 years old

Luis Sergio Vielma, 22 years old

Franky Jimmy DeJesus Velázquez, 50 years old

Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37 years old

Jerald Arthur Wright, 31 years old

 

I join the circle and stand with my head bowed. 2:02 rolls around and the silence starts, this is it. Six months ago, the first shot rang out at this time. The tears begin. Sobs break out around the circle. Couples hold onto each other as if their partner might dissolve and slip through their fingers. The full moon bounces off the silver paneling on the front of the building. My tears are rolling now, running down my cheeks and diverging onto my lips, I can taste the salt in them. The silence stretches. I look at the door; I imagine them clawing and fighting to get to this side of that door. I imagine their cries and pleas as they hoped for even one more second of life.

It was a fight the 49 lost. The minute comes to a close and members of the Pulse staff light candles on the ground. As the circle disperses we all move to gaze at the candles, they’re lined up in a Pulse line and behind each candle is a rainbow star with a name and age on it. My heart breaks all over again and I weep. This was such a monumental waste. I will only be here for a few more minutes, I am sure of it.

But as I turn away from the candles I bump into of my co-workers. We see each other and say nothing. We just fall into a bear hug. He lost his best friend in the shooting. We cry. He introduces me to his friend, whose twin brother was one of the 49. When he saw me crying, he enveloped me in a hug. I squeezed as tightly as I could – hoping he would feel my sympathy. We don’t let go. It seems to last for hours. When we pull away, I hold my co-workers hand. He doesn’t like being there. He doesn’t know how to process it all. He came for the sake of his friend.

I see another man on crutches with only one leg. My co-worker tells me was there, inside Pulse six months ago. I’m a wreck again. I spend the next hour talking with strangers and loving on my co-worker. The tears never leave my eyes and when at 3:20 am I get back in my car I sob all over again.

So much pain and heartbreak over hate, over caring about someone else’s sexuality. You would think after six months, I could fathom it, that I could apply some logic to it in order to make sense of it all.

But I can’t.  It still hurts like hell. It still breaks my heart. It still makes me weep. It still makes me furious. And maybe time will never heal that, whether its 6 months or 6 years, but maybe time allows me the ability to dampen my own grief in order to be there for a friend who barely knows how to express his.

Maybe time allows a certain reflection and acceptance. Maybe. I wish there were something more concrete I could say. No words seem to suffice. So I’ll conclude with this, my prayer for the 49.

 

God, I pray for the souls of the 49.

I pray you would keep them in your mist. That they would be given peace and love unending.

g.

For the families, I pray you would watch over them. Let them feel your comfort and love.

God, I pray for this country. I pray we can reject hate and fear of something that’s different from us.

God, bring understanding to this world so this will be the last time there is a six months after.

One Week Later (Pulse Reflections)

As I write this my home country, England, is reeling for another terrorist attack. It was a little over two weeks ago that 22 people lost their lives in Manchester, an a little over a month ago that 3 people were killed in a similar incident on Westminster Bridge. Repeatedly in my life it seems like my two homes seem to mirror each other, and it’s heart wrenching that almost a year after Pulse England would be going through that sort of atrocity. I could go into politics and thoughts about why this is happening, but I’ll keep it simple. All of this stems from hate and fear. The only way to combat that is through love and forgiveness – as incredibly torturous as that feels.

So my dear beloved England, the country that raised me and will also be my home – please love and forgive. Take your time to scream, cry, and grieve, but I promise you the only way to be whole again is to learn to love and forgive. I will not lie and say that I have wholly forgiven. Omar Mateen will always be a villain to me, but I refuse to let his hate and fear infect my community or myself.

I will be praying for you my dear England, with all I have. You are my heart, and I know during this time of what seems to be constant attack you will let your English spirit rise and take care of one another. I have no doubt you will see a better day. I love you.

In that sentiment, I have three posts left in regards to Pulse – this one, 6 months on and 1 year on. That’s how long it’s taken to feel okay, but the wound never truly heals. You just learn to accept it as part of your anatomy.

