LGBTQ People in Orlando Share Their Stories of Grief, Anger, and Love

As everyone knows by now, just before last call early Sunday morning, a man walked into Pulse nightclub on the outskirts of downtown Orlando and opened fire, killing and injuring more than 100 people. Mass shootings happen almost daily in America, but this one was different. It was the largest shooting in American history, and one that targeted a uniquely vulnerable population.

It's also stomach-churning because every new detail uncovered makes the crime seem more horrific: Omar Mateen, the shooter, apparently frequented the club and used Grindr, and his wife may have known about the attack.

LGBTQ communities from New York to London have held solidarity vigils, but the people who will have to ultimately deal with the consequences of the shooting are those who worked at Pulse, frequented it, knew people who were there that night, and have to question whether or not they would––or even will be able to––go back.

Here are their stories:

I was at a party for pride in West Hollywood when I saw on Facebook there was a shooting. At first I didn't think too much of it––probably from being desensitized to gun violence. I thought it was probably an altercation of some sort, but then I heard that seven people were shot…. Then a hostage situation. That's when I began texting a few people I knew would be there to see if they were safe. I then discovered that the death toll was at 20 people. I heard that the shooter was taken down. I went home from the party in disbelief that the count had more than doubled. My stomach was in so much pain, visualizing the scene, not knowing which of my friends had died.

I felt defenseless, angry, in shock. I wanted to do nothing and everything at the same time. I still feel so devastated to my core for the victims, the people that survived through such an atrocity, the families, co-workers, the LGBTQ community, and for the feeling of safety I may never feel again. The fact that I could have been there. The fact that the media is calling it an attack from ISIS when it barely took any planning with one gunman and one gun obtained legally. The fact that one weapon can kill that many people in one time and doesn't require a background check to have. That there are Christians who are literally applauding the shooter, even though he's a Muslim with a radical ideology.

I've met so many of my close friends at Pulse and had so many crazy nights there drinking free Long Islands as fast as I could. Even though I've had my car stolen, my heart broken, and drinks thrown at me there, it still was one of the places where I always felt safe, included, and free from judgment. The staff there are some of the most incredible, loving people that I have ever met. It honestly felt like the safest, most welcoming club. People wouldn't go out to drink or go crazy; they would go out to feel welcomed as a part of the community.

What makes all of this more upsetting is that we have politicians who refuse to even say "LGBTQ" or "gay," acknowledge the fact that it was a hate crime, or even give any feeling of safety to the gay community. We live in the UNITED States of America, and we have a governor who won't even acknowledge we exist.

But anyway, I did go ahead and march in the parade. It made me feel like I wasn't afraid of who I was and that I wasn't going to let acts of violence change who I was. It was very therapeutic. However, names of the people dead slowly started crawling up on my feed. Another wave of complete sadness came over me, and at the Abbey [a gay bar], I went out the back way into the alley to finish hyperventilating and compose myself.

I was looking down to the ground when Danny DeVito in a pride boa marched by and gave me a high-five. It truly made me feel 100 times better to get a random act of kindness from a stranger I happen to idolize. It truly made my day.

We all love Pulse. It's been home to many of us on many nights. As a performer in Orlando, I'm part of a community where others performed there on a regular basis, many of whom started their careers there. I was teaching a dance camp this weekend. I've been teaching at the same camp for about nine years, and on the second night of camp, we always have a staff night out. We chose Pulse this time. Being the flake I am, I bailed at the last minute, driving out there and then turning around to go to sleep. My other staff members didn't bail, though. They were there when the shooting started. They escaped, completely unharmed, save a hurt shoulder from the chaos. I woke up to texts, calls, messages, and complete and utter loss.

I will always go back to Pulse, but I felt sick through the whole day yesterday, checking my phone every two seconds, refreshing the feeds, making sure my friends were accounted for. Every name that's been added to the list has made my heart sink even further. It's terrifying, tragic, and right in my front yard. There's still a car parked in front of our apartment that belongs to someone who went to the club. We don't know why he hasn't come to get it.

I was at home when I found out. My alarm went off at 7:30 AM for my 9 AM shift at an Orlando theme park, and I check my phone every morning to read news alerts or check Facebook. I saw the news immediately because of the news alerts from AP, and I was shocked, horrified, and deeply saddened by the news of the shooting. I found out not long after that two of my sister's co-workers from [two theme park rides] had been at Pulse that night and were unaccounted for, but at that time, there was very little information about anyone. Unfortunately, one of them passed away in the hospital last night, and the other one is still hospitalized but expected to recover.

What I think is most important for people to remember is that this isn't just a blind act of terrorism. It's a hate crime with a very specific target of the Latinx and LGBTQ community of Orlando, and we can't let anyone forget that. The shooter didn't just drop a pin on a map and pick a random location to murder these people at––he specifically chose to go to Pulse, and most likely planned to go on Latin night. It's important to realize that out of the lives lost on Sunday, most were Latinx people.

I moved to Orlando in 2012, and at that point in my life, I had only recently started coming out as gay to friends and family. Pulse was the first––and only––gay club I've been to, and it struck me as a safe space, where I could see LGBTQ couples being their true selves and showing their love without fear of discrimination. I'm not huge on going out and clubs, but I I have a lot of good memories of that place. I still don't think I want to go back to it ever.

Pulse is now tainted with the memories of this attack, and I don't think it ever won't be. Going there will no longer remind me of my first visit or the fun times I had there; now it'll remind me of the massacre committed and the lives lost. It's easier when shootings are in different parts of the country to feel detached, but this hits close to home, as a Latina, as a queer woman, and especially as a friend to all the people who knew Luis [Vielma] and are mourning his death.

