As The World Slept

As The World Slept

On June 12^th, 2016 many people woke thinking it was going to be just another Sunday. To those in the LGBTQIA community of Orlando, they were enduring a nightmare.

Sirens filled the air, bullets ricocheted, screams echoed, and cries and pleas for mercy sounded as those who had gone to Pulse in Orlando, Florida for Latin Night to be themselves, to embrace their truth, to kick off Pride Week, to dance, to love freely, were gunned down in hatred. In fear. In anger.

While the rest of the world slept and was unaware, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, partners, husbands and wives, lovers, fathers and mothers, friends, family members, colleagues, mentors, were fighting for their lives. Running for safety. Struggling to escape.

Many of them called for help. Alerted family members, local law enforcement, friends on social media, of what was occurring, in a desperate attempt for help. For safety. While a madman calmly hunted them, shooting them. Killing them. Wounding them. Injuring them.

The shooter, for he is not worthy of being named in this post, was “cool and calm” during negotiations, according to various news outlets. He had no regard for the lives of the people he was attacking. He cared not about the couples he was splitting up, the sons and daughters he was taking away from their parents, the fathers and mothers he was taking away from their children, the brothers and sisters he was taking away from their siblings, the friends he was taking away from their support system.

While the rest of the world slumbered, or started their day, the victims of Pulse, tried to get to safety. They barricaded themselves in bathrooms, they ran out the back door, climbed over the fence, helped complete strangers to freedom, tried to patch up the wounded as they ran; all while a shooter intent on taking their lives continued his assault. Many of them escaped. Many of them did not.

The shooter’s father apologized to the victims’ families and to the city of Orlando, while in the same breath offered an explanation for the mass shooting, stating that it was seeing “two men kiss” that led to the hate crime and terrorist attack—because yes, this was both. However, the absurd notion, this bigoted ideology that “gay panic” can lead someone to commit a heinous violent act is nauseating. The very fact that anyone tries to use it to justify their actions is horrible. What about “black panic” or “Hispanic panic” or “white panic” or “women panic” or anything else? When just seeing someone who represents something you don’t like, or don’t agree with sends you into a rage, or a “panic” is suddenly justification for you to attack them or murder them. Will there suddenly be people shooting heterosexual couples? Cisgender, all white couples? What about cisgender, all white, Republican, wealthy, extreme right-wing couples? What if that causes a “panic” in someone? Will that be justification for them to walk into a country club and start shooting? Will the media and news outlets report that it was a mass shooting in a city, as they reported the shooting in Orlando—erasing the fact that it was in a gay nightclub, on Latin night with POC with trans headliners, or will they report that it was a mass shooting in an “affluent, known Republican, extreme right-wing, country club”?

Too long the gay community has been vilified, oppressed, and attacked in public, and now, in our safe haven, our nightclubs, we have another reason to look over our shoulder. To be on alert. To be watchful. While it will not prevent the dance, nor stop our expression of PRIDE, while we still believe (in the words of Lin-Manuel Miranda) “that love is love is love is love is love, and love cannot be killed or swept aside,” the fear that we live with outside in public, as we hold hands with our partners, our lovers, our boyfriends, our girlfriends, our spouses, our significant others, has now followed us inside the very places where we used to let go of those concerns.

As soon as the world awoke, we all watched and listened in horror as details were given. Those who knew someone, who had family, friends, loved ones, etc. in Orlando, around Pulse, or whom they knew were in Pulse at the time, began calling, texting, checking Facebook, hoping for word that they were okay. Hearts in our throats, tears in our eyes, fear clawing away at us. Terror had gripped the LGBTQIA community, our families, our friends, our loved ones, and the city of Orlando. Video after video was played of family members weeping, their tears and sobs burying deep inside those of us who were rooted to the unbelievable, unfolding story. Details unfolded slowly, and still we watched.

In denial.

In fear.

In horror.

Parents of LGBTQIA children reacted all over the world. Whether it was to call, text, or see their children, contact was made. Conversations were had, and parents who had accepted their sons and daughters coming out were having to deal with the very real fear, the reality, of what their children were dealing with, were facing, every day, simply for being who they were. For living their truth. Simply because someone didn’t agree with who they were.

