We are Still Here: On the Orlando Shooting

We are Still Here: On the Orlando Shooting

I don’t know how to write this post. I know that I’ve been fairly absent from this blog for the last few months, for a lot of reasons (school, work, life in general), but after the shooting in Orlando yesterday, I felt compelled to return, hopefully for a more habitual stay.

Yesterday, in the middle of Pride month, our community, the LGBTQ community, lost 50 of our own, and 53 more were hospitalized. And everyone who was in that club when the shooting started will retain some scar from the trauma they endured. No one day should be so steeped in death and fear.

It is difficult to put words to the pain and the grief that I and many other queer people are still feeling in the wake of such a massacre. All that seems to circulate in my mind is a mantra of “It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.” And it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that queer people are made to feel excluded from “normal” (read: straight/cisgender) bars and clubs. It isn’t fair that, when we establish our own clubs as safe spaces, they are then characterized as immoral and deviant settings. And it most certainly isn’t fair that one man should feel so offended by our mere existence that he can walk into our safe space and take away that feeling of safety and joy. He didn’t think we deserved to feel safe, to be ourselves, and now we must grieve the loss of 50 beautiful, brilliant lives in the worst mass shooting in U.S. history.

And now, not twenty-four hours after that shooting and the arrest of a man on his way to L.A. Pride with explosives and firearms in his car, politicians and the mainstream media are doing their damnedest to erase what this was: a hate crime against the LGBTQ community, especially our Latinx members and the trans women of color who were headlining that night’s entertainment. The same politicians who lobbied for bans on marriage equality, against anti-discrimination laws, and against stricter gun control are now offering up their “prayers” and “sympathies.”

Their sympathy and concern is as false and insubstantial as the hallucinations brought on by dehydration. They are no better than mirages that tempt you further into an unforgiving and infertile desert. Do not let them trick you into believing that they are tweeting condolences for any reason other than to earn brownie points with the people who are truly and deeply mourning the lives lost. Remember who denigrated and disenfranchised you. Remember who called your love unnatural and immoral. Remember who turned a blind eye to the assaults and the rapes and the murders that grew from the same turgid, rank, and poisonous ground these politicians laid during their careers. Remember and do not forget who has stood by you and who has tried to stand atop you.

And remember the facts of this tragedy, the names and faces and identities of those taken from us. Because I assure you, someone will come along someday with the idea that they can turn tragedy into entertainment. Don’t think for a moment that some straight cisgender writer isn’t out there thinking that the story of Orlando will make a great summer blockbuster someday. He will come for our story, our history, our pain and shape it into the kind of story that sells. The movie will follow the terrifying hours inside Pulse and the conveniently white, straight, cisgender male hero who gets caught in the crossfire. It will feature a mostly white cast, regardless of the fact that the club is primarily black and latinx in makeup. Except for the shooter, who will certainly be cast as Middle Eastern. Religion will be a big part of the shooter’s motivation, despite his wife’s testimony that religion was never a big part of his life. Maybe the credits will list the names of everyone who perished in the shooting, but don’t expect to see them represented in the movie meant to “memorialize” their lives and deaths. Instead, expect a heroic standoff between the white cishet protagonist and the shooter, a teary, inspirational speech with shots of the scared faces of club-goers interspersed throughout. Expect to see the director and producer and writers lauded and awarded for their dedication to honoring our loss. Expect the lead actor to win awards and earn his place in the hearts of viewers.

Do not expect them to ask our permission to tell our story.

To all the straight cisgender people who are thinking of doing just what I have described, I implore you to reconsider. Back away from our wounds and graves and death certificates. They are not yours on which to make a name for yourself. If you truly want to support us and help us in our time of grief, then do as we have always asked: boost our voices rather than speaking over us, confront your cishet friends and family who attempt to downplay the tragedy that is Orlando, and join us in pushing for stricter gun laws and better protection of our community. But stay away from our story. Do not put your hands on it. It is already covered in your fingerprints, and you have the blood on your hands. Every homophobe and transphobe who spread hate and prejudice against us, who dismissed our fear and pain, who denied us the safety and respect they give so freely to the people like them, you are all complicit in the 50 murders committed in that club. You are all guilty of assisting that man in killing innocent people you have so often decried as less-than-human. I blame you. I blame each and every one of you.

And to my fellow queer people who are struggling under the weight of so much death and pain and fear: We are strong. We are amazing. We are valid and real and worthy of life regardless of what others may say. In times like this, when the fear is so constant and the grief so deep, we must stand together and hold each other up. Reach out to your fellow community members, practice whatever self-care helps lessen the weight on your chest, and, if you are in the closet and unable to fully express the sadness in your heart, remember that you are loved, and you will always have a place in this community, closeted or not.

