My friends, I am sorry I did not get the Friday edition of The Other Side with Ona out on time. It was a difficult time and writing had to make room for other things, like grieving.
You see, Sunday was the 6th anniversary of the massacre at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida. It was Latin night and a gunman entered in the early morning hours of the 12th, killing 49 queer and allied souls and injuring another 53. Of the dead, 46 were Latinx, Black, and other people of color.
What you have to know is that this was a church shooting equivalent for many of us. The bars were the only place we could go, for many years, and be our full true selves in safety. Churches weren’t safe, work wasn’t safe, and home frequently wasn’t even safe for our fullest expressions. Society has rigid gender roles and no flexibility for sexual orientation variation, at least when I came out. Though I wasn’t a drinker, I escaped to the hallowed halls of the dance floor to hold and be held, myself, my true self. It was the only place I could do that.
So an act of violence in our sacred space shook us, across the country as far as the news traveled. Pulse Nightclub was a popular place in Florida and a location that many of us who had traveled for fun or business had experienced. It was a wonderful place, a place each person could relax into, freeing up their soul from fear and limitation. The dance floor welcomed all of us, butches, femmes, drag queens, gay men, mothers and sisters of gay men and women, and partners of the drag queens. Everyone was welcome and loved. It was an escape.
Today, the community of Orlando, led by the OnePulse Foundation, does not speak of “the victims” of the 12th of June. They are called the “49 angels.” Just typing that makes it hard for me to breathe. In the hours and days after the shooting, we learned the angels’ stories, their names, their families, blood, or chosen. Some died with family members, others with spouses, and some with friends. It is overwhelming to this day for me to think about it.
I will let you in on the inside story for me. My mother told me, when I came out, that she loved me but I was going to hell. While I always knew that my mother loved me after a fashion, I never felt that she loved all of me or loved me unconditionally. But on that day, on the afternoon of June 12th, 2016, my mother called me to see if I was okay. I was still in shock and calling my friends to check on them, so the call may have been short and distracted, but of all my blood family she was the only one who called to check on me. I don’t know if she understood what this shooting meant to me on a conscious level, but on some level deep within, the mother in her reached out to check on her child. I didn’t get the fullness of it then, but my mother died unexpectedly less than two months after Pulse. That phone call would become the way I reconciled with my mother after her death, the way I accepted the fullness of her love.
So now you see why I cry for a week around the 12th and why thinking of it other times of year brings up such pain for me. I hope it will carry more meaning for you now, too. You see, everybody’s got a Pulse.
I cannot believe six years have passed since the tragedy at Pulse nightclub. It somehow seems like it happened more recently and yet, it falls into a time of events that occurred before the pandemic - and pandemic timing has skewed the immediate perception of time (at least for me) tremendously - or maybe it's just getting older. I cannot yet begin to fathom the loss of a parent. And it was with relief that I read you were able to reconcile with and feel your mother's love. I am sorry that your time with her was cut short. I am sorry for your loss Ona. Thank you for telling us about the week around the 12th in June. 🏳️🌈