 

                        ———–

 

Yesterday I stood with 50,000 members of my community around Lake Eola, the heart of our city. We raised candles in honour of the dead, and the sight of those candles flickering around the lake was maybe one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I will not easily forget that sight.

However, today the US Senate blocked a bill that would prevent people of the terror watch list (like Omar Mateen) from buying guns. Why? Because lobbyists, and the NRA and the second amendment. As I drove home today, listening to the news on NPR, I thought about all the memorials around town. The photos of the dead filtered into my mind as well as the families and friends I saw crumple to the ground in crying heaps at the crisis center across from my apartment building as they read the name of their loved one on that fateful list.

I couldn’t tear the image of them weeping from my mind. I remembered my own tears as I collapsed in the shower the day after. I wept as I thought about the innocent blood shed and how, just four walls from my apartment those family members were having their hearts ripped out and for what?

Because one man hated the gay community so much that he thought it was his duty to kill as many as he could. And today, today I think about how all of this could happen again so easily in another part of the country because of this government. After all, didn’t we say enough after Sandy Hook? We all mourned, cried, and said our prayers were with those parents only to do nothing to actually stop another massacre happen and then it came to my city.

It’s disgusting. And then these politicians, like Marco Rubio, will be sure to visit the memorials to say their ‘prayers’ are with us yet they block bills that could prevent these horrors. So now another city, another community could go through this and that knowledge devastates me.

 

 

Five Days Later a.k.a 10 Reasons to Get My First Tattoo for Pulse

#1 – The cost of the tattoo is donated to the One Orlando fund.

#2 – The pain I feel under the needle will serve as a reminder of the pain the victims and their families are going through. And as I feel that short term pain I will remember how blessed I am to not be suffering their fate.

#3 – The pulse line etched into my skin will remind me that every day I wake up with a pulse is a blessing.

#4 – The rainbow will remind me not to judge or be biased towards someone or a group of people because they live differently from me.

#5 – The rainbow will remind me to be brave and dedicated enough to live my authentic life.

#6 – The rainbow will remind me that love is love is love is love.

#7 – It will remind me of how I feel in this moment. It will remind me that there needs to be change in this country and I can be a part of that.

#8 – When, and if, my kids ask about the tattoo on my ribs I can tell them about this week. I can tell them that there is great evil in this world, but there is also great good. And beyond that simple fact, every day we wake up with a pulse we have a choice to choose love. I look forward to telling my children that they have that choice.

#9 –  “You realize, don’t you, that you are the temple of God, and God himself is present in you? No one will get by with vandalizing God’s temple, you can be sure of that. God’s temple is scared – and you, remember, are the temple.” – 1 Corinthians 3:16-17

This scripture is the one most church kids hear as the argument against tattoos. ‘Your body is a temple’ is drilled into your brain to cover a whole manner of sins. Yet as I’ve prayed about this decision I’ve come to the conclusion that this scripture essentially boils down to respecting your body and using it to honor God. Well, If God is love and that is his main attribute I am striving to emulate – then this tattoo, which to me will be a permanent reminder to choose love, will in turn be a permanent reminder to choose Him.

#10 – Choosing to get this tattoo at this time will remind me of how capable Orlando and the world is to come together and choose love.

 

                Those are my reasons, and I don’t think I’ll ever regret this decision (a year on and I love my tattoo). Besides, if this time has proved anything it’s that we never know when our time is done. And when it is our bodies will fade into nothing, so it might as well stand for love while it’s here.

Four Days After (Pulse Reflections)

I think I am okay. That is until on the way home from a long shift construction on the I-4 inadvertently sends me right past Pulse’s front door. The sirens still blare in the distance and the FBI trucks are still sprinkled down Orange Ave. Another detour pushes me past the memorial at Orlando Health. Victims of the terror still lay in beds within the hospital walls fighting for their lives. Only a day ago I stood outside the Dr Phillips Center at a memorial and listened to the names of the 49 dead called from a list to be followed by 49 rings of church bells. 49 sounds like a lot of names and it is, but when each one was being read slowly and carefully it felt like an infinite number. And each ring of the bell felt like squeezing a lemon on deep cuts that couldn’t be seen.

