An outpouring of love and grief
The victims, who came from all over the country, are remembered as kind and charismatic.
Loved ones remember the shooting victims, who came from all over the country, as charming and kind.
It was Latin night at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Fla. The DJ played reggae. Club-goers danced against the backdrop of purple and blue lights, sipping their drinks as they swayed.
Then, just after 2 a.m. Sunday, a gunman opened fire and sprayed bullets throughout the club. Fortynine people were killed and more than 50 others were wounded in the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history.
The victims came from all over the country, from Hawaii to New York. A theme park employee “without a mean side.” A protector and confidant. A charismatic singer.
Many of the victims were Latino. At least three Mexican citizens were among those killed, Mexican authorities confirmed Monday; more than half were of Puerto Rican descent, Puerto Rican government officials said.
Some dreamed of becoming emergency medical technicians; others, photographers and nurses. Their mothers waited for them at home and left food for them in case they were hungry when they returned, only to learn later they would never speak to their children again.
Amanda Alvear went to Pulse on Saturday night to dance with her friends. Gay and lesbian clubs were among her favorites because she felt safe to be herself, her family said.
The Polk County, Fla., native had reshaped herself over two years, shedding 180 pounds with the help of gastric bypass surgery and daily workouts. She proudly documented her transformation with her phone.
“Can you tell I look better? Can you tell I look cuter?” she would tease her brother.
The 25-year-old was a graduate of Ridge Community High School in Davenport, Fla., and worked as a pharmacy technician. She planned to be a nurse.
“People got caught in her wake,” her brother, Brian Alvear, said. “Whatever she was doing, that’s what they were going to do and have fun doing it.”
She also loved to take selfies.
In a Snapchat video posted by one of her friends Sunday, Alvear is dancing to the beat of the music booming in the club.
In a series of posts, she sipped her drink and toasted the people watching her feed. Her friends danced around her.
But the next video set a different tone. Alvear held the camera close to her face, her brows furrowed and her eyes filled with confusion. “Shooting,” she said. Seventeen rounds fired off around her. Bang! Bang! Bang! It was her final post. Rosalie Ramos expected her son would come home hungry after a night of dancing at Pulse. She made a tomato and cheese dip and left it in the refrigerator for him.
But her son, Stanley Almodovar III, a pharmacy technician, died in the shooting.
He was hit three times — in the chest, stomach and the side — and died at Orlando Regional Medical Center.
Ramos said her son was a happy man with a big heart. He often fussed with his hair, changing the style. It was dyed Saturday night.
He would have turned 24 this month.
In a video posted on Snapchat, Almodovar laughed and sang on his way to the club. Ramos said she wished she had the video to remember him by.
Friends described Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon as a protector, confidant and hero.
“We grew up in a really small town in Puerto Rico,” Daniel Gmys-Casiano said. “He was going to the same church that I was, and he was always the odd man out. He was bullied constantly. He was different. He would dress in black, wear long sideburns.”
Gmys-Casiano said Wilson-Leon, 37, was the first person he ever told he was gay. He did not know that Wilson-Leon was too.
Wilson-Leon moved to Vero Beach, Fla., soon after, where he quickly became manager of a shoe company and offered Gmys-Casiano a job when he also moved from Puerto Rico.
Wilson-Leon had been with Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35, another fatality in the Pulse nightclub shooting, for about eight years.
“He’s been dealing with hate all his life. We all have,” Gmys-Casiano said. “He never retaliated with hate. He was a very loving person. He was strong. He would stand to protect his friends.”
Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez moved from San Juan, Puerto Rico, to Orlando, where he worked as a visual merchandiser for Forever 21.
On social media, relatives and friends remembered the 50-year-old as a loving person they could always turn to.
One family member, Mahya Veray, posted a photo with Velazquez and said she was trying to not “fall prey to hate.”
“They killed you out of hate for the freedom to be who you are and it makes me hurt inside because if there was anyone who always had a smile, who helped me … it was you,” she wrote.
“Todavía no lo creo,” wrote Shiela De Jesus, another of Velazquez’s friends.
“I still can’t believe it.”