We must turn our rage into action.
On June 12, 2016, I escaped Pulse Nightclub with my life.
That was the moment, now four years ago, when I first learned to channel rage and pain into action. Some memories of that night are lost behind a traumatic haze. But others are crystal clear.
I remember the thumping Latin music. The unbridled joy of a space safe for me to bring my whole self. A plastic cup teetering on the edge of a bathroom sink. Gunshots — endless gunshots. A panicked sprint for the exit. I remember waiting on a street corner for news, dialing my best friend Drew’s number countless times. I remember when I finally realized he would never pick up. By sunrise, 49 people, including Drew and his partner Juan, had been killed by a man filled to the brim with hatred and armed with weapons of war.
The anger and heartbreak set in almost immediately. I was crushed by the reality of a future without my best friends, the anger that generations of leaders prioritizing campaign contributions over our lives had left us squarely in the cross hairs. I was furious at assertions that it was “not the right time” to talk about gun violence and hate, a public acknowledgment of our unwillingness to face our own failings.
It felt as though the entire nation was eager to mourn with us then quickly change the channel, a familiar prescription of outrage-rinse-repeat designed to treat America’s symptoms while leaving the original infection to fester. The world was simultaneously talking about Pulse and threatening to erase our pain altogether.
I found myself faced with a choice: bottle my rage and allow it to consume me or turn it into action, a way to fuel my demands for justice.
America faces a similar crossroads today. Will we allow this rage to devour us? Or will we honor the ones we’ve lost with action, using our fury to fight the machine that is white supremacy?
We watched as a nation the killing of George Floyd. The 8 minutes and 46 seconds laid bare the casual cruelty, the normalization of police violence against black people. And the sickening knowledge that this was not an aberration.
Now, in all 50 states, we are saying enough. People have poured into the streets to reject the violence plaguing us. For every image of peaceful protests we see police in riot gear. For every scene of police taking a knee in solidarity with the message of marchers, we see video of rubber bullets, pepper spray and batons being used to disperse crowds. With the pained screams of a nation grappling with the open wound of racism, I feel a rage bubbling up again.
I grieve for the loss of George Floyd. I am heartbroken for an America paralyzed by the sinister parts of its history. I am angered at the unanswered demands that we confront systemic racism and institutionalized injustice. Centuries of refusal to address our original sin have led this country to a fork in its destiny. And it is up to us to decide what comes next.
Drew’s funeral service was held a few days after the shooting at Pulse. As we walked down the aisle, I gripped the side of his casket so tightly I thought my fingers might snap. I couldn’t bring myself to let go until I had found the right words to say goodbye. I looked down and whispered, “I will never stop fighting for a world you’d be proud of.”
I committed to honor him with action. But that action was never about advocating for a handful of policies that might return us to the days before the shooting. Honoring Drew and the other victims was and continues to be about fighting for a world free of hate and bigotry, a world that treats everyone with dignity and respect.
I know the stinging pain our nation is feeling. It has taken the form of screams into my pillow, tears spilled on the bathroom floor. But it has also become my power. It is the strength of my feet to keep marching, the force behind my fist in the air. The anguish of America today is the catalyst for us to shape who we will be tomorrow.
We have so much work to do. But that work begins when we channel our collective outrage into cries for better and a refusal to look the other way. It begins when people are no longer comfortable sharing #BlackLivesMatter while benefiting from a system that treats those black lives as less than. It begins with a demand for real justice, a justice that exposes the cogs of bigotry and commits to the work of dismantling them.
Our work is about registering and mobilizing voters. It is about educating people on the issues. It is about electing politicians who know our lived experiences, hear our voices, and care enough to act. But it is also about protest. And resistance. It is about forcing this country to live in its discomfort, reimagine its potential, and refuse the status quo.
The silent promise I made to my best friend is the challenge we face today. George Floyd. Ahmaud Arbery. Breonna Taylor. And on the eve of Pride Month, the shooting of black trans man Tony McDade by Tallahassee police. Countless victims of systemic racism, bigotry, and violence that stretch back generations.
We are faced with the opportunity to honor them with our righteous indignation — to turn it into a rallying cry for a world they would be proud of. A world where we face the uncomfortable tentacles of racism instead of sweeping them under the rug. A world where equity is a reality and black lives matter. A world where “justice for all” is an institution, not a slogan.
We are challenged to honor them with our voices, our votes, our commitment to facing the ugly truths of this nation, and our stubborn insistence that we deserve more. We are challenged to honor them with action.