I held a candle up in the dark, after the role call and after the bell tolls, in silence and solidarity. I thought that was enough. That I was okay. I thought my crying fit in the shower was the last one. However at 1am as I drive past Orlando Health and see all the candles lit by the Emergency entrance I see something else. By those candles an elderly woman is on her knees praying. I can see the sag in her back and the whiteness of her knuckles. And upon seeing her, despite telling myself I am okay, the sobs erupt from my chest. And as I slam my hand into the cold, leather ridges of my steering wheel I know I’ve been lying to myself.

I’m not okay.

 

Dear Manchester

As Orlando comes up on the anniversary of the Pulse shooting, an event that shattered the hearts of so many in this city only to have us unify to piece those hearts back together through community and love, what’s happening in Manchester is eerily similar. I know how much you are all hurting right now, for those who died your lives were taken too soon, for those that survived the questions, pain and guilt of surviving is overwhelming and for the residents of the city you wonder how this could ever happen in your home.

Let me tell you this, your home will never be the same: don’t expect it to be. You will feel the aftershocks of this tragedy, emotionally, politically and literally for weeks and months to come. You will walk past that arena and feel your heart break all over again. You will see the world move on and feel angry that they do not feel the devastation you are feeling. Your city will forever be marked by this.

However, my dear Manchester – my dear mother country – remember this; because of this horror, you will become more capable of love, of compassion, of kindness and of connection then you ever thought possible.

You’re already doing it, with free taxis, hotels, homeless heroes, food and blood given to the recovering kids. But more than this when you see someone hurting you will be there. You will hug strangers and listen to their stories. You will pray and cry like you never have before. Your love, displayed in the smallest of actions, will silence the hate that was intended.

Remember those you lost. Love for them. Live to honour them. Everyday, take them with you and be the future that was taken from them.

You will never be the same. Orlando has never been the same, yet our community has never been stronger. I promise you will heal, you will grow and you will love. And as you do, those you lost will live on forever.

The Day of: Quebec Coffee

It’s dark, but not as dark as I feel right now.

Sitting hundreds of miles away, I’m surrounded by Canadian hipsters sipping their artisan coffee while absentmindedly scrolling through Facebook.

I’m sure they’ve seen it; another mass shooting in the USA.

Another madman with a gun.

Another American tragedy.

But they can’t know that this one, the worst in US history is less than a mile from where I call home.

Where I’ve danced and had a few too many.

Where people I love, the ones that make me smile and laugh through a thirteen hour shift, feel safe and accepted.

But here in Quebec City, these coffee patrons have no idea how it feels to watch your world crumble while you’re so far away, so unable to help.

For them it’s just another image on their screens.

They can’t comprehend the churning of my stomach or the panic in my chest.

They can’ know that as they scroll through their feeds – liking cute selfies, adoring wedding photos and digesting other trivial Facebook news – I’m screaming on the inside.

(Written June 12^th)

 

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At 6 am on June 12^th my sister messaged me to tell me about the mass shooting. I spent the first two hours following up with all my friends, who I knew went to Pulse, making sure they were safe. After I heard back from them all, confirming their safety my brother and I went to a coffee shop down the street from our hostel. As I sat in that coffee shop and watched all the images of Pulse on TV I felt completely heart-broken. I held in my tears, knowing that these people sat down at their computers couldn’t understand the weight of what I was feeling. Not that they wouldn’t be sympathetic or understanding, but there was no way they could feel the hole boring its way through my chest. This, illogically, made me angrier; I wanted them to feel what I was feeling. I wanted to scream at that. To stand up and yell ‘how can you just sit there, while people are dying?’ It wasn’t until a few days later, when I began to process my emotions, that I understood the irony in that feeling. After all, only a little bit ago we had witnessed the Paris attacks and I had gone about my day, while people in Paris were feeling what I was feeling now.

