The only way forward after Pulse

GROWING UP IN RURAL OREGON, I OFTEN DREAMED of a world where I could be all of myself. A world where I didn't feel the nagging societal pressure to be "Black enough" for some spaces and "white enough" for others. A world that saw my queerness not as a deal breaker, but as a superpower.

- BRANDON WOLF

Pulse nightclub embodied that for me. After packing two suitcases and running away to the refuge of Orlando, I found what I had been looking for. The spinning disco balls dared all of us to dance like no one was watching. The beats radiating from the floorboards unearthed our authenticity, nudging us into rhythmic protest against a world that had always told us to uncross our legs, stiffen our wrists, and deepen our voices. Inside those walls, we were normal.

When I close my eyes at night, I can remember the moments when that normal shattered into a million shards on June 12, 2016. I can feel it, hear it, see it. The vibrant poster above the urinal. The cup teetering on the edge of the sink, perched precariously as if it might tumble to the tiles below. The first cracks of gunfire from an assault rifle. The stench of blood and smoke wafting into the room.