Orlando: Observances

Orlando: Observances

In the wake of the June 12 mass shooting at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida, many individuals and groups spontaneously organized vigils to mark the massacre. Given the transitory nature of public attention to news stories, our editorial board felt that it was important to record the sensibility of the collective responses to this tragedy. We have compiled here a selection of first-person accounts from vigils held within and outside the United States. It is not surprising that several contributors mention the complex interplay between racism and homophobia. The problem of violent policing in US communities of color (which we discuss in our “Forum: Teaching about Ferguson,” Volume 41, Number 1) has also continued to haunt our imaginations and animate resistance efforts. Many of the accounts below mention how people of color express their solidarities with multiple struggles.

* * * Joseph Allen Ruanto-Ramirez, San Diego, CA Within hours of the news on the shooting at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida, a Facebook invite spread throughout San Diego’s social media networks to attend a vigil in front of the rainbow flag in the community of Hillcrest, San Diego. Hillcrest is the center of (predominantly white) LGBT communities, where gentrification has been very prominent and where the commercialization of LGBT identities (so-called LGBT culture) has been growing in the past couple of years. Pockets of queer and trans people of color disturb these spaces, but for many, the hashtag #gayissowhite has transformed to #hillcrestissowhite. Although the tragic incident that happened in Orlando, Florida, has galvanized both LGBT and allied communities, the rhetoric being used during the

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Feminist Studies 42, no. 2. © 2016 by Feminist Studies, Inc.

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vigil by the participants differed starkly from what many of the speakers and community leaders were saying on the mic. Armed officers surrounded the flagpole and the vigil, while police cars drove around the streets to “guarantee the safety” of the LGBT community. Signs that read “We are Orlando” and “Love is love” were carried by individuals in silent protest as people gathered around the rainbow flag lighting candles, burning sage, and writing notes. Hugs and kisses were exchanged as tears flowed. More radical signs and comments from predominantly (and visibly) queer women and queer people of color stating “Islam means peace” and “Islamophobia is not the answer” were in evidence, yet some conversations among queer men standing near me were clearly anti-Arab, xenophobic, and Islamophobic. Queer men joked about bringing guns to clubs and to Pride to protect themselves from “terrorists.” When a speaker talked about the failed attempt of an attack at Pride in Los Angeles, some men next to me joked about how this white domestic terrorist was possibly “radicalized” by Islam, although there was no information in the news that the Los Angeles attacker was Muslim. Being in the sea of contradictory and gendered responses at the event made me feel uncomfortable as I took off my t’ndung (head wrap in Iranun culture) to avoid being racialized and Orientalized, and I was asked how I might have felt about the attack if I were mistaken to be a queer Muslim. As speaker after speaker addressed the situation, the rhetoric of “this is us” or “this could have been us” created considerable discomfort for me. Who is this “us,” and how is it that people can imagine a direct connection to LGBT clubbers in Orlando, but that “us” does not include queer Palestinians or queer Black activists from Baltimore? Where is the “us” they kept on addressing? Was I part of this “us?” Then the politicians came up. They praised the LGBT community for being about diversity and inclusion, yet it was these same politicians who questioned the validity of having ethnic studies classes in San Diego high schools and who stated that restrooms for trans high school students might be a financial burden for the districts. The politicians praised the police officers and the police state, the same officers who regulated not just bodies of color, but also LGBT people during the Trump rallies in the city. As I turned around, I noticed that two white male police officers snickered and made jokes as people cried, shared stories, and affirmed one another.

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After the vigil, I came up to the flag, put on my purple t’ndung, and prayed in silence as a camera shutter clicked. I knew all too well that I might just have been photographed (without consent) with a head wrap, open palms, and closed eyes in silent prayer — a picture that would have been marketable as a queer (trans) Muslim individual “moved” by the shooting in Florida. Harjant Gill, Washington, DC The gravity of the violence that unfolded inside the Pulse nightclub on the night of June 11 became clear by early afternoon the following day as TV and radio channels interrupted their usual weekend broadcasts to report on the tragedy. Within hours, President Obama addressed the nation, reminding us that the shootings and the circumstances around it were anything but “normal.” Yet, given the recent spate of mass shootings in this country, his words felt oddly and woefully routine. As several columnists and commentators have so eloquently pointed out, these attacks felt strangely personal and more visceral to most LGBTQ Americans who are familiar with the history and the specter of violence that is so much a part of being queer in these United States. Most of us have never fully believed that safety and security is something we are entitled to; Orlando is the manifestation of our greatest collective fear. Coincidently, what turned out to be the largest violent attack on our community also took place on the weekend of Pride (in Washington, DC), the one time of the year when the state and our fellow straight Americans participate in celebrating our queer identities and lives. As the news of the shootings overshadowed Pride celebrations, shocked and frustrated community members scrambled to organize an impromptu gathering to remember the victims. Facilitated largely through social media, a crowd of around five hundred people gathered on the steps of the US Capitol, carrying handmade signs thrown together in a hurry. As we marched from the Capitol to the White House against the setting sun, the crowd nearly doubled in size. At the White House that evening, and on subsequent days at more strategically organized vigils where over two thousand people showed up, queer activists and community leaders denounced the tragic incident in Orlando and the culture of homophobia and our collective indifference toward gun violence that allowed for such a tragedy to unfold. Faith leaders prayed for peace, love, and forgiveness. Tears were shed, hugs were exchanged. And as I stood among

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the crowd, holding hands with strangers and friends alike, I was heartened to see the faces of so many of our straight allies who had just partied with us the weekend before, now standing shoulder to shoulder in support of our right to feel secure and to exist. Lucas Bulgarelli, São Paulo, Brazil “When rescuing, mind the blood. It might have AIDS”: “Islamic State, we are in Brazil, come by, we need your visit.” These comments made by Brazilian web surfers were repeated in the local media broadcasts about the Orlando massacre. The information about the 49 people dead at Pulse crossed the Atlantic with all the doubts and temporizing that surrounded the event in the United States, arriving in a Brazil that is well familiarized with this sort of violence. In the country with the greatest number of transgender people murdered in the world, according to data from the NGO Transgender Europe, the number of murders of LGBT people in 2015 in Brazil was equivalent, in numerical terms, to six Orlando massacres and corresponds to 42 percent of trans deaths in the world. Those scary numbers could be even larger if we consider the number of death registries that omit the hate crimes that motivate the killings. The protests held in Brazil in solidarity with the Orlando outrage had, therefore, a dual character: while recognizing and protesting against a hate crime about which many people had not reached a consensus, the protests also denounced the high level of violence against the Brazilian LGBT population, mentioning the role of fundamentalist religion and of the increasing political instability in Brazil. Local social movements organized two protests in São Paulo, on June 15 and 28, in addition to other demonstrations carried out in Belo Horizonte, Fortaleza, Manaus, and Rio de Janeiro. The June 28 protest on Paulista Avenue, held on World Pride Day, gathered more than a hundred people in a “wake,” which culminated with a chant cried out by all those present: “Although you kill us, we will resist.” Aniqa Raihan, CODEPINK, Vienna, VA On June 20th, just over a week after the devastating mass shooting at a gay club in Orlando, CODEPINK and thirty cosponsoring organizations held an overnight vigil in front of the headquarters of the National Rifle Association (NRA). We made 49 cardboard hearts emblazoned with the names, photographs, and biographies of the 49 victims and set up camp

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around 8 p.m. Over one hundred people joined us to demand peace — friends, concerned community members, a local state congresswoman, gun control advocates, Muslims, queer activists, queer Muslim activists, the imam of a local mosque, church leaders, and family members of gun violence victims. The vigil happened to fall during the holy month of Ramadan, so at 8:30 p.m. a local imam recited the call to prayer, and we joined our Muslim sisters and brothers in breaking their fast. Then we all sat in the grass and listened as people from all walks of life discussed their experiences with homophobia and Islamophobia, their frustration with the NRA’s relentless defense of guns over human lives and the heartbreak of losing friends and family members to senseless and preventable gun violence. Counterprotestors stood across the street from us, holding their own vigil with guns slung over their shoulders. At 2:02 a.m., the time that the shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando had begun, those of us who were spending the night formed a circle and read out the names of the 49 killed. With us was a cousin of Juan Guerrero, a 22-year-old gay man who was killed at Pulse while celebrating Pride with his partner Christopher Leinonen, who spoke to us about Juan’s love for his partner and family. At the vigil, as I listened to the sounds of a hundred voices singing “Amazing Grace” in honor of the dead, I felt hopeful for the first time in a long time. I listened to mothers weep as they talked about their children in the past tense and heard their voices crack as they read aloud about the lives lost in Orlando. I looked across the street at the counterprotesters clutching their guns and wondered how on Earth anyone could believe that their right to bear arms is more important than anyone else’s right to life. For once, in the midst of my anger and frustration with the disturbing new definition of American normalcy, I did not feel alone in my grief. In the morning, the fifty or so activists who remained held a die-in in the NRA’s driveway. Then, we formed a human wall, armed with the 49 hearts and our hands painted red to symbolize the blood on the hands of the NRA. I remember feeling, for the first time, like there was something I could do beyond posting a Facebook status, as if I was a part of a movement that had real power. While we chanted for peace, the police warned us that anyone who refused to move would be arrested. I had never been in any kind of legal trouble before so I was nervous, but watching my

