Before I put a content note, I want to
preface this, because I have things I want everyone to read.
Actually, by everyone, I mostly mean people who don't identify as
LGBTQ+. For all who don't identify as LGBTQ+, please know that,
whilst your support and allyship is valuable right now, it is also
limited. You cannot know what this is like- that's not personal,
that's how it is. Please remember that, and respect that. Do not tone
police, or claim you have any idea of what this could be like. Be
mindful of the LGBTQ+ people around you: unless it feels appropriate
otherwise, I would leave them to start the conversations about this.
Certainly, do not go to them seeking validation/support. The majority
of the community is grieving right now. We need to support ourselves-
for the most part, we have little energy to explain things to others,
or to try and accommodate those who are not so affected. Every
individual is going to feel this a different way, and that's
something to bear in mind. For me, personally, I ask that, if you
don't identify as LGBTQ+, then you don't try to start direct
conversations with me about this. Letting me know you're there and
that you're supporting me/us is okay; but please don't try to engage
me any further. As this post will convey, I have never been so
affected by a hate crime as I have this one.
I also want to acknowledge my own
identity. I am a queer, white, politically female person. I am not
the best person to be writing about this, and I am aware of that.
However, I also felt that I could not write about this. This is a
personal blog, and there is nothing more personal than this, at the
moment; so I have written about it. However, I have tried to keep in
mind- and I want you, especially, to keep in mind- that there are
many things going on here that are not mine to have a huge say about.
Powered by Girl are currently collating a resource of links to pieces
written by Muslim people and queer people (predominantly
queer/trans/intersex people of colour)- please go and check
all of them out here.
Content note: Orlando shootings;
transphobia, biphobia, homophobia, LGBTQ+ discrimination; racism;
hate crime; Islamophobia; mistreatment of mental health by the media
Further to the content note- I accept
that this is not an easy read, and, if you are struggling at all, I
would implore you not to read it. This is how I am dealing with
things at the moment, by trying to write out all of the things that
are making me feel so sick. It is not a nice read. Please, look after
yourself.
*** *** ***
I turn nineteen tomorrow. I have been
mildly excited about this for a while; I quite like birthdays,
largely because they tend to feature cake, and gatherings of my
favourite people. Also, they represent progressions and milestones.
The year I turned sixteen, I didn't really want to be alive- so
though it was a good birthday, as birthdays go, it also wasn't,
because I bitterly hated the thing that it symbolised. As I moved to
a better place, and looked back at the past months, I resolved that I
would make every birthday matter.
I turn nineteen tomorrow. I think
everyone has an age they have always wanted to be, and for me, that
is nineteen. It's always sounded cool. I thought that maybe, by the
time I got to nineteen, I'd be the kind of person I consider cool.
So, I've been excited to be nineteen: because it's the age I've
always wanted to be, and because I feel I owe it to little me to be a
really cool year.
I turn nineteen tomorrow, and I had
some good plans: chilling with the family for a bit, then getting
food with my girlfriend, before heading to my favourite place with my
favourite people. A mixed blessing of having a birthday in exam time
is that celebrations end up being very bitty: a little bit here, a
little bit there. I have two other fun things planned to celebrate my
birthday. I've been looking forwards to all of it.
I turn nineteen tomorrow.
Right now, a birthday is the last thing
I want to have. A birthday is a celebration, a time that hearts can
be happy. My heart is not very happy at the moment. All the birthday
things feel out of place. Birthdays should be full of happiness and
laughter and smiles- but the world, right now, is grey.
On Sunday, over 100 people were shot,
in an attack on a Latin-themed night in a gay nightclub. Of those
over 100 people, 49 have died. Around 50 remain injured.
It was the biggest attack in recent US
history. It was also a hate crime- a transphobic, biphobic,
homophobic, anti-LGBTQ+ hate crime; particularly, one aimed against a
Latin-themed night: a racist attack, as well.
I cannot explain how it feels to
identify as queer right now. I cannot put into words the sickness I
feel in my heart and lungs, the way I keep hoping that this will end,
this nightmare we have been flung into. I spent much of yesterday
morning with my stomach spinning away, wanting desperately to find
out that the nightclub had been picked randomly, that there was some
other reason- an argument, a personal grudge, a random opportunist-
other than the one we all knew it would inevitably be.