Then, the names of the fallen began to be released, and those of us who were in denial, who thought—who hoped—that maybe, just maybe, this was all just some horrible nightmare gone wrong, something they just couldn’t wake up from, had to face facts that yes, yes, dear god, this actually. Happened.

Tears flowed. Bodies trembled. People clutched each other in sorrow. Some collapsed in grief.

Oh god. Oh god. How could this have happened. Again? And why?

49 people killed, at least 53 people seriously wounded, and that’s just the numbers that have been reported. Will the death toll rise? Will more of the wounded appear?

And as the world struggled to come to grips with this tragedy, controversy after controversy began to pop up. But then, what did we expect? This was both a hate crime and a terrorist attack on the LGBTQIA community in Orlando, Florida. From media outlets who refused to say “gay nightclub” or “hate crime” or “LGBT” in their broadcast whatsoever, thereby erasing the very real reason why the attack happened. Ignoring our fear, downplaying our suffering, brushing aside the agony of the families, and diminishing the lives of the fallen and the wounded. To politicians who used this tragedy to either push their agenda, or to speak hypocritical words of sympathy to a community they’d vilified, attacked, oppressed, and discriminated against, time and time again. Even to politicians who took the time to congratulate themselves on being “right” about “Muslims” and pushing more hateful, Islamaphobic speech and rhetoric, the same kind which led to the LGBTQIA community at Pulse in Orlando in the first place, only by a different party.

But then the love poured in. From celebrities. From countries around the world. From the Tonys. From strangers all over social media. From strangers all over the state who stood in line at blood banks for hours to donate blood and plasma, even arguing about the right for gay men to donate blood to gay men. The Tonys handed out silver ribbons. Google put up a black ribbon on their website. There were Pulse icons made. People changed their logos. Hashtags were made for Orlando, for Pulse, for the gay community. When word came that a man had been prevented from attacking the L.A. Pride Parade, though people were shaken, the community was still even more resolved.

We would not be deterred. We would not be moved. We would not be driven back into the closet. Forced to live our lives in the way that those with certain extreme religious or political beliefs thinks is “acceptable.” We would not cower. We would stand strong. We would stand tall. We would have spines of steel. Our brothers and sisters had not died in vain. We would and we will carry their names in our hearts with us forever, we would carry the weight of the wounded on our shoulders as we continued the march forward towards true equality, safety, and freedom.

This horrible event, no doubt concocted in the shooter’s mind in an effort to weaken the LGBTQIA’s community, did nothing but strengthen us. We ceased any in-fighting, put a halt to any grudges, and instead of separating into cliques, we joined arms, bracing each other up, becoming stronger, becoming one cohesive unit. We did not yield. We did not fall. We did not bend, nor did we break under the assault of the attacker’s weapons. Instead, we began to breathe in sync with one another, our pulse beat as one, strong, our skin became impenetrable, our backs unbreakable. We supported each other and knew that we would continue to do so. The outpouring of love continued on through the night, from James Corden’s opening monologue at the Tony’s through Lin-Manuel Miranda’s sonnet when he won for Best Original Score to Adele’s heartbreaking dedication as she sang during her concert, and much, much more. We, members of the LGBTQIA, community, knew that while we were often the ones on the front lines of this war, there were others, allies, who stood with us, behind us, to hold us up when we grew weary, and even to stand beside us. We did not have to fight alone.

And yes, this was a hate crime. A terrorist attack. Against us. The LGBTQIA community. On Latin Night. While trans POC were on the flyer advertising for the event. We are aware of what this means. We know what’s going on, even if the media wants to pretend that it’s not, but still we embraced our allies because their blood was welcomed at the blood banks, they donated, they offered up support, they held us as we cried, tweeted, retweeted, and marched with us. They stood on the sidelines with us when we needed them to. Pride may be for us, but we still appreciate them.

And then, the world slept again.

And as the world slept, the victims and the fallen, their families, their loved ones, friends, significant others, partners, etc. continued to suffer. When the news vans pulled away, they stayed, waiting to hear word, waiting for a glimpse of their family member, to see if they had made it, hands clutched around cell phones, tears streaming down their cheeks as fear sank deep into their bones. They waited at the hotel, pacing the floors, walking the sidewalks, smoking outside, walking the streets, checking the posted sheets of those who had been located and were in the hospital, receiving treatment, or in surgery, or waiting to be called by phone or by name by the authorities to be told that they’d lost someone that they loved.

As the world slept, 49 members of the LGBTQIA community were lost, and 1 homophobic person snuffed out their lights. 50 lives lost. Over 53 others in the hospital. As the world slept, 49 families had their world’s devastated, whether these were biological families or families by choice, their lives were changed forever.

As the world slept, their tears flowed like rain, never ceasing, their grief felt like a heavy cloud in the air here in Florida. As the world slept, more names were added to the list of the deceased. As the world slept, exhausted from the bickering, from the shock, from the politicizing, from the posturing, from the fighting, from the fear, from the anger, from the hatred, from stirring up the phobia, these families, these friends, these loved ones continued to mourn, to wait, to fear, to grieve.

And as the world awoke again, some of them returned to their lives, having brushed off the residual dust of the previous day’s explosions and returned to their regular lives. Others were once again plastered to their computers, spewing hate and vitriol at the LGBTQIA community, misquoting and mistranslating a Bible and a religion they claim to believe in. A God who represents love and forgives and hates judging, condemnation, murder, and those who misrepresent him. Others climbed online to offer support, financially, with their words, with their blood donations, or by hosting or attending candlelight vigils all over the country and the world.

People cried and wept with the families, mourning with them, mourning for their loss.

For while the LGBTQIA community had suffered an attack on a place that was considered a safe haven for us, while we had lost the innocence and belief that the hatred would not follow us into “our sanctuaries” we had to remember that there were others who lost more.

Parents who lost children. Children who lost parents. Spouses and couples who were separated. Friends who lost their support system, siblings who lost their brother or sister (or both) and their grief was palpable. It could be tasted on the air. It weighed down on us all.

So, let us all take a moment to remember those who lost their lives, and to remember and have a moment of silence for those who were wounded or injured. Let us remember and thank the first responders, the hospital staff, the staff at the blood bank, and the volunteers. Let us remember that we will not be silenced, we will not be broken, and we will not allow ourselves to be driven by fear. We will be strong and we will stand up and remember those who lost their lives in a nightclub on June 12, 2016 in Pulse Nightclub, Orlando, Florida, a LGBT club in a hate crime and a terrorist attack.

The Names of the Fallen:

Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34 years old

Stanley Almodovar III, 23 years old

Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20 years old

Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22 years old

Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36 years old

Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22 years old

Luis S. Vielma, 22 years old

Kimberly Morris, 37 years old

Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30 years old

Darryl Roman Burt II, 29 years old

Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32 years old

Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21 years old

Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25 years old

Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35 years old

Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50 years old

Amanda Alvear, 25 years old

Martin Benitez Torres, 33 years old

Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37 years old

Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26 years old

Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35 years old

Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25 years old

Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31 years old

Oscar A Aracena-Montero, 26 years old

Enrique L. Rios, Jr., 25 years old

Miguel Angel Honorato, 30 years old

Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40 years old

Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32 years old

Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19 years old

Cory James Connell, 21 years old

Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37 years old

Luis Daniel Conde, 39 years old

Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33 years old

Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25 years old

Jerald Arthur Wright, 31 years old

Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25 years old

Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25 years old

Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24 years old

Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, 27 years old

Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33 years old

Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49 years old

Yilmary Rodriguez Sulivan, 24 years old

Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32 years old

Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28 years old

Frank Hernandez, 27 years old

Paul Terrell Henry, 41 years old

Antonio Davon Brown, 29 years old

Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz 24 years old

Post words of condolences to the families of the fallen, their loved ones, and friends, as well as pictures of two men or two women kissing (preferably two men/women of color, since this event happened on Latin Night), or of trans women/men of color in solidarity, and to show that we will not be frightened away, and we will not give into defeat or quit, bend or break. We will not give into fear.