Orlando is a tragedy, as such events always are, and its aftershocks will no doubt be felt for weeks and months going forward. But go forward we must. We must endeavor to stay strong and see ourselves as valid and beautiful. That being said, it is important to understand that there is no shame in crying, in breaking down, in grieving what has happened. There are different kinds of strength, none more valid than each other, and we as a community will be here to support every kind of strength for as long as that strength is needed.

Which is, to say, until the end of time.

 

Lipstick and Binders: Presenting Non-Binary

I’m not particularly androgynous, at least, not as much I’d sometimes like to be. A lot of that has to do with my obsession with makeup and cosmetics. I love the zen time I can indulge in while applying my makeup, and I love the way it can change my face and my attitude and even my mindset. It’s one of the tricks I sometimes use when I’m writing; if I have a particular story or character I need to dig into, I take the extra time to craft a look that puts me in the right head space for that day’s writing session.

But doing my makeup often feels like shooting myself in the foot in terms of how people see me that day. I’m genderfluid, so yes, sometimes I feel like a woman, a woman who wears makeup. However, more often I find myself floating in that nebulous center of the spectrum, where I can’t quite put my finger on how I identify that day. That doesn’t change the fact that I love taking time out of my day to sit down and make my eyes shine a little brighter or my face look a little smoother.

The problem is that the world is quick to spot my lipstick and my mascara and the softer curve of my jaw, and that’s when they ping me as Female. It doesn’t seem to matter that I’m binding my chest so that it’s practically paper-flat or that I’m wearing the shirts and ties I bought in the men’s section. Without some other “masculine” marker on my face, I get filed under “ma’am” and “girl.”

This burns me. Not because I don’t sometimes identify as a woman or that I think being a woman or seen as one is bad. It’s that sense of being labeled by total strangers just on sight that gets under my skin. I’ve heard it compared to how there’s a difference between putting a cat in a box and the cat getting in the box on their own. It’s apt, because I too will be prone to scratching you if you try to box me in.

Still, regardless of the emotional pain and discomfort I knowingly risk when I put on makeup and venture outside, I still do it almost everyday. I suppose it has something to do with me getting to take some control over how I see myself, even if I can’t have that same control over the way strangers see me. When you know that you’re going to feel that uncomfortable sensation of being labeled by strangers regardless of what you wear or how you look, you might as well wear what you like and look how you like. Because, at the end of the day, you’re the person living in your body, not them, and it’s your opinion on your body’s appearance that really counts.

Plus, playing with eye shadow is damn fun.

How Lived Experiences Shape Our Desire to Read

When I was a kid I used to read all the time. I ruined my eyes by secreting my books away to the closet at night with a flashlight in hand. I received lecture upon lecture for reading during class. I loaded down my backpack with more books than I needed just because I might want to read them during the day. I never left the house without at least two books with me.

I still take a book with me when I go out, and I still love stories and fiction. But the rate at which I read has dropped drastically since I graduated high school and entered college. Now it takes me months to work my way through a single book, if I haven’t abandoned it to one of my desk drawers already.

For the first couple of years of college this phenomenon confused me. What happened to my eagerness to read whatever I got my hands on? Did I burn out in elementary and high school? Am I just getting lazier?

The answer isn’t that easy, and it was one that I have struggled with understanding complexly for months now. But I have a better idea about why my desire to read has changed in the ways that it has. Certain experiences, regardless of how recent, can change how much a person wants to read, whether that means more or less. So let me tell you about some of those kinds of experiences. There are plenty of other reasons out there, ones that I have no knowledge of, but for the sake of this post, I’m going to speak about my personal and specific experiences.

My ADHD

Last year I was diagnosed with combined type ADHD after my therapist recommended I look into being tested. I had taken to discussing certain behaviors and thought processes that I struggled with and had become more aware of in recent months. I spent hours at a time plowing through blogs and articles and forum posts about people with similar issues, and it all came back to one thing: I might have undiagnosed ADHD.

Things fell into place as I read more about the disorder. My lack of impulse control, especially in connection to my emotions, made more sense. The fact that I had always been one of those people who bounces their leg or taps their fingers when they’re sitting down and that if I was put in a position where I had no choice but to sit still I would end up exhausted and drained. My strange and unpredictable trick of zeroing in on one thing for hours without noticing anything outside of my center of focus (hyperfocusing).

As I spent more time talking and thinking about my disability, I started recalling and realizing things about my reading habits that took on new clarity in the wake of my diagnosis. It made sense that I squirmed if I was made to sit down and read text-heavy chapters for class and that I naturally leaned toward media that could provide me with short but satisfying bursts of information (blogs, twitter, lists, etc.). But why then was I able to read so much for so long when I was younger? Wasn’t ADHD supposed to be more of a problem for kids than adults?

Not necessarily. In some cases, like mine, ADHD can get “worse” if it goes undiagnosed and unaided. I grew up taking in mountains of information faster than my peers, making classes easier for me and more boring. Since I picked up on what the teacher was explaining in just a few tries (if I was paying attention to begin with, as I sometimes did not, especially in math class), my brain automatically sought out more stimulation, fresh information.

