Orlando

Orlando

I’m not intentionally staying silent, it’s just that I don’t have the words.

I don’t have the words for the guilt I feel over allowing myself to become desensitized to this kind of news, and how when I first heard it was 20 people I thought, “My God, that’s terrible,” before going about my normal routine.

I don’t have the words to express how foolish and embarrassed I feel that for some reason when the number became 49, that made me cry, like there is a certain number of lives that have to be taken before my grief really kicks in.

I don’t have the words for the shame I feel for being so blinded by my own privilege it took me a moment to understand the significance of the murderer targeting GLBTQs. (I am heterosexual and don’t have to think about these things.)

I don’t have the words to describe why I can’t go to one more vigil or rally or protest because they don’t inspire me and make me feel connected anymore; they make me feel tired and hopeless.

I don’t have the words for the level of disgust I feel over the hypocrