Silence

Losing and finding your voice. 

Reflections on Orlando.

I’ve been silent, for a lot longer then the last few days. I’ve been aware these last few months I’ve lost my voice. I have little to say. And I am pretty willing to believe no one cares to listen. It is easier to keep quiet and reserved when your world progressively gets smaller as you come to grips with the reality of five years of loss, failure and an inability to resurrect your career and recreate once again. Life just keeps shrinking and hope fades. Perhaps as the decades add up, you become more accepting of your limitations. And it is easy to choose to not have a voice.

I went to bed on Saturday night having read a news update on my phone that a mass shooting had occurred in Orlando, Florida and there were hostages. Later, another notification on my phone woke me up; 20 had been killed while dancing in a gay nightclub; odd since my phone had been set to sleep mode. But I wakened. And I read. It was hard to comprehend.

On Sunday morning, as coffee was being poured, eggs scrambled, and oatmeal cooked, the kitchen TV’s routine programming was quickly pre-empted with a live update from Orlando. I don’t think regular broadcasting returned that morning, nor that afternoon. The magnitude of 49 innocent deaths and 53 injured by a single deranged, hateful individual with an assault weapon (who also died on the scene) just hung thick in the air and the silence was profound. It was, yet again, hard to understand. Another mass killing. Another group of innocent victims. Gay people like me.

Happy men and women dancing into the wee hours of the night at a gay nightclub on Latin night. Last call and that mental scramble to just keep on dancing or just have one more drink. Or both. Been there, done that. Took a few decades for me to arrive, but I know not wanting the night to end, and so you keep dancing.

I listened to the news updates, and I was silent.

The shock wore down, and the numbness set in, as the hours passed. The news went from fact to families. As Sunday turned to Monday and names replaced body counts and loved ones shared their stories, social media became overwhelming. My friends kept my news feeds ever changing and then investigators spoke, state officials spoke and finally the President spoke. Later, would come the jockeying politicians and the pundits beginning to challenge the good, the bad and the ugly. Every angle exposed. Special interest groups, and alliances, and the political parties politicizing and the press all had their spin. Local religious leaders put their own stakes in the ground, some of compassion. Others only offering heart felt stabs of righteous hate into innocent hearts. And a third, evil and destructive group of religious leaders, from faraway lands, seize the opportunity to claim success in the accomplishments of a lone wolf. And then the news became terrorism and the terrorism became a hate crime. And I was numb. I realized I was more silent. And I had nothing to say.

And my gay friends exposed their grief and their anger on the news feeds of social media. I read along and was overwhelmed by several posters’ unrelenting and admirable persistence, their impressive onslaught of clearly explaining hate. What it felt like against years of moving forward. And the work, that still needs to be done in the progression of gay equality. And I clearly understood. And I silently cheered them on. But, I could not find my voice.

Over the next 24 - 48 hours, I read the personal stories of my friends and their fears that suddenly began to intermingle along with all the accomplishments the gay equality movement had accomplished in recent years.  One online acquaintance had grown up and came out in Orlando talked about dancing at Pulse, the nightclub where the horror occurred. Another friend recalled the bullying in grade school and the senselessness of internalized fear. And there were tweets. And there were photos of vigils. And there were tales of painful ridicule while growing up with secrets and questioning unwanted desires. And there were stories about love and being finally able to share it openly. Stories of the devastation of AIDS and stories of openly holding the hand of someone you loved while legally getting married.

And as my friends’ voices stood out there in front of my eyes, intermingled in the news feed were the harsh facts of a horrific act of terror, personal stories, fear, anger, commitments to keep fighting and every new angle of news. For two days, reading my news feed was as if I had matriculated in a course on the Gay Rights Movement. All while, accepting the invitations that come with June and the month of Pride: Pride BBQ, Evening parties, brunch along the Pride parade route.  Pride is a happy time of seeing friends and celebrating the progress that the LGBTQ community has accomplished in the last 46 years since that first Pride Parade in June of 1970 began to openly put faces, stories and voices to a movement, confronting fear and hate and fostering acceptance and equality.

