One Year On From Pulse

On 12th June 2016, Omar Mateen shot dead 49 people and seriously injured another 58 in the worst mass shooting in American history and the deadliest act of terror since 9/11. The attack took place at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida on a special Latino night for the LGBT community.

I don't tend to remember specific details about these sorts of events. Who would want to? But I didn't have to look any of that up whilst typing this tonight. I remember the exact amount of people who died. I remember the exact amount of others who were injured. I remember the nature of the night it happened. And I remember the name of the callous coward who committed the atrocity. I remember the exact moment as I saw the BBC break the news and the stream of comments on Twitter afterwards. I remember the hours, watching intently into the early morning, as if I was watching some sick horror movie but with tears streaming down my face. I remember the pain.

This happened miles away, on the other side of the world's largest ocean, but the impact it had on me, and many others was profound. Even a week later, the lonely LGBT bar in our non-important town of Bedford in England was quiet. The idea of a safe place for queer people had been smashed before our very eyes, in bloodshed and in war. All of a sudden, despite this murder taking place in a far away land, I felt a tinge of anxiety. That safe place had gone.

I remember the very first time I stepped foot in a gay bar. The Barley Mow, standing tall for nearly two centuries, welcomed it's newest member. A whole new world of camp, of drag queens and language. A plethora of camp; a concoction of dance moves, wigs and in-jokes creating a brand new world. A bubble of fun and ridiculous cocktails.

On 12th June 2016, the bubble burst.

It's difficult to explain the emotion of that night. Part of me felt immense pain, yet part of me felt like I shouldn't. I didn't know any of these people. I have never even been to the States. Yet, I knew of their struggles. Their desperation to be themselves and to be accepted and that huge sense of relief when you step inside four walls that accept you. Where you can be as gay as you damn well wished without fear of repercussion or violence. In a very small yet significant way, I felt connected to them.

That night, I took my Pride flag from out of my work bag and pinned it to the bedroom wall above my bed. It remains there to this day, reminding me how lucky I am. How lucky that I wasn't born 30 years ago and lived through the extreme prejudice and the AIDS crisis. How lucky I am that I was born in a country that (eventually) gave us equal rights, and not Iran or Chechnya. How lucky I am that there were people out there who were willing to give their lives and their blood so we could live ours so freely.

And I prayed.

I don't know why. I am by no means religious, but I did so because I wanted those 49 people to end up in a place where they could be happy. In sheer desperation I suppose, I wanted there to be a God so that he could comfort them. I prayed for those 49 souls to be given the opportunity to be themselves, wherever they may be and to continue living the lives their predecessors had granted them.