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fellow activists stand their ground empowered me to do so as well. Eventually, the police arrested sixteen activists, including myself. The vigil taught me that the most difficult thing about activism is knowing where to start. The more I learn about systems of oppression and disenfranchisement, the more interconnected they seem to be. Political gridlock, a flawed campaign finance system, toxic masculinity, nationalism and the NRA are all connected in ways that make the system feel unchangeable and unconquerable. A good friend recently told me that if a room seems too messy to clean, the best thing to do is to simply start cleaning whatever is closest to you. That’s what the vigil felt like; I began to clean my immediate surroundings, and everyone around me began to clean their immediate surroundings, and by morning, it felt like all of us together had made a difference. Now, CODEPINK and the Gun Violence Prevention Coalition are uniting to demand a ban on assault weapons and, for the first time in a long time, progress feels possible. Brandi lee Perri, Northampton, MA I turned to a stranger to the left of me, looked in their eyes, and repeated “You are my family” in unison with over a thousand other attendees, as prompted by a local city councilor, during the Orlando vigil in Northampton, Massachusetts, on June 15, 2016. The vigil not only provided a space to mourn the victims of the tragic events in Orlando, but also served as a reminder to the community of the importance of LGBTQ spaces and support. The large crowd that blocked the main street of this relatively queer-friendly small town held several signs, mostly with messages similar to “Love is love,” although one stood out with the message “Ban assault weapons” scrawled on poster board. Attendees were provided with candles to light and stations with counselors to speak to if needed. Most of the speakers not only spoke of individual connections to those who passed away, or to the general LGBTQ community, but also to the importance of providing support for each other, especially to Latinx community members. All who spoke were part of the LGBTQ community in the surrounding areas, and most spoke not only about the tragedy, but also about Pioneer Valley and the importance of queer spaces in general. For example, another local city councilor spoke from her personal experience to make a pointed connection between the pilgrimage many Latinx queers

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make to areas like Miami and Orlando, to the ways Northampton is a similar destination for members of our own community. The organizers and community volunteers provided a sign language interpreter as well as Spanish and English translators for different speakers. There was a moment of silence, as well as moments of dancing to music from a local Afro-Cuban dance group. Rather than violence or blame as the center of discussion, the focus was on providing support— a reminder of what community spaces are and how we arrive at them — and moments for individual and collective reflection and grieving. petula Sik Ying ho, Hong Kong I did not ask anyone to go with me. I just wanted to be there. I was responding to a Facebook post about a Hong Kong vigil for Orlando: “The LGBTI community in HKG stands in solidarity with the communities in Orlando. Our thoughts are with the victims, their families, and those who had to experience such hateful violence.” The description continued, “It might rain but we have umbrellas. Let’s cry today and continue the fight tomorrow!” I climbed uphill all the way from Exchange Square to Pottinger Street, sweating all over. I was glad to see some familiar faces, among them, the organizer of the event, Betty Grisoni, codirector of Pink Dot and cofounder of local lesbian group Les Peches. Grisoni, who is from France, had organized an impromptu unofficial candlelight vigil event in Hong Kong last year for the victims of the attacks in Paris. I also ran into Andrew, one of my research postgraduate students at Hong Kong University, who is from Canada. We did not plan to meet up with each other, but we just knew too well what had brought us there. Brian Leung of the Big Love Alliance, master of ceremonies, called on the public to be vigilant about any kind of homophobia and hatred in Hong Kong or anywhere in the world. US Consul General Clifford Hart encouraged people not to succumb to stereotyping and prejudice, saying the shooting, which left 49 people and the gunman dead, had nothing to do with Islam. He also thanked the people of Hong Kong for their support following the killings. Over one hundred people lit candles and held rainbow signs in support of the LGBTI community. Guests brought signs condemning Islamophobia and homophobia, and they placed bouquets of white flowers outside a Hong Kong gay bar called Linq.