And don’t forget the hashtags: #WeStandWithOrlando #WeStandWithYou #OrlandoStrong #Pride2016 #Pride #PulseOrlando #Pulse #PrayForOrlando #PrayForPulse #GoneButNotForgotten #LGBT #LoveWins #LoveIsLoveIsLoveIsLove

-Vicktor Bailey, out and proud

(aka. Author: Vicktor Alexander)

Dear Dr. Transphobic Asshole

This is a portion of the letter that I wrote to my Transgender/LGBTQ/AIDS Advocate/Social Worker at the end of this post is the letter that I'm considering sending to the Transphobic Asshole Doctor named "Tara":

So, today I went up to the VA Emergency Department for my knee. I knew that I had probably twisted it or done some damage to it over the weekend and at Cherie's insistence I went to the ER, two hours before my appointment with Brandi. When I arrived I made sure that they knew that I had a previously scheduled appointment and they said that they'd make sure that I got to my appointment on time. So I was called back to the hospital room and put inside. An hour later (about 30 minutes before my appointment with Brandi) I was still waiting in the room. No one had been by to check on me or even to stick their head in the door. This wasn't too shocking as the VA oftentimes will stick a patient who isn't critical in a room and leave them there for over an hour, but I thought that they would take quicker care of me, seeing as how they knew of my other appointment.

Anyway, I eventually got up and hobbled up to the front desk and informed the receptionist there that I had another appointment that I had to get to and that I would be back, when it was over but that I absolutely could not miss my appointment. He asked me to wait a few minutes for the charge nurse to show up and I agreed. No sooner did our conversation end when I heard my name being said by one of the doctors, my legal name, the one that it's in the system but also has a notation in the field that states that I am to be called: Vicktor or Vic.

I figure it will be quicker for me to just put it in dialogue form the conversation with Doctor Tara, the doctor mentioned above, and her colleague.

Dr. Tara: I'm supposed to see somebody named...Veronica. Why the hell does it say Vic in here?

Colleague: Oh yeah, I saw her last week. Her legal name is Veronica, but she goes by Vic and everyone calls her Vic.

Dr. Tara: Why?

Colleague: Because she's transgender, so I guess she's a he. So his name is Vic, that's what we call him.

Dr. Tara: Oh no! Are you serious? I've got one of them?

Colleague: (blushing slightly because he saw me) I just saw Vic last week for...chest pains, right Vic?

Me: Yeah.

Dr. Tara looked at me and gave me a look of disgust and that's when I told her that I had another appointment to be at and that I had to leave but that I would be back after that.

She informed me that she'd rather see me first and then then have me get sent down for X-Rays and then for me to go to see Brandi. I had no problem with this and agreed. So Dr. Tara led me back to the very room I'd just left out of and asked me what had happened to my knee, I explained it to her and then when we got in the room, I wasn't told to sit down or anything so I could be examined properly, I was asked to roll up my pants leg and my knee was barely touched by her before she went to the sink and scrubbed her hands furiously as she explained that it didn't feel swollen but that she would call for an X-ray. Now, I don't know if she knows something I don't and being transgender is actually contagious, I'm not sure why she felt she had to scrub her hands so hard, but I do know that I felt beyond offended at her actions. 

I wish I could tell you that the story ended there, but it didn't.

When I went in to go get my X-Ray (which I had to walk to-on my bad knee which is also on the same leg as my sprained ankle) the X-Ray tech there (whose name is Zach I believe) didn't even have mypaperwork, he had someone else's, because while they'd sent me down there, they hadn't given him the right information about who I was, what name I'm supposed to be called, questions to avoid asking me and even  which knee was the injured one. So when Zach finished with me he told me that he had to take me back to the ER, now I'd been told that when I finished in the ER I was supposed to go straight to my appt, Zach had been told to bring me back there. So he led me in and I brought up that he'd told me to come back in. With a sigh of disgust and a huge amount of attitude Dr. Tara said, "No, I told you to go straight to your appointment."

So I went.