I'm still in shock. I haven't been able to remember to do basic things, like pack up my laptop before heading to the office, charge my phone. I forgot where the dog's leashes were, even though we have a hook next to the front door specifically for that purpose.

I lived in Orlando for six years, from late 2004 to mid 2010. For a gay kid, Orlando is a mecca of acceptance. The LGBTQ community is always present, always powerful, always united. The LGBTQ organization at UCF, formerly known as GLBSU and now as Equal, has been the largest in the country for more than a decade.

I spent countless nights at Pulse. College nights were always the biggest draw for my crowd at the time, but the club also acted as host for a variety of fundraisers, community events, birthday parties. It's where we gathered to watch RuPaul's Drag Race and cheers and toast as we watched our local drag queens rise to national prominence. It's where we hosted benefits for HIV and AIDS patients. It's where we went to hold hands, and dance, and flirt, and kiss without anyone batting an eye. Without being an object. Without being laughed at, stared at, hissed at.

Words fail. I've seen countless people write wonderful, moving, eloquent tributes to Pulse, to loved ones, to what happened there Saturday night and Sunday morning. I've always relied on language to bridge continents of emotion and understanding, but there's no strength in my words today. There's no deep grumble in my voice to strengthen these words. Everything is coming out in a whisper.

I feel numb to the media. Every segment makes me reel. How did this happen? Why Pulse? Why our shitty gay bar on the outskirts of downtown? Not that it was too shitty. But it wasn't, you know, a pearl of nightlife. But it was ours. And I loved it. I love every foolish, wild thing I ever did there. I love every time I went there when I should have been doing homework instead. I love every dumb, drunk girl I made out with in the bathroom, every nasty, cheap shot I took there, every cigarette I bummed off a stranger and every fucking person who ever walked through those doors—except one.

One more thing: Pulse was a gay club. Don't let anyone tell you differently.

As you know, there's several LGBTQ clubs in the community, which is great to have. Many people go there to be themselves, so when something like this happens, it's so unexpected, especially in a community that's so open. I go to Pulse and other clubs like Southern [Nights] and the Brink. I'm so in shock about what happened.

Around 2 AM is when things started happening, but that night before 2 AM, my friend and roommate were going out and going clubbing. She asked me if I wanted to go clubbing with her, and I was thinking about it, but I had work the next morning and so did my girlfriend. She went ahead and went clubbing at Southern Nights. Often she'll go to Southern Nights and then Pulse, but she didn't do that on the night of the shooting. It's so weird to think that I could have been there. Maybe we would have decided to go to Pulse? I don't know. Anyway, she texted me before she came home about what had happened at Pulse, and I started looking at Facebook, and my newsfeed had blown up all about the club.

The following day, I was at work, and I would just see more and more about what had happened until finally we got the names of the deceased. And I heard on the radio that Mayor Buddy Dyer spoke about the death toll being 50 when it was originally 20. Maybe [Florida Governor] Rick Scott feels like ignoring the issue, or he doesn't want to confront it, even though he should. On the local level, our own mayor spoke up immediately after this happened. If Rick Scott can't come to terms with what happened or speak up for his state after what happened, that's ridiculous. I don't know what he's thinking or what's going through his mind or what his political agenda may be now that this has happened, but I know that he's definitely against the LGBTQ community.

I was thinking today about whether this week or next week people are going to be showing up to any LGBTQ clubs. I think that I would still go to Southern Nights. I'd probably wait a little bit and then go. As far as Pulse, I doubt it's gonna happen a second time, but then again, you never know. No one could foresee this. I think I might eventually go back, because I don't want this to knock me down.

I worked at Pulse for three years, and I was part of the opening staff. It was a place built out of love. The owner, Barbara Poma, lost her brother to AIDS in the 90s. That was kind of her way to giving back to the community. She worked really closely with an HIV organization that would provide medical services for uninsured and underinsured individuals with HIV and AIDS. She's always been a part of that and sat on the board. Pulse was her first gay club. Her husband owns a couple of restaurants in town that are pretty popular. It was always her project and her baby. It was basically a memorial to her gay brother. It was always a family. Some of the original staff I worked with are still there and were working that night. Kate and Holly are two bartenders who work there who have children, and I was most worried about them. I found out that they were safe that night, which was really a relief.

I was bartending at a gay club here in Las Vegas, which reminds me a lot of Pulse. Same size, similar layout. Because I was working, I had my phone away in my bag. I took it out later in the night to check my messages, and I had about 15 missed texts and calls from my ex-boyfriend and my sister and people I went to college with. I knew something had happened. I just didn't know what. From what I understood, there was a shooting at Pulse. That's all I saw, and I thought it was awful. And I mentioned something to someone at work, and they said, "Oh, you didn't know? It was a terrorist attack." The rest of my night and morning were spent trying to figure out what was going on and make sense of it all, really.

Saturday night I didn't sleep after I found out what happened. I was on social media just trying to figure out if everyone that I knew who was working that night was OK and trying to figure out what was going on. But I managed to fall asleep last night and I slept a lot, so I'm feeling a lot better. It's just so surreal. It still doesn't make sense.

I don't know if Pulse is gonna be able to recover. Barbara and her husband must be devastated. She posted something on Facebook, and I commented on it and sent her my love. I can't imagine after that happening keeping it open, to be honest.

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