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Let us hope that we were able to send our condolences all the way from Hong Kong to Orlando, to comfort all those who have been affected by this act of tremendous violence. Let us memorialize those who have lost their lives in this horrific tragedy. Let us remember that their lives shall not be lost in vain. For the LGBTI communities, the Latino/a communities, and those who advocate for love, peace, and antiviolence — the fight continues. And let us be reminded, that this fight is for all of us. Sonn y Nordmarken, Tucson, AZ Two vigils took place in Tucson on the same night to mourn the events in Orlando. One was a big, highly publicized, formally organized event hosted by the Southern Arizona AIDS Foundation (SAAF), held near a gay bar called IBT’s, while the other was a smaller, quieter, more informal event held at a Catholic shrine called El Tiradito, a sacred mourning space with a long history in the local Latinx and Mexican American communities. I attended the SAAF event and found out a week later that there had been another vigil the same night at El Tiradito. My description of the SAAF event is based on my memory, and my description of the event at the shrine is based on a brief conversation with a friend who attended it. The SAAF event began as a short procession from IBT’s, where participants carried candles in relative silence a short distance to a parking lot, where a larger crowd gathered. The next segment of the vigil felt like a rally, with technology-amplified speeches. On the stage, a drag queen emceed speeches by a series of speakers including religious leaders, leaders of local AIDS and trans organizations, elected officials, and the police chief, the majority of whom appeared to be white. Speakers spoke about standing with the families and friends of the victims and advocated for gun control legislation. Many emphasized working simultaneously against racism, Islamophobia, and homophobia and not responding to hate violence with violence or with a focus on the assailant— so much so that this almost was a refrain. Speakers’ views toward mental illness were mixed. The drag queen emcee’s opening statement, “This [the gunman] was a crazy person,” I imagine was aimed to disrupt Islamophobic narratives surrounding the killer, but this strategy replaced Islamophobia with a phobia of mental illness. In response to this sentiment, one or two speakers briefly stressed the importance of not scapegoating the mentally ill, one saying, “We’re all a little crazy.”

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However, what struck me the most at this event, especially in light of the Black Lives Matter movement, was the lack of attention to racism aimed toward the victims as an important aspect of the mass shooting. Although many speakers stressed the need to work against racism, I do not remember any speaker specifically referring to the Orlando victims as people of color or mentioning that it was a Latinx Pride event that came under attack at the Pulse nightclub. In fact, it was not until the very end of the vigil, when a speaker read aloud the names of several victims, that I understood that the victims were people of color. I realized this because I recognized the names as Latinx, not because any of the speakers had stated it. Although racism was not discussed in depth, a group of protesters interrupted the vigil, expressing concerns about police violence at the very moment when the police chief was to speak. One activist took the stage, standing alongside the police chief, causing him to hesitate. The activist refused to leave the stage, and after several minutes of silence on the stage and after several audience exclamations — some antipolice and others disapproving of the interruption — two police officers escorted the person away. As the police chief began to speak, a group of protesters chanted for a few minutes, almost drowning out his words. While the activist had been on stage, another activist had handed out flyers to the crowd, which explained that this was a protest against collaborating with and including police in a resistance and mourning event when police represent and work on behalf of the state, continuing to target, incarcerate, and kill people of color in the name of public safety. The flyer also opposed gun control, framing guns as a means to defend oneself against police attack. This statement opposed many of the speakers’ perspectives, which favored gun control legislation. In contrast to this large, loud event, the vigil at El Tiradito was not structured around talking, but collectively created a space in which to mourn in whatever ways the mourners needed. El tiradito means “the little throwaway” or “castaway” and is said to be dedicated to a sinner (who pursued unconventional love) buried in unconsecrated ground. The shrine is located in Tucson’s Barrio Viejo, which was once a vibrant Mexican neighborhood known as the “soul of the city,” but which the city bulldozed in order to build a convention center. For many years, community members have come to the shrine to mourn and leave prayers in the cracks of the shrine wall. The space thus has a long history

