Commentary: Pulse survivor says LGBTQ community needs more safe spaces of acceptance.
Coming out of the closet is an act of courage. It is accompanied by an oversized helping of anxiety about how the world will react to you, dread about what spaces you will no longer be welcome in, and fear of being rejected by those you love the most. It is a public confrontation with the façade you have carefully crafted: a defiant choice to slip into your skinniest pair of jeans, the bold decision to push past the lump in your throat to steal a kiss from your longtime crush. For LGBTQ people, coming out often means exposing yourself to discrimination, bigotry, and violence.
That’s why we carve out safe spaces. They are lifelines for LGBTQ people, little bits of refuge in a world that meets our very existence with outward hostility. For many in the community, churches are not affirming, classrooms are unwelcoming and the homes we grow up in end up casting us aside. But tucked away on the corner of a dance floor or gathered around a table at The Center, we find belonging.
Pulse was a safe space. By the summer of 2016, I had been there so many times, I could have navigated the building with my eyes closed. The beaded coverings that shrouded the doorway. The long bar in the back of the room inviting you to rest an elbow. The raucous patio, its wooden fence a silent shield from the prying eyes of the outside world. The whirling disco ball that dared you to dance like no one was watching. Pulse was freedom.
That’s why, five years later, what happened there still invokes a universal pain in LGBTQ communities everywhere. On June 12, 2016, a gunman barreled through the front door and opened fire. But he didn’t just snuff out 49 lives and shatter those of hundreds more. In a blaze of gunfire, the shooter invaded our safe space. He ransacked every LGBTQ refuge across the globe with every round. In an instant, the veil of our chosen home, our secret hideaway, was ripped off, our darkest fears laid bare for the world to see.
The violent invasion of Pulse was a physical manifestation of what LGBTQ people fear long before they make the decision to come out. The shooting was confirmation that to be authentic is to be vulnerable and a haunting reminder that the violence of bigotry is simmering just beneath society’s surface. Data from the Department of Justice has shown a sharp increase in hate-motivated violence with 2019 reported incidents the highest since 2008. Of those, nearly 20% were aimed at LGBTQ people.
We have seen incredible progress on LGBTQ civil rights in the past decade. Marriage equality became the law of the land in 2015. A conservative-majority Supreme Court declared that our community is protected under civil rights law in 2020. And in the state of Florida, our own Commission on Human Relations announced it would process claims of discrimination against LGBTQ people under Florida’s civil-rights statute. But, with great progress comes intense backlash. This moment in time is no exception.
In their quest for political power, GOP legislators across the country have taken aim at the LGBTQ community, introducing an unprecedented onslaught of bigoted bills targeting the most marginalized among us: transgender kids. It should come as no surprise that Florida’s first anti-LGBTQ law since 1997 comes at the expense of misunderstood and mischaracterized young people, a segment of society without the collective political power to fight back. The state legislature has been hijacked by a right-wing culture war; school board meetings manipulated into political flashpoints.
Days after the shooting at Pulse, we held a funeral service for my best friend Drew. I was a pallbearer that day and every step with his casket was excruciating. When we got to the front of the Cathedral Church of St. Luke, I looked down at his polished wooden box and made a promise: that I would never stop fighting for a world that he would be proud of. That must be the legacy of our community’s darkest day.
The decision to live authentically and openly is a courageous one for LGBTQ people. But this community, five years after we stared down the flames of hatred and chose to rise out of the ashes more unified, has an opportunity to blaze a new path forward.
We know what it takes to build a future where coming out and living authentically no longer invoke anxiety and fear. We have an opportunity to create that world my best friend would be proud of, a world that values everyone and has no place for hate. We have the chance to be a safe space for all. We can honor the 49 victims of Pulse with a legacy that reshapes the future. We simply have to choose to honor them with action.
We have the chance to be a safe space for all. We can honor the 49 victims of Pulse with a legacy that reshapes the future. We simply have to choose to honor them with action.