For the phoenix, in ashes again
I’ve been trying to wrap my mind around the Club Q shooting in Colorado Springs, so I wrote what I needed to hear. This essay may or may not resonate with you, and that’s ok. Take care of yourself and others, especially now, and if that means backing off from media consumption, there’s no shame in that. It will be here when you’re ready to engage again.
I wish I didn’t have to write this essay. I think about what happened on Saturday and my stomach acid simmers, my palms get clammy, my lungs gasp for air it can’t find. I think about where I was just a month ago, surrounded by fellow queer folks and allies, rolling around on four wheels with the grace of newborn giraffes. I think about everyone who went out last weekend, in search of strong drinks and good times. I think and my mind scrambles, trying to make sense of insane acts of violence. There is no logic in a time like this.
Queer (adjective): a blanket term for an identity that is not in the cishet framework. A way to describe that which doesn’t fit the norm. I see why some people perceive us as a threat. We eschew the expectations in lieu of the euphoric. We stare into the danger of living differently, and do it anyway. We shine bright and we anger those who forgot their sunglasses. It’s not our job to dim our radiance for your comfort. We become the souls we were born with, in spite of whatever bullshit is thrown at us. In our cis and trans bodies, so many shapes, colors and sizes, we are beautiful beyond definition.
But bullets don’t care about beauty. I want to be angry, and maybe that’s why my body shivers, heart pounding, looking for an outlet to release this energy. Bodies are good at that: gather energy, release, repeat. We feel it when we dance, anticipating the chorus or the drop, hyping ourselves up, then surrendering to ride the glorious electricity of the moment. A good DJ knows how to fluctuate the music, varying tempo and mood, weaving together a single seemingly endless song. I bet the tunes were bumping that night, a celebration of life in more ways than one. How disrespectful it is to shatter that space, to shoot down our souls, our bodies, our communities.
“This could happen anywhere,” I hear my mother say, and I hate that she’s right. I hate that I consider myself lucky to not have been shot at yet, but my body empathizes too easily with the ones who have. I look for where to exit as soon as I enter a room. I get jumpy when I hear sirens screeching on for too long. It’s never been ok that we traumatize entire generations. And sometimes the terrible takes an even darker tone. Sometimes a dog whistle is subtle, or less so. Some days it seems like guns have more rights than gays do.
I’m tired of accepting this reality as inevitable. When I read that some people in the club took on the shooter, grabbed his own pistol and smacked him with it real hard, kept him subdued with the help of stiletto heels, I thought, “give ‘em hell.” Fighting back doesn’t mean we all need guns of our own. Rather, it means resisting, like we always have, attacks literal or otherwise on the bodies, places, and people we call home. It takes strength, this defiance, this marathon battle to be treated as equals. But we do this on the shoulders of the butches and broads that came before us, and damn if we let ourselves lose the ground they gained.
Gay (adjective): someone who is attracted to those of the same sex or gender. Someone who does not identify in the cishet norm (see: queer). A term for that which is happy and joyful. I refuse to let myself succumb to despair, even as tragedy strikes and families grieve and safety feels in short supply. This is a quiet resilience, rejecting the easy route of giving up hope. So we rise and rise again, our hair filled with phoenix feathers, our veins pumping with love, voices harmonizing with our queer angel ancestors. We go to the polls and we tell each other “I love you” and we march in the streets and we hug our loved ones tighter and we clog rifles with sunflowers and we pistol whip perpetrators. And we never surrender an inch of our humanity, for we have every right to be here.
And we’ll know that we’ve won when our bodies release the tension they’ve held for too many seasons, and it’s safe to embody our truest identities. And we’ll cry oceans on oceans of beautiful gay tears, healing our wounds and washing away our fears, as we rejoice together in liberation.
P.S. There are resources for those of us who need support in processing this, even if we were miles away. Please don’t hesitate to ask for help, as it is there and ready for you. If you have cash to give, there are mutual aid coalitions raising money for families, as well as community-led groups who will put donations to good use. And there are many news outlets, especially led by local and queer journalists, who will be telling the stories of those harmed and killed, and the subsequent pursuit of justice. Please support their work, to the degree that you can.