I cannot sum up how it felt, later on
in the day, to see the words '50 dead'. 50 dead, from a gun in the
hands of someone who believed those 50 people- and more, he shot
more, he intended more- were not worthy of life, because of how they
identify, because of who they love.
I will never, ever be able to describe
how it feels, as an 'out and proud' lesbian, to read that this was
the biggest shooting in recent US history. Those words still make me
feel physically sick, make me want to run away to somewhere where
this hasn't happened. The biggest shooting in recent US history was a
hate crime, against people within the same community as me. People
who are 'other', like the rest of us. I am winded. Wounded.
Yesterday, at 2am (local time in
Orlando), we were plunged into some abyss: into something terrifying,
overwhelming, unending. For the past two days, I have tried and tried
to find an end to all of this. There is not one. There is only the
sickening truth, that this happened, that many lives were lost and
many others irreversibly broken. Directly from the attack, 49 lives
were lost- lives of people who had, hours before, been excited for a
night out; lives of people who had a whole world ahead of them, until
that was ripped away. For those present at the time of the attack-
both physically hurt and not- their lives will be changed. I cannot
imagine how they must be feeling, how big an effect this one night,
those few hours will have on the rest of their lives. My heart is
grieving for the lives lost, but also for what's been lost in those
who survived.
Indirectly, an overwhelming number of
lives have been affected. Across the world, the LGBTQ+ community is
mourning. This has had a huge effect, and that in itself is
heart-breaking. We are grieving. Millions of tears were shed
yesterday, for the loss of life, both literally and metaphorically.
Each person has suffered a loss: a loss of innocence, almost. A
sudden realisation of how scary this is. It is 2016, and you are
still not safe in the areas you consider safe. If you do not know how
that feels, please know how privileged you are. I have watched, over
the past two days, as some of the proudest and brightest sparks I
know have been reduced to feeling small, to feeling afraid and alone.
The people I love most have been tearing themselves apart, and there
is nothing anyone can do to make this any better.
People have tried to tell me- both
directly and indirectly- that this is not something specific to the
LGBTQ+ community; that we are all mourning, that we are all affected.
That is true, to a point. I return, as ever in times such as this, to
When The Bough Breaks, a beautiful poem by
Andrea Gibson, that talks about how we are not impervious: how we are
all affected by incidents across the world.
You do not have to be LGBTQ+ to cry, to
feel the weight of this. However, things can both be general and
specific, and this is that. Whilst everyone is feeling this, it is
the LGBTQ+ community who is feeling it more; the trans individuals
and people of colour within the community, even more so. This was not
an attack on one nightclub on one night. It was an attack on us all-
again, particularly trans people and people of colour- for being who
we are. I say, again, that I cannot explain how it feels to identify
as queer at this time. It goes beyond words. This is yet another
demonstration that we are 'other'. That we are less worthy. That,
still, some people don't just see us as wrong, but as unworthy of
life. If you don't identify as
LGBTQ+, read that a few more times. See if you can imagine that.
Realise you can't.
That
the attack took place in a gay nightclub is hugely significant. For
many- as in, non-LGBTQ+ individuals- nightclubs are a place to go for
a night out, to let your hair down, to have a good time. For a huge
number of people in the LGBTQ+ community, they are far more than
that. For some, they are the only place in which to truly be oneself.
They provide a community and sense of solidarity and identity that,
often, is lacking elsewhere. It seems weird, maybe, to call a
nightclub- known for drunken stumbles and the occasional fight- a
safe place; but that's what it is. I am not hugely familiar with the
gay nightclubs in Bristol: however, on the few times I have been,
what has struck me has been the community- how everyone know
everyone, how there is such a sense of cohesion. By attacking a gay
nightclub, there is a much deeper, scarier message: you are not safe,
even in the places you think you are.
I have
alluded already to the relevance of intersection: particularly,
people of colour who identify as LGBTQ+. I say, again, that I am
white; that this is not my conversation to be having- but, equally, I
am white, and if I am 'more likely to be listened to' (as ridiculous
a concept as I wish that was, that me, a foolish
not-nineteen-year-old is more likely to be heard than the many
incredible people of colour), then I will make sure I say all that is
relevant here. This was not just an attack on a gay nightclub: it was
an attack on a gay nightclub that was hosting a Latin evening.