When my appt was over I returned to the ER to get the results of my X-Ray (which I knew that if they wanted an accurate diagnosis of what was wrong with my knee that I should've had a MRI done, especially since I'd informed Dr. Tara that I'd torn my miniscus tendon in this same knee ten years before and had never had the surgery for it done. I walked into the ER, filled out the paperwork to let them know I was back for my results and sat and waited. I'd come in at about 12:10, by 1:00pm, my sister Cherie was livid, because I was supposed to have taken the DAV (the transportation for veterans, which is who had brought me in and with whom I was supposed to have take me home) home, but I'd missed them and it was too late. My name was still never called. By this point my knee is throbbing, I'm annoyed, Cherie is annoyed and I've told her about the doctor's initial reaction to me and she's already put in a few calls to people. Carissa, the OIF (Operation Iraqi Freedom) worker assigned to me, has come down to the ER to check on me, it's now 1:30pm. She tells me about the phone call for Cherie, that she's going to try and get me home, that she was sorry for all that I'd endured, etc., etc., etc. Then she says that she's going to go and check and see what the problem is. As soon as she steps into the back and asks a question, Dr. Tara comes in and says she doesn't know why they didn't come and get her, that they'd gotten my X-Ray results two hours before. She tells me that the X-Rays came back fine and so I probably just twisted it and she's going to go and get me a brace. I go to follow her so she can put it on and she tells me to wait at the door. She comes back with two braces. One she says is a medium, the other she says is a large. She looks at my knee and, again, barely touches it as she tries to see which size will fit me, she tells me I need a large and that I'd have to "take all that off" (and gestures at my pants and the bottom half of my body with a sneer on her face) and that she'll just give me the brace so I can put it on. And then she practically shoves the brace in a bag that says it's a "large", but as we found out later was actually a "medium" in a large bag, and rushes off as if the hounds of hell were on her behind.

M, man, honestly, had I known that transgenderism was contagious, I would've worn a mask or something.

I did report her to the Patient's Advocate and Michele apologized to me on behalf of the hospital and said that the doctor would be given a "stern talking to," but honestly, even though the military is far more progressive today than it was when I was in there, even though DADT has been repealed, even though this hospital and this VA is a ton more accepting than the one I came from in Florida, I still know that they'll talk to her so that it can be put in her file, but that there are some people who would be silently applauding her for treating the "tranny" like she did.a

I am not typically a blood-thirsty, you made me mad and almost made me cry and now you must lose your job, type of person, but I told Cherie that I want Dr. Tara to lose her job. I'm already having to attend the "Mental Health" department just because I am trans and I grew up in the household/family that I did and trying to balance my truth with their angry voice. And I'm there because of my disabilities and how that affects me not being able to find a job that's understanding with my injuries. So with having this............................."doctor" treat me the way she did? Cherie had to put a call in to Brandi and let her know.

That was moments before we found out that the brace given to me or rather shoved at me, was the wrong size.

Cherie is going down to the VA tomorrow to have it out with them and get me a new brace, but she suggested that I tell you to see if you had any ideas about what else, if anything, I should do. She wants to contact the local LGBTQ chapter, the HRC chapter (she even teased about contacting the news station) and like I said, honestly, I'm not usually the one out for blood like this, but what if I'd been a fragile teenager? What if I was already suicidal and she said that?

I want her suspended or fired. I want a true apology. I want.....to feel vindicated, like she truly leaned her lesson and would never do that again.

So any thoughts?

Dear Dr. Transphobic Asshole:

I'm sorry that you're being chewed out by your boss.

And the Patient Advocate people.

And my sister Cherie, I'm sure that's the scariest moment in the world for you.

But you should be happy. My dad is way more scarier. And my older siblings are very protective of me.

You know you were wrong and that you must pay. I won't ask for your life as payment, because I do want to live again, but, I want your job.

Because if we'd had that situation a few months ago, if you had reacted in August, in October the way you reacted today, our little "misunderstanding" then I would have tried to kill myself.

You have to understand that words and reactions carry weight and power and strength.

Your words can kill a person, can maim and bruise them, destroy them.

Words are so fucking heartbreaking it's almost ridiculous.

And I was going to take it easy and call off the Calvary, but then I remembered that, I could've been a teenager that you'd said that too and that's unacceptable.

So I'm sorry that I got the LGBTQ community involved. Sorry that people want to call the HRC. Sorry that my sister called my therapist, the hospital administrator and everyone else that she could think of and reported you. Sorry that an apology from you to me, just isn't enough at this point.

You see I may be transgender, but I'm one badass transgender, dominating bastard with a lot of people supporting me and backing me up and a lot of people fighting for me.

This time, you fucked with the wrong one.

Sincerely,

VICKTOR ALEKSANDR B.