There in my scrolling news feeds was the progress, the ups and the downs, the ravages of disease and the successes of the gay rights movement. But I thought it was best I just read along. But it was hard not to quietly think about life, the big picture, and the purpose, and the Gay Community, and anger and fear, and of course all my own emotions. I just really had nothing more to add I thought. My friends were doing well speaking for me. What could I contribute that would not be redundant.

But with 49 deaths in Orlando, the trajectory of gay history was suddenly and rapidly altering. Here before my eyes, was yet another traumatic milestone for the rights of equality. Heck, it was not just about gay rights it was about so much more. It was an assault on all our freedoms. It was an attack by a religious fanatic. What do we do about gun control? So much made sense, as the national shock dissipated and the complexities of terrorism, personal insecurities, religious intolerance, and personal rights and community rights were explored and tested yet again.

There are people out there that hate me.

And I thought some more about how it all fits together. How to make some kind of sense of it? What is a hate crime, what is terrorism, what is a religious extremist, what is national fear, and what is internalized fear. And little by little, deep inside, I heard my own little voice starting to stir.

It is a puzzle that most gay and lesbians had put together for themselves as they come to acceptance. And it is a puzzle that no one who has ever struggled with his or her sexuality has not spent time trying to solve. For some it takes no time, for others years and for a few more some pieces always remain missing. When shared over an intimate dinner of friends with wine, that puzzle brings smiles and laughter and stories. Common experiences and feelings we share. Stories that no longer hold as much personal pain as we might have experienced in the real moment those stories occurred.

So much that I understood. But so much I fear so many do not. And sadly some young man or woman today is standing in that space trying to make sense of his own puzzle pieces. And for some, because of their religion, or family, or support systems, or their community, or what they hear on TV, or what their local government is trying to change, there is fear. Internalized fear of themselves and these feelings that are in conflict, and it is possible they get mad and they get angry and they want to stop the hurt by hurting others. They lack that safe haven of community.

And so, as the days passed since the shooting began at 2:02 AM on June 12 and the real life stories of the victims unravel. These victims now had names. We learn about their hopes, loves and their goals now diminished. We wonder is it any better today being so exposed with still so much fear and hate in the world. Has progress really assured new advantages for being young and gay in our world? The pain of Orlando challenges all this. These young people were not supposed to be victims. Progress had been rapid and good. They were not supposed to be killed for being gay.

While we ache for those 49 victims and 53 injured and the other 200 or so who lived through the assault, forever now imprinted in their memory; his story, has also been exposed.

And we listen, nothing seems to fascinate us more then the complex, hateful, and confused mind of a deranged killer. There is talk of repression, testimonies from those who knew him of anger, of abuse, of hate. There’s the evidence of secrets and a willingness to pledge allegiance to a variety of conflicting jihadist groups. We learn of someone who was truly evil looking to find something, somewhere to identify with. It sadly makes a lot of sense to members of our community, which he feared, hated and attacked. But knowing about his anger, his fear, his hate, his need to belong and be recognized, all those secrets doesn’t make it any easier.

And you get it even more than you ever really want to understand.

But, still you have no voice. You learn when you are scared and when you are hiding and questioning, that sometimes not speaking is the best. And you choose carefully whom you will speak to.

You know the fear of rejection and bullying and being always the last picked for the dodge ball team in middle school gym class. You know that feeling of no one wanting you on his or her team. You know even more so that if you run quickly out in front and get hit by the ball, you won’t be the last one standing and accused by your friends of being the faggot when you try to throw the ball and you lose the game for your team. Eventually, by high school, you know how to con your Biology teacher to let you work in the Greenhouse to miss gym. And you know that the gym teacher doesn’t really care if you don’t show up.

You know the awkwardness of a summer job for an engineering firm and field work in a beach town and the anticipation your co-workers have for lunch on the boardwalk to check out the bikini babes. But unlike your co-workers, you know dreading lunch. You know the confusion you will feel when you feel nothing about girls in bikinis and you hope no one notices that you are quietly looking at hot guys with great chests. And you hope no one asks you which girl is your lunchtime hottie.