Already, the pictures of the deceased show a prevalence of people of
colour. This was not just about LGBTQ+ discrimination, but racism
too. That is something that the media is largely not talking about- a
disgustingly familiar display of whitewashing- but something we
need to be shouting about: that it was not just sexuality and gender
attacked, but race too. This is not an uncommon story. Further to
this, the main performers on the night were (I believe) trans. Within
the LGBTQ+ community, there appears a 'hierarchy' of equality, and
trans individuals are still below in that. This attack demonstrates
that further.
In
addition, it is Pride month this month. This is the one month that is
given to us (and even that is contentious, even then we spend more
time justifying than actually celebrating)- and, this year, it has
become one of sadness, fear and anger. For many, Pride events are the
highlight of the year- again, a chance to express oneself and enjoy
celebrating who we are. Now, there is more fear. If we can be
attacked in nightclubs, who is to say that Pride events are safe? As
if to prove this point, over the weekend someone was arrested with
explosives, apparently on their way to Pride. Our safe spaces, our
celebrations, are dwindling, more and more.
I
approach the following paragraph with more caution, because here I am
talking about other people. If I misspeak in this paragraph, please
please correct me: I do not mean to. The following subject is based
on what I have heard from others, so not based on my experience, but
may still be inaccurate; it is not my place to talk about it,
however, I feel uneasy in glossing over it too.
In it
being Pride month, there is a related problem. As fears grow and
threats seem potential, the likelihood is that police presence at
Pride events will increase. As someone with an anxiety disorder and a
huge fear of terrorism even before this weekend, that seems
reassuring: but that is privilege. I am lucky to see the police as
protecting us. For many within the LGBTQ+ community, this is not the
case. For people of colour, for women, for transpeople, the police
are not always a good thing- they are, potentially, dangerous and
harmful. An increased police presence at Prides may make some feel
safer: but this may come at the cost of isolating others- and this
could be those who are, already, isolated and marginalised.
What has made this a million times
worse is the response from the media. I have referred a little
already to the whitewashing: the making out of this to be an attack
in which the LGBTQ+ community has been attacked equally, the
pretending that loss to people of colour hasn't been far greater. As
well as that, there has been an ardent refusal even to call this a
hate crime. On yesterday's Sky News piece, Owen Jones fought
valiantly against two presenters refusing to acknowledge that this
was a hate crime; that was not a unique happening. The media as a
whole- and, therefore, the mainstream world- is refusing to see this
for what it is. There are a number of reasons that could be behind
this- but, ultimately, it boils down to inequality; that even when we
are attacked, people refuse to listen to us- because maybe, just
maybe, that might mean that we are right
when we say that we are still behind. This attack was a hate crime.
We must call it what it was. We must
acknowledge that.
Further
to this, the media has- of course- been more than ready to scapegoat.
Initially, it was religion. Even before details had emerged, the
attacker was said to be Muslim- a display of Islamophobia shocking in
it's predictability. To the media, it does not matter that the
majority of terrorists are non-Muslim; it does not matter that those
Muslims who do engage
in terrorism are regarded by the majority of the Muslim community to
be something entirely other than a representation of Islam. It does
not matter, to the media, what the fall out of such an assumption
might be. It just matters that this is another way to perpetuate
Islamophobia. And yes, this had the desired effect. People brought
into these lies. The Muslim community has suffered, too, in the past
few days: blamed and attacked, again, for something they could never
have anything to do with. It is with a hugely heavy heart that I
accept that a lot of this Islamophobia has been perpetuated by people
within the LGBTQ+ community. Please, stop. We are so much better than
that. Right now, we need solidarity and support: not to hurt those
who are already hurting. Just, stop. As flimsy as that sounds, I
cannot write it more eloquently. It needs to stop.
Another
scapegoat used by the media is that of mental illness. Supposedly,
the attacker was mentally ill. Supposedly, this has a bearing on why
he committed the attack. I cannot deny that there has never been an
attack on anyone due to mental illness. There has. However, these are
incredibly rare. Millions of people have mental illnesses; millions
of people don't kill anyone. In fact, people with mental illnesses
are far, far more likely to be victims of violence than the
perpetrators. To try and link violent attacks with mental illness is
not just another negation of the 'hate crime' label we must apply; it
is also a furthering of the stigma and discrimination people with
mental illnesses face every single day.
