This was the week between the two Black Mountain HETH Study trips. It was full of dance rehearsals, since Olivia and I had a dance concert on the 11 and 12 of June.
Sunday, June 12:
The last dance concert was bittersweet, because Olivia and I are very close with the dance instructor and other students in our class. Our teacher started crying after the three seniors in our class--Olivia, Josh (who went to Millbrook with me and O), and I--performed our senior piece that we choreographed. We all gave her a fierce, strong group hug in which we said unspoken goodbyes while recognizing our love for each other. After the concert Josh, Olivia, and I went to the house of our fellow classmate, Kerri. I enjoyed hanging out at her house with her big, hilarious family. Olivia and I left Kerri's house at about 6:45pm.
This was a horrendously historic day in the United States. At about 2am Sunday morning, the worst mass shooting in US history occurred at a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida. This crime of hatred and terror was carried out by a proclaimed Muslim and resulted in the deaths of forty nine people and the injuries of many others.
Josh told us about a vigil taking place at a popular gay nightclub in Raleigh, Legends, at 8:00. Olivia and I, along with our dad, went to mourn the deaths of so many people.
The vigil was in the club's parking lot. It was filled with people of all backgrounds and identities holding candles and pride flags. The leader of Raleigh's LGBTQ community spoke first, already choked up. As he spoke, a man in front of me wearing a cross broke out into muffled sobs and went to the back of the group. A Muslim man spoke next, saying that he and other true Muslims stood with their brothers and sisters and mourned this loss of human life. He mentioned the Quran, in which God says killing a man hurts all of humanity, and that this slaughter of innocent people has done exactly that. By saying that, I felt that he connected us to others in our county and world who were suffering after this crime. Simultaneously, he was acknowledging the pain felt by the Muslim community that a man had harmed others in the name of his idea of Islam, an idea that was contrary to beliefs of the majority of Muslims.
The LGBTQ leader came up again, saying that he had written a speech that he knew he wasn't going to get through. He talked about how gay nightclubs are a safe haven for the LGBTQ community, and anyone who doesn't consider clubs or bars to be havens does not have to worry about holding their partner's hand in public. I found that point to be particularly powerful, because it openly recognized the privilege that many straight people take for granted. He thanked Legends and its co-owners for letting them use their space. He said that the LGBTQ community was about acceptance and was very tight knit, and that this attack made a vulnerable community even more vulnerable. Other vigils might be silent and sad, but, "Fuck that!" he yelled, resulting in a roar of clapping and cheers. He defiantly stated that we would be loud, proud, and strong (more cheers). To all those who lost their lives in the attack, "rest in
power." We took a moment of quiet to honor the people lost in this shooting, and then he said he was going to read the names of the victims that
have been released, and apologized if he mispronounced any of them. He
read the names and ages of about ten men, many of whom were Hispanic. This was when the crying really began. Tears began to slip down my face and I heard the quiet sobs of others, saw gay and straight
couples clutching each other, comforting each other. Most of the known victims
were between 21 and 23, although there were two people who were in their
mid-thirties. We were all trying to understand that these
young people are gone, and knew that their families feel lost and desperate and they are
suffering. The speaker acknowledged the victims' families, saying that
our thoughts and prayers are with them. Another Muslim speaker spoke
afterward, offering the insight of his religion on how to deal with
grief. He asked us to close our eyes and breathe. I struggled to
breathe normally, still feeling the throat and lung tightness of crying. He asked us to breathe deeply, and feel our breath fill
us. Among other things, he asked us to raise our arms slightly to touch
the people beside us and join with them in our sadness. I patted my dad's arm, who was standing near me. He asked us to feel the space within our
chests, which holds our hearts. It was beautiful, how he made all of us
feel peaceful and quiet and full of a grief and silence that united us.
Nobody clapped when he was finished; we offered him silent gratitude to reflect
the atmosphere of quiet mourning that he created.
A former Pulse employee was there, speaking softly and with inexplicable shock and grief as he said, "That is my family. Pulse is my
family." He explained the accepting and progressive neighborhood
that surrounds the club, the atmosphere of unity it created, and his shock when
he woke up to a nightmarish massacre violating his safety and family.
God, I felt pain for him.
At the end of the vigil, a flock of white doves were released, flying above
an ocean of unity, love, pride flags, mourning, and shock. They were
beautiful, but more gorgeous still was the song that arose and took flight
after the birds alighted. "Somewhere / Over the rainbow / Way up
high . . ." It started slowly, just a murmur of emotion from the
group's center, then rose in volume as we all began to sing. It was an incredible moment of solidarity and strength in a time of
atrocious violence and horror. I hope to never forget it.
We were all encouraged to mingle after that. Olivia and I said goodbye
to Josh, looking at each other with eyes full of gratitude, sadness, and love
as he thanked us for coming. As we walked out of the parking lot, we saw
two of my favorite people from Governor's School East last year. Although I was very happy to see and talk to them, I wish the circumstances had been different.
No comments:
Post a Comment