Five years ago I arose, on a Sunday morning, having gotten very little sleep. A hazard of being a night owl is that one often learns of tragic news that has occurred in other parts of the world, as they head to bed. This was the cause of my sleepless night…horrific news. 49 loves lives were taken that night, by gun, in a place that was home for many of them. It had been hard to sleep. I kept thinking of the middle of the night calls that their family members might be getting. Of the first responders trying to make their way through the bloody scene…but we’ll come back to that later.
I rose, a few hours after climbing in to bed, with the intention of meeting my husband at church. As I drove, I listened to NPR, hearing accounts from survivors of the shooting and those that had cared for the wounded and dead. I began to take note of the Latinx names, heard a survivor say that his parents didn’t know to worry because they hadn’t known that he was gay…until now. I learned that many of the dead hadn’t yet been identified. The scene was chaotic and horrific and so many people were suffering.
I thought about the time that I’d gone dancing at a gay club during graduate school. It had been pure joy. Everyone was welcome, the space pulsed with radiating joy, people were light hearted…happy. More than anything, I felt the sense that, if you were here, you belonged…this was family.
I waited until church began to enter. I didn’t want anyone asking about my tear stained face and I couldn’t imagine having to speak with anyone. While I was desperately sad, I was mostly angry. Angry in a way I hadn’t often been before. I felt like I might burst. It was a deeply unsettling feeling.
Our church was in the midst of a difficult season, part of a larger regional denomination that was making decisions about who could, and could not, be a part. It was becoming more and more clear that the queer would be ejected, their allies along with them. Church had become a hard place for many of us to be. We stayed, however, to do everything in our power to stand up for our queer siblings, whom we loved.
I had my fist (that I knew of) gay friends in my final years of graduate school, right in the thick of the AIDs crisis. Having been steeped in a religious environment that claimed to “hate the sin of homosexuality but love the sinner (so that they would repent),” I said and did the stupidest of things in relationship with my first lesbian boss/supervisor. I am mortified to think of my ignorance and, therefore, hurtfulness. That year, however, taught me and I began to be drawn to gay friends and teachers. I wanted to have my bias’ exposed, my heart broken, my self humbled, to learn how to be a better neighbor and friend.
I sat, waiting with friends, as they received their first ever AIDs tests. I took in the AIDs quilt, first in Long Beach and then in San Francisco. In the years since, it’s not been uncommon for me to have the extreme privilege of walking alongside folks as they come out, or continue to live in the closet, if coming out isn’t safe for them. Most recently, a church within our regional denominational cluster was disciplined, and removed, for marrying a gay couple. The weekend that this happened, I performed Annie and Lindsey’s wedding ceremony, one of the most sacred ceremonies I’ve ever been a part of. This was a definitive marker for me in my faith community. I was now dis-invited to the table.
Which brings us back to that day in June, in my church which was not safe for the queer people in the pews. There were congregants there who were safe, but the community, as a whole, was not. I sat through a song, and then some scripture, and then, my head and heart a messy jumble, I got up and walked out.
Years before, I had come to know gun violence all too well. After getting the voice mail telling me that my sister in law and three nieces (aged 5, 3, and 5 months) had been killed by her husband/their dad, that my mother in law had been shot but survived, and that they couldn’t find my husband, I raced around the house, certain that my brother in law was coming for me. One of my first thoughts, as I shuttered blinds and closed curtains, calling my neighbor to ask her to please call the police if a car pulled up and man got out, was, shamefully, “who will ever want to be our neighbor now that we’re that family, touched by quadruple homicide.” For months I lived with multiple fears; of my imprisoned brother in law, knowing he would come for me if he could and of the reality that a person with an unchecked bias and a gun could take the lives of those who threatened him with relative ease.