We left the coffee shop, wandered around Quebec City and somehow it just felt wrong. It felt as though I was disrespecting the dead by being in such a beautiful place, by not being in my city to mourn, to help somehow. As we wandered, my sister kept me updated on the news. She told me how the death toll had risen to nearly fifty. Every new piece of information felt like a dagger to my gut. The entire day I felt restless in my skin. I wanted to be at home; I wanted to help, even though I had no idea how. I needed to be with my city. I needed to see Pulse, and the distance between Quebec and Orlando felt like a universe away. Pulse was somewhere I had danced and been drunk with my friends. I was supposed to go to Pulse with a couple of co-workers only the Tuesday before, but I had gotten out of work late and couldn’t go. I had spent many a night, a little too tipsy, in the bathroom where the hostages were held. As the day continued we avoided telling people where we were from. It was too raw to say. We were afraid of the looks, of the awkwardness, of the anguish the confession would bring. At the end of that day, which barely felt like a day, we took an Uber to the airport. The Uber driver wanted to know where we were from, my brother said it, ‘Orlando’. I held my phone in my hands, like I had been doing the whole day, waiting for any new pieces of information. I didn’t want to hear his reaction.

He apologized, and asked if we knew how many had been hurt. I told him we were hearing conflicting reports. He was nothing but sympathetic and concerned, but every word he spoke grated against my skin. Not because of anything he was saying, but because of the subject we were discussing. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want it to be real. As I sat in the back seat and gazed out of the window, he told us about a shooting that had happened at a club in Montreal and how thankfully how a couple of people were hurt. He told us that guns were what scared him about America. “Me too,” I whispered under my breath. When we arrived at the airport he handed us our bags and wished us peace, as difficult as that might be.

We walked through the airport, my brother wearing a purple hoodie and an Orlando City hat (which was completely unintentional). Facebook asked us to check in safe, due to us both being located in Orlando. We did, but not being there felt like we were cheating. When we finally made it on the plane, my brother and I were assigned seats on opposite sides of the plane. I tensed as I sat down, knowing that Orlando would be the topic on everyone’s tongue. Sure enough it was and when the Canadians in the row next to me began to discuss Orlando, guns, the military and Trump I remained silent. I looked out of the window and wished for time to speed up, to be back in Orlando. When we landed, the plane had to taxi and an older couple were clearly impatient to get off the plan. Nathan, my brother, was stood right behind them, and as my row was at the front they were stood in the aisle next to me while we waited to disembark.

“We have connections to make,” they grumbled and a fellow passenger asked them where they were heading. “Oh, back home to Pensacola, FL,” they responded and the man winced and said “Oh, Florida. Did you hear about what happened in Orlando?”

“Yes, we did. It’s a real shame but we’re from the panhandle. Things like that don’t happen there. We’re much nicer up there.”

I glanced at my brother – who I repeat was wearing an Orlando City hat – and he could sense my frustration.  Didn’t they see how insensitive that comment was? Also the shooter wasn’t from Orlando, he had driven from Port St. Lucie to Pulse to carry out the attack. But even if he was from Orlando, what difference did that make? A tragedy was unfolding in my city and these people had the audacity to brush it off with the apparent ‘niceness’ of the Panhandle. What was Orlando then? A hive of hate and sin? If I hadn’t been in so much mental turmoil I might have spoken up, but I knew if I did I would break down. So I held it in. I bit into the side of my cheek, as I had done many times as a child to keep myself from saying something, and focused on that pressure in order to push their comment as far away from me as possible.

The plane doors finally opened, the older couple rushed off to their connection, and I let go of my inner cheek – tasting blood mixed with salvia. We stepped off the plane, rushed through the airport, and stepped out to the pickup area, feeling that rush of warm wind that is so particular to Florida.  Our sister picked us up and warned us that we would have to go a long way home because the entire area around our apartment complex was blocked off. As we drove through the streets from the airport to our downtown apartment we discussed what we knew so far. The shooter was from Port St. Lucie. He had been shot by police after a hostage standoff in the female bathroom.  The death toll had jumped from 25 to 50 with countless more in the hospital. An emergency response center had been set up in the senior center directly behind our apartment complex.