You know what’s it like to realize your friends might be gay and you toss them away so as not to be associated with them. And you know those funny feelings when they came on to you and you wanted it but you didn’t act and still you wake up in the middle of the night asking yourself why do I have to feel this way.

You know what it is like to silently pray every night for change.

You know every gay character on TV and without being obvious you try to tune in and understand the why. And you learn to know how not to behave and act.

You know when others are selecting college majors and picking classes you don’t want to choose a career that is "too gay." And you don’t want a class that makes you think too much about what is in your mind.

You know the shame of feeling you will be a disappointment to your parents, and the fear of telling them. And yet, amazingly lucky, when you finally do tell your parents, they say it didn’t matter and they love you and all you could say, was “I want to be normal, I don’t want this and can you please help me.” So you get to experience a dialogue and a handshake of a profoundly progressive minister who reached his hand across his desk and encouraged you to accept your feelings and go out and create the most compassionate, productive life you could achieve and be happy. Which seemed a bit hard to imagine since gay men were being diagnosed with a disease, which no one had a cure for and everyone was scared of contracting.

You know that feeling attracted to the same sex might kill you and was not part of your plan for success. The gay cancer didn’t even have a name and there was no cure, only fear of sharing water glasses, and toilet seats. You know how hate and fear creeps across the nation and shuns a lifestyle.

You know the fear of working within a team of high performing executives and as team-building exercises were conducted around the table and colleagues were sharing intimate transformational moments you only really wanted to crawl under the table and not open up to who you really might be.

You know what playing it quiet, and what being alone, and what watching your life pass in front of you feels like. You know as you watch your friends marry, have children and live in their homes with picket fences you won’t. And you know what it is like when you try and chase that dream and you fail.

And so this week, you know and understand every angle of the Orlando story. You understand repressed feelings, praying away your feelings, you know about strong opinionated parents, and religious condemnations. You know about trying to date and feeling less. And You know what great opportunities lay ahead for young people dancing in 2016, what doors would now open differently and what had been accomplished so their lives would indeed be different. They were not supposed to be hated.

Because somewhere in all that confusion you also know about love and fortunately you learned about acceptance and living away from internalized fear. You know how liberating coming to your own peace and coming out can be. You know about feeling pride. And you hope those 49 victims of Orlando knew love, acceptance and pride, too. And yet then came hate and it shot them down.

Last call. Finally you know about those Saturday nights when you finally went out to dance, accepting who you were, and finding even more love to surround yourself in. When you finally understand what it was like to go out and be with your new and familiar friends and feel safe. That is personal progress and that is really what gay rights are about: acceptance, equality and love.

So much progress has occurred. So much more still seems to threaten that progress. Why does it scare you, what is the threat, what harm really can I do? What bathrooms should be used? Who can and can’t bake cakes? 

Why do you hate me?

And suddenly, I realize that my friends speaking out on my news feeds are telling their stories, sharing their pain, their frustrations of once again trying to belong, finding their community, yet again, seeking acceptance. But their message does not go beyond my news feeds.

It’s up to me, to share my voice. My stories are important and my friends beyond the gay community need to hear my stories. My family. My childhood neighbors. My hometown school classmates. My college friends. My co-workers. They need to hear my voice, my story and perhaps, once again be challenged to confront their own fears and think about what threatens them and why they hate. And fact is, I need to hear their stories. Their voices.

Bad things happen to good people. A terrible thing happened in Orlando. Honor those young men and women and their lost lives by finding and sharing your voice and beginning to listen to others openly. What we teach our young and what the young can teach our old, how we act and legislate, how we govern, how we lead, how we confront our fears, how we love. Make their lives count for making change happen.

When we share compassionately our stories, we confront fear and hate. When we carefully listen, carefully to all voices, we are stronger. This is how we move forward. Put a voice to your story and share it and listen to others. Be open to others' fear and hate will shift.

In the end, we all only want our voice to be heard and to freely dance in a safe haven.