I was living in Wilmington on June 12th, 2016 when I got word about a shooting that took place at Pulse Nightclub earlier that morning. I remember immediately turning on the news and seeing Orlando Mayor Buddy Dyer do a press briefing, so I was eager to get more information, as I was texting friends and family, asking if everyone was okay and scrolling Facebook to get any new information.
Then, I remember hearing him say the number. And while I know we don’t recognize the shooter being killed, hearing ‘50’ seemed positively impossible.
‘There’s no possible way’, I thought. ‘That has to be……’
Then the alerts started pouring in on my phone. And I went completely blank.
I reached out to my family to check and make sure they were okay, the same shock and shaky voices responding back to me.
Numerous texts exchanged with friends and acquaintances were exchanged, followed by frantic searches on social media, trying to assure everyone was alright.
I immediately started making plans to go back home, though I never really had a definitive place to go or a specific thing I could put my finger on that said ‘Okay, I can go do this to help’.
I’ve heard it described by seemingly countless trauma victims, how they do something similar. There’s nothing really left to do, but it feels like at least the only thing that’s within your control to do; go.
So, I got in my car, drove 570 miles back to Orlando and started seeing friends.
At the time, I was long into my resistance of accepting that I was trans and was very much closeted, still desperately trying to make my life make some kind of sense. But on this trip back, all I could do was see what I could do to help and make sure people had at least some semblance of normalcy.
What I found was anything but.
Throughout the week of checking the news for more updates, sadly discovering connections to people that had passed away, consoling friends who were shaken and devastated beyond belief, it felt as if I existed in a place I’d never been before.
I need to paint the picture of how very well I know Orlando. It was my home for over 30 years, in that way which brings familiarity you can illustrate with your eyes closed. ‘I know that building’, ‘that place has the best tacos, but they’re better when such-and-such is working’, ‘It’s quicker to sneak down ____ street after 5 because ___ is just a parking lot’. That type of familiarity.
I’d heard there was a vigil held out front of the Doctor Phillips Center the night after the shooting occurred and seen pictures from it. It quickly became somewhat of a ‘front lawn’ of the community where everyone had gathered, many for the same reasons I previously cited; because there was nothing else to do and nowhere else to go.
I remember the candles. The hugs. The tears. Complete shock and helplessness.
I couldn’t pack my bags fast enough to head home.
As the week unfolded, I remembered hearing the local soccer team, Orlando City, planned to hold their game at Camping World Stadium as a way for the community to gather, check on each other and to be together.
I remember purchasing a yellow shirt, as there were plans for each section of the stadium to represent a color of the rainbow flag. I remember driving to the game and the walk up to the venue that I’d done literally dozens of times before to see Orlando City play that typically involved alcohol, chanting, cheering, dancing and singing, and how this walk, though surrounded by thousands, had none of the usual, familiar elements whatsoever; just hugs, chatter of the weeks events, crying and people asking if each other were okay.
I remember getting to the gates and seeing military officers with machine guns guarding every single entrance, thanking them as I passed them and walking past the pre-game stage, lit in rainbow colors. I remember the very real feeling of fear, hoping nothing else would happen and that we could drop our guards enough to just feel however all of us felt, thinking ‘is this how it’s always going to feel now?’
I remember walking past the pre-game stage near my seat and seeing it lit in rainbow colors.
I remember hearing the Orlando Gay Chorus singing ‘True Colors’ and breaking down in tears as I walked to find my seat, finding many people doing the same and hugging each other in the concourses and how all of the music that was played leading up to the start of the game tapped into the somber mood that encapsulated the entire event.
That was the first and only time a sporting event has felt like a memorial service to me. But it was so very needed.
I remember singing ‘All You Need Is Love’ by the Beatles, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, not really knowing what else to do, but feeling somewhat better.
I remember the game being stopped in the 49th minute and the moment of silence with the tifo from the supporters section being unfurled that read ‘not afraid’. It didn’t seem accurate, but it did seem like an emotional point to strive for, which I suppose is how people are inspired to push through moments of adversity and uncertainty.
The actual events of the game seemed to be a blur that I can’t remember much of, but I do remember going back to my car, sitting alone and seeing birds flying above, in a succinct flock, over my head and in the direction of downtown. It made me think of a song that was on an album that I’d listened to in that same car, over and over again, which I queued up and played, tears streaming down my face and uncontrollable sobs in a level of vulnerability I hadn’t allowed myself to feel for years.
In the months that followed, I attended my first Pride parade in October with my now wife, at first wanting to support the LGBTQ+ community and be there for those that were affected, but also with the self-realization that I hadn’t previously ever felt before:
‘Tomorrow is not a given. And I’m here, right now.’
Three years later, I would come out as transgender, decide to start transitioning and now have an inner-strength that I still am surprised at, to this day. In a lot of ways, I think the events of Pulse were a catalyst for that.
In moments of absolute sorrow, senselessness and instability, we’re all left with a void that has to be filled. And there’s always a lesson to be learned.
Mine was to keep going, as authentically as possible. Because that’s what I can do.
We can fly on, just like those flock of birds.
We can shine, just like every rainbow we see that reminds us of those we lost.
We can keep going. Because not everybody could
.
I was home just a few couple miles north and heard what I thought were fireworks around 2:00 a.m. and wondered why. The holiday was two weeks earlier. Hearing sirens wasn’t unusual living near downtown and the hospital so didn’t think anything about it.
The horror I woke up to was unbelievable. Orlando had just become the newest member of a tragic club.
I was at the scene it happened moments after we left the club this happened.