So when I got to college, and things started getting more complicated, more discussion-based and less geared toward students copying down notes, my brain didn’t have the chance to jump at some other kind of stimulus. My attention was focused on making sure I contributed enough to class discussions, to being certain I was prepared in case I got called on in the middle of class, to obsessing over projecting a certain amount of “maturity” that had not been demanded of me in previous schools.

When I finally took the plunge and got tested, I felt this surge of relief. Finally something made sense about how I worked. But now I notice the way reading has become harder from me as my disorder has changed and evolved with age. My fidgeting gets worse the longer I have to sit still and read. I retain less and have to re-read whole passages more than ever now. I think about reading more than I actually read, simply because it’s easier to think about how great these stories probably are than it is to actually absorb those stories.

Sometimes it makes reading such a challenge that I stop reading for weeks at a time, because it is so frustrating to want to read and find out that it just is not possible for me in that moment. However, I do sometimes find myself devouring whole books in a matter of days as is the case for any of the Chuck Wendig novels I have read.

Yes, my attention span is short, but the fact that I put aside some books early in the reading process is not so much a signal that I’ve become a lazy reader. I prefer to think about the fact that there are books out there that have helped me overcome my disorder’s symptoms so I can burn through them in a short time. It is indicative of the fact that there are writers out there who know how to grab a reader’s attention and make them want to keep reading, regardless of the circumstances in which that reader lives.

Being LGBTQIA While Reading

I came out as bisexual in the first semester of my freshman year at college. Shortly after that (about a month later) I came out (mostly to myself) as genderfluid–a gender identity that applies to people who feel they alternate between identifying as different genders. These realizations brought with them their own problems of course. I felt that pressing weight of isolation in a society that constantly claimed that I was nonexistent or else sick and needed to be purged out. I still deal with these kinds of problems even as the world moves toward a more accepting stance on those of us who don’t fit the hetero- and cisnormative world.

What I hadn’t really thought about or realized when I adopted my identifiers was how narrow my reading pool would get. Where I used to be able to identify with almost any characters, I suddenly found myself searching for stories and characters who matched my own stories and being. I wanted to find a romance where someone like me fell in love with a woman or someone who didn’t identify on the gender binary. I wanted a hero who identified as a woman one day, a man the next, and some days an amalgamation of the two.

But any representation I found ended up being profoundly disappointing. I saw my identity reduced to jokes, stock characters, villains, plucky sidekicks who fit every stereotype in the book. I heard enough jokes about promiscuity and confusion from real people; I didn’t need it from my fiction too.

So I started reading less and less, or else I read and created my own ideas of what these characters were really like outside of the story. I fell in love with the concept of “headcanons,” where I could make up things about characters I loved, things that gave me a sense of actually being real. I didn’t care about “proof” or canon textual reference to the characters’ orientations or gender identities.

After all, how many characters literally tell the reader that they’re straight and cis?

Working and Reading

During the day, and often the night, I work as a barista. I make coffee, tea, ring up customers, and wish them a good day because that is my job. The work doesn’t seem difficult to people who have not worked in the service industry, but trust me when I tell you that it is painful and exhausting work.

I work about thirty-five hours a week, with my longest days being on the weekends since I also attend college during the week. So a lot of the time I’m on my feet anywhere from six to nine hours. During any given shift I am running up and down the length of the store, retrieving syrups, milk, ice. One day I clipped a pedometer to my pants and tracked how far I walked during an eight-hour shift. If I remember correctly, it came out to around six miles.

So when I say I’m tired after getting home from work at ten at night, I mean it. My first thought after finishing a shift is usually “Thank God, now I can go to bed.” In our current American society, most time spent outside of work is either spent preparing for work or recovering from work. When your job demands not only your physical labor but also the emotional labor that comes with servicing and pleasing customers, you go home drained both in body and soul.

While many people would find reading a balm to those pains, there are also those of us who find it easier and more effective to unplug from thought, to watch reality television, browse the Internet, do something that requires little thinking. And there is nothing wrong with that. If that is the kind of self-care someone needs in a society that demands more than just a pound of flesh, then that is what they should do.

For me, my chances to read often come on my days off, before my shift, or on my meal break while I rush to eat what food my work supplies. There are times, when I’m slouched at my desk and watching a rerun from a cooking show, that I want to be angry with myself, berate myself for not doing something more beneficial for my mind. But then I remind myself that this is just as beneficial for me as reading before I leave for my shift. I am surviving, and that is worthy of respect in and of itself.

Everyone reads differently. That doesn’t just go for the way a reader interprets or imagines the things they read. People simply read in different ways because of different things. Sometimes they read for hours, and other times they can only manage for a few minutes. But if reading is something that is important to them, then the only thing that matters is that they read at all.