I
think what has only added insult to the grave injury that has been
faced, is the reaction of those who will never understand. The
reactions from people identifying as non-LGBTQ+ have, for the most
part, responded awfully to this. For one, there has been the
domination of the media- leading to all the problems discussed above
but, particularly, the refusal to acknowledge this as a hate crime.
In the afore-mentioned Sky news piece, even when a gay man was given
a chance to speak, he was shouted over repeatedly; he ended up
walking out, and I have not seen one LGBTQ+ individual condemn this
action- but more, commend him for sticking it out as long as he did
and for making some incredibly important points (linkcan be found here).
There have been a huge number of people who identify as non-LGBTQ+
trying to tell us things: that this is everyone's crisis, not just
ours; that we need to respond in x y or z way; that we just need to
look at it *this* way;
that we shouldn't be scared, that it'll all be okay; that they need
support. The only thing I have to say to any of this is not really
repeatable on the world wide web.
If you
do not identify as LGBTQ+, then, for the most part, you do not get
the judgement call on this. This is likely affecting us far more than
you. Right now, we are responding through a haze of grief and fear
and anger and a hundred more complex feelings that you will never
fully understand; we need your support, not your tone policing.
Generally (so long as others are safe and unharmed), there is no
right or wrong way to respond right now- we must just survive and
deal with this as we see fit, expressing whatever emotion in whatever
way we need. Do not try to stop that. There is no way to look at this
other than the way we naturally do- and, if you are not LGBTQ+, you
will never be able to look at this in the way we do, so your way of
looking at things is most likely entirely irrelevant. As to those who
are telling us that we shouldn't be scared: yesterday I Tweeted that,
if another cishet (cisgender heterosexual- admittedly not the most
inclusive term) told me I shouldn't be scared, I would eat them
(metaphorically, before anyone goes off on one). I stand by that. Do
not tell us we shouldn't be scared. We have just watched as a safe
space was, quite literally, shot down. Of course we are going to feel
scared. We are going to feel bloody terrified. Lastly, I return to
the point that the LGBTQ+ community is reeling from a colossal
tragedy. Yes, individuals may feel able to support non-LGBTQ+ others.
However, for a lot of us, we are in need of support. We can't
necessarily support others right now: and we should not be expected
to. Please, have some respect. For you, the world can still go on
turning: you can carry on talking about the football, about the
Queen's birthday, about Big Brother and Love Island. You don't have
the pressure on you to be responding, to be fielding questions and
arguments. So respect the rest of us, and, for the most part, shut
up.
To the
LGBTQ+ community: it is okay to hurt. It is okay to hate the world,
to scream, to grieve, to cry, to feel alone, destroyed, scared- all
of that is okay. If you feel nothing, if you feel unaffected: that is
okay. I cannot stress that enough, that how you feel and respond to
this is okay. Right now, this feels like hell and it seems
never-ending. However, if there is anything to remember, it is that,
yes, a hate crime might have been the worst attack seen in recent US
history, and this likely is the worst hate crime we've personally
encountered- but the history of the LGBTQ+ community is steeped in
atrocity and tragedy from external hatred. That is such an awful
sentence to write, such an awful thing to think about: yet important.
We have survived each and every one of those awful things; and, as a
result, the community has an incredible amount of adversity and
resilience, of solidarity and union, of love.
We will never get back those lives. This will always be bleak. But
this will not last forever. Already, people are rallying: there have
been vigils across the world, there have been some truly wonderful
displays of community love and unity- and that will continue, because
that is just what we do. We go through hell: and we come out still
resplendent in the love that keeps us fighting. Let us focus on the
love, on the solidarity- let us try to find the reasons to keep
going, the reasons to stand up instead of to back down. It won't
happen all at once. But, it will happen. It will.
I turn
nineteen today- it is, now, past midnight- and I am not thrilled with
that prospect, because it is hard to celebrate when my heart feels so
heavy. However, if anything, let me dedicate this year- along with
the rest of my life- to working against this; to use every breath for
the community I love so much.
To
all, I am sending you my love, always, always, always.
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