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as a sacred site shaped by the trauma of colonization and the strength of many people maintaining cultural practices and mourning in community. According to one attendee of this vigil, which was organized by queer people of color, people could express what they were feeling in the way most supportive to them. They could light a candle or write and place thoughts or prayers in the wall at the shrine. Mourners brought babies and shared food and water, held each other in embraces and stillness, or spoke quietly to one another, just being with one another in the process of grieving. This vigil created a feeling of mutual comfort, openness, unity, and inclusivity, where anyone who felt moved to could speak at any time. The event was not widely publicized, which allowed for it to be a smaller, more intimate event, and it could therefore address the needs of individuals who needed to mourn in this way, rooted in culture in this sacred space. Graciela Trevisan, San Francisco, CA A vigil was held in San Francisco on Sunday, June 12. It took place at the Harvey Milk Plaza, in the Castro district: the same place where so many rallies have taken place, to celebrate or to mourn, to express joy and excitement, or to express grief and anger. There was a big crowd, mostly queer. The rally had been called less than 24 hours earlier, and it gathered more than a thousand people. The mood was somber before the rally started. As the speakers came on the truck stage, people began to express our pain and our anger. San Francisco Board of Supervisors member David Campos made it clear that the attack at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando had been an attack on the LGBTQ community and on the Latino/a community. Most of the victims were Latinos/as. Dr. Suzanne Barakat, who works at San Francisco General Hospital and is a Muslim, gave a moving speech, indicating that she has been directly affected by the intolerance and violence raging in this country. She lost three family members — her younger brother, his wife, and her sister — in a North Carolina shooting by a white man who killed them because they were Muslims. Erik Arguello and Lito Sandoval, two Latino queer activists, also spoke. Erik’s moving cry “No es justo!” was followed by the crowd repeating the mantra. It’s not fair. It’s not just. Tom Ammiano, a former member of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors and the California State Assembly, was the last speaker. He first made some funny remarks about the NRA, and then he mentioned “the kiss that had provoked the

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attack” (at that moment, and as the news kept coming, there was not much about the killer’s motives, except that his father had mentioned his son was disturbed when he saw two men kissing in public). Ammiano suggested that everyone there start kissing, so many of us did, including the speakers who were on the stage. Afterward, the director of the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus, led the chorus and all of us in singing Holly Near’s “We Are Singing” and also “We Shall Overcome.” By the end of the rally, we were energized, energized by sorrow and by anger, by courage and by determination. There was a clear understanding that this attack was the sad combination of homophobia and hatred and a lack of a comprehensive gun control laws. It affected the LGBTQ community. It affected the Latino/a community. It affected us all. The rally was followed by a march to City Hall. By then, night had fallen, but there was the light of many candles and the light of unity and love. Jey Saung, Seattle, WA The smoke from sage smudge sticks spiraled out in tendrils as I sat on the floor in a dusty corner, trying unsuccessfully to pretend my sniffles were because of the resident cat. As more queer and trans people of color trickled into the organizers’ living room in a second story apartment in central Seattle, they were invited to get smudged before taking a seat on the sunken couch, various armchairs, and colorful blankets covering the floor. Familiar faces greeted me as they settled in, some nibbling on chips and lumpia from the kitchen. What was initially planned as a QTPOC conversation on current events made way for a healing space as the organizers responded to the Orlando shooting just the night before. The circle opened with two participants sharing healing songs passed down to them from other indigenous folks. We learned the words through the refrains, and the songs swelled with our voices. As silence settled, we took turns sharing thoughts and feelings of anger, frustration, and love. The moments in between were filled with the wafting of smoke from the altar, the sound of shifting bodies tensing in quiet introspection, and an easy silence of acquaintances and strangers with a common understanding and shared emotion. I pulled my knees up under my chin and cried. As I oscillated between grief and anger, I felt the embrace of the circle and those who have endured so much trauma, grief, and healing, those who move through life having to

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hold the legacies of violence against their people, their queer brown and black bodies, and their very existence. Hundreds of people gathered that night in the Seattle gayborhood to mourn those lost in Orlando. And we, in the company of our QTPOC community, grieved as well.