The drive was exceptionally long, but that small inconvenience was insignificant in so many ways. When we finally arrive in our area it was akin to a war zone. Police cars, sirens and flashing lights filled the entire area. FBI, homeland security and SWAT trucks clogged up the roads. Helicopters flew overhead and I could feel it, the tension in the air. We had to park in a random spot because the parking spots for our apartment complex were in the senior center’s parking lot – which was filled with government/police cars, and media outlets setting up with reporters. There were so many lights, so many sirens. The emergency center was right at the end of our complex. The only way to be closer was to be in the center. We walked past officers, who had surely been up all night, to get into our building. I’ve never experienced anything like it. We entered our apartment, and turned on the TV to the local news station, which had been live for almost 20 hours at this point. You could see the exhaustion and heartbreak on the reporters faces. They switched between the reporter stood on Orange Ave, (which on a regular day would be four lanes deep with traffic) who was as close to Pulse as the FBI would allow and a reporter who was stood outside the senior center, at the end of our apartment building, where family and friends had begun to gather to find out if their loved ones were alive.

The reporters talked about how they hadn’t identified victims yet because their bodies were still laying on the floor of Pulse, with their phones buzzing as loved ones tried to reach them. The reporters assured us it was protocol – that the FBI had to gather evidence etc before they could begin to identify and move the bodies. They told us there would be a conference in the morning, where more details would be shared. They told us they weren’t going anywhere. That they would stay live throughout the night and their hearts would be with us. There was a connection throughout the city that night. Everyone could feel it. We were united by grief, loss and heartbreak. And resting underneath that concoction of confusion and pain was the undeniable sense that this city, our Orlando, would never be the same.

The Days After: Reflecting on Pulse

In five days we will have elected a new president, I’ll keep my thoughts on that for another post, but as we move this country in one political direction or another I believe we have to seriously consider the gun violence in this country. This summer, almost six months ago, I was in Quebec City, Quebec (CA) with my big brother. We had been in Canada for a week to have a holiday and to see Mumford and Sons. At 6 am on Sunday June 12^th I woke up in a hostel in Quebec to my sister (who was in Orlando) messaging me telling me to make sure everyone I knew that went to Pulse was safe. Pulse was a place I frequented and had been many times with friends. I spent the next hours watching my city on the news and frantically trying to make sure everyone I knew was okay. To see my city, to see Pulse (which is only a few blocks away from my apartment) in total terror was an experience that will never leave me. I couldn’t comprehend that my home was now the site of the worst mass shooting in U.S history, but it was happening whether I could comprehend it or not.

So, as the days progressed I kept a journal. I’ve been wanting to share this with the world for some time now, but have managed to keep putting it off. I will be posting what I wrote over the next few days, partly I suppose as therapy for me, but more so as a glimpse into the emotion that comes from such a tragedy and how it feels to have your city ripped apart. I think as we move forward it’s important to realize what one man with an assault weapon can do and if we, as a nation, have the guts to stand up to the NRA etc. and make a change. I hope this series allows you to reflect, but beyond that I hope it keeps the memory of the 49 alive.

I’m going to begin with something I wrote a couple of days before while sitting in Notre-Dame Basilica in Montreal. I’m including this to show how quickly life can change.

 

Notre-Dame

Sometimes there are places that are too beautiful for words – places that have been cast in hours of toil, worship and artistry.

I’ve never understand the need for ornate places to worship God.

Perhaps, it’s because I’ve always found him in the small quiet spaces in the back of my mind; not in grand halls where pious men felt the need to show their wealth and stature, to show how holy they are simply by the act of building something physically beautiful.

However, as much as I detest these men, as much as I wish they would have never existed, I cannot help but have a touch of thankfulness for them.

For, if they never existed places like this would never be.

And if they never existed, I could never sit here, in a smooth oak pew, looking up at a divine altar carved from one tree, with the colors of a night sky bleeding out behind it, feeling the weight of hundreds of years of worship in one quiet moment.

This is the legacy of places like this, but this one, yes this one, is just a little more beautiful than the rest.