On that Sunday, in church, all I could think about was how small my fears were in comparison to those in consistently marginalized, oppressed, “seen through the eyes of bias” American communities. How constant their fears must be and how comforting and necessary places like Pulse are in the face of the vitriol they face. I kept thinking, all of those people who were wounded and killed in their church…their place of ultimate safety and community…nothing like the church I had just walked out of where “thou shalt not’s” reign supreme.
The image of Pulse as sanctuary has lived with me ever since. When I returned to the gay dance club of my earlier years a few months after the shooting, I imagined myself in sacred space…humbled to be included among the congregation.
Three years later I sat in the ballroom of a historic DC hotel with 25 other gun violence survivors and a staff of brilliant teachers and allies. We were there to be trained as Everytown Survivor Fellows, to learn to tell our stories, to be media trained, and, to create a chosen family (even though none of us knew this at the time). The person who scooted into the seat next to me had arrived late and had forgotten to pack her makeup. She made a silly comment about it and I, always prepared, reached into my bag to pull an eye liner pencil out for her.
Moments later, we were instructed to choose two people to be our story sharing “pod.” Already connected by eye liner, Sara and I grabbed eachother and another love joined in. We made our way to a tiny space, far away from others, where we sat on the floor, determining in what order we would share. Our Everytown facilitator distributed tissues, knowing we’d need them, and Sara began.
Her story started by describing the place of sanctuary where, in her undergrad years, she had found family. She spoke of her best friend, Drew, with whom she had created a safe haven for newly out university students. They’d host them on campus, help them get their feet under them, then take them to “the club” to be part of the bigger family, part of the community, part of the place that was, for them, “church.” The place? Pulse Nightclub in Orlando. I stopped breathing.
Sara’s best friend, Drew, had died that night at pulse. His boyfriend, Juan, had also been killed. Their friend, Brandon, was there but survived. She continued on to tell about the days following the mass murder, trying to call Drew over and over and imagining the eery sound of so many cell phones ringing in a space filled with bodies…until the batteries died and the room went quiet. She spoke of the painful days of waiting for word about him and, later, of meeting some of his new friends, who had been there that night and lived. She spoke of bonding with them, crying with them, surfing the web to find everything Drew had ever written or posted, downloading and saving it all. Then she spoke of the ways that she is honoring Drew’s life.
Stunned silence and deep sadness filled the space. It was impossible to find words then and remains so now. The feelings of disbelief, anger, and profound grief mingle in a way that sickens the stomach and breaks the heart. If these feelings don’t present themselves in us, perhaps our hearts are seriously failing.
Today I honor the life of Drew Leinonan, who was awarded the Anne Frank Humanitarian Award from the St. Pete Holocaust Museum for having launched the first gay-straight alliance in Seminole, FL in 2002 (while in high school), and the 48 others whose lives were taken in a senseless act of violence. I honor Brandon Wolfe and the hundreds of others who were psychologically and physically wounded by that same act. I honor Sara and the hundreds of others who lost children, partners, and best friends 5 years ago today.
I want to do my best to create, support, and nurture spaces of sanctuary, of “church” in its truest and best incarnations, for all of those who live in fear simply because of who they are. Will you join me in this work? It all begins with us opening our hearts and minds to the authentic beings in our midst. We must examine our bias’, be honest about that which we do not know or understand, and holding ourselves accountable to looking at others through the eyes of love. From there we can work to be allies and friends by advocating actively for those whom we have passively or actively hurt.
Today I’m lighting candles and praying for all those impacted by the Pulse nightclub shooting. I’m also donating to the incredible work that Sara and her friends Brandon and Shawn are doing in honor of Drew. They are creating curriculum for GSAs and offering college scholarships for queer youth. They are creating safe and nurturing spaces for those who need them as well as advocating for legislative policies that could make mass shootings, like the one that happened at Pulse, impossible. They are turning their rage and grief into action and I am learning from them all the time. I invite you in to their incredible congregation…trust me, you’ll find inspiration and love there that’s incomparable. To join in, check out http://thedruproject.org
