Orlando

June 12th marked the anniversary of the 2016 massacre at Pulse nightclub in Orlando Florida. Tragically, not much has improved for the LGBTQ2IA+ community in the years since then, and in many places, including the state in which this atrocity occurred, things have become even worse.

I wrote this piece the day after the massacre, and posted it again this year in commemoration and solidarity. Since then, it has been requested that I read it for you, so I’ve recorded the reading and posted it to my socials.

Listen to the reading on TikTok | YouTube or read the June 12th post, below.

*Trigger Warning - Everything. This is a heavy piece.

ORLANDO

My first thought

when I heard about Orlando was

Fuck.

I can not.

Believe.

This is still.

Where.

We are.

Thirty years ago

my best friends were two gay guys named Ken and Ken

and a fag-hag named Trish.

In my day

that’s what you called a straight woman

who was obsessed with gays and gay culture.

Ken and Ken were not a couple.

But they trolled together

along with all the other butches and queens

looking for love and acceptance.

I guess I tagged along

because I was an outcast

in my own

special way.

And these guys knew how to have a

really

good

time.

I remember the gay bar.

An unmarked door in an unmarked alley

that only those ‘in the know’

were meant to find.

A special knock and password would get you in the front room

where a big burly butch or bear would sell you illegal drink tickets

if she or he knew who you were.

And would grill you thoroughly

if they didn’t.

I remember the club room.

Not much bigger than thirty by thirty

and holding fifteen to twenty people

at max.

I remember the bare, yellow-white walls.

The k-mart christmas lights strung from the ceiling with rusted thumb-tacks.

A lonesome disco ball

spinning

in the centre of the room.

A strobe light

on a cardboard pedestal in the corner.

And some queer, DJ wanna-be

with a record player hooked up to a crummy pair of speakers

trying desperately to transition from Boy George to Divine

without

interrupting

the beat.

I remember the awkwardness.

I remember the posturing.

I remember the downcast eyes

and hopeful hearts

the lusty, overstated grinding on the dance-floor

as desperate-to-be lovers

strained to see

and be seen.

It was the saddest

loneliest

most pathetic place

I’d ever been.

And it was beautiful.

In that way that a lone sunflower

growing up through a crack in the asphalt freeway

is beautiful.

In that way that only something that has been shamed

and reviled

and beaten down

but insists on surviving in spite of it

is beautiful.

In that way that something broken

and mended

and broken

and mended again

is beautiful.

It was so...

Strong.

And I lost count of how many times we stumbled out of that bar

drunk and laughing

to be set upon in the street by fists and feet

that battered and bruised

our blood

so

much

brighter

than any future we could see.

I lost count of the screams

and the pleading.

I lost count of the tears

and the bleeding.

And we learned quickly

not to bother calling the police.

They only ever showed up too late anyway.

Or just as often

joined in the fun.

And I remember that Ken used to cut my mother’s hair.

She called him her Little Gay Hairdresser

around her friends.

And I guess something about that

made her feel special.

And I remember asking her one day

what she would do if it turned out I was gay.

And she said

You

can’t be gay.

I couldn’t love you

being gay.

It’s different

when it’s your own kids.

I remember Ken’s broken heels

and torn-up dress

and mascara-black tears

when I held him in the street after another beating

not long after he’d tried to commit suicide

for the first time.

I remember Ken and Trish

trying desperately to look like a couple

to save themselves from their families

to save themselves from destruction

to save themselves from each other

to save themselves

from themselves.

I remember when Eva died on pills.

And Eddy slit his wrists.

And Alex, turned Alexis

strung, swinging

at the neck.

And the swan-dives.

And the sirens.

And the sound of my heart breaking

again

and again

every time

the phone rang at three am

and I knew.

I remember beaten.

Tortured.

Stabbed.

Shot.

Burned.

Strangled.

Drowned in a toilet.

Left to die.

And I remember the constant refrain:

Because she was gay.

Because he was gay.

Because they were gay.

Like being gay was the problem.

Like being gay was to blame.

And I remember thinking

Fuck.

I can not believe.

This.

Is where we are.

These people are not dying because they are gay.

These people are not dying because they are gay.

These people are not fucking dying

because they are fucking GAY.

These people are dying

because religion is still preaching hate.

These people are dying

because schools are still banning books.

These people are dying

because politicians are still passing laws

that renounce their lives

and loves.

These people are dying

because dumb-shits with heavy fists

armed with guns

and knives

and ignorance

and righteousness

and rage

still

believe

it is ok to fucking murder someone

who loves someone

they don’t approve of.

These people are dying

because when I stand vigil for forty-nine lives

and I wrap loving arms around a friend who is breaking

my wife

is questioned

at work the next day

about how her husband was seen holding

another man.

Forty.

Nine.

Lives.

Forty-nine daughters and sons.

Forty-nine inventors

and dreamers

and world-changers.

Forty-nine mothers

and fathers

and lovers

and friends.

Forty-nine pulsing

beating

shining hearts.

Snuffed out.

While dancing.

Fuck.

I can not believe.

This is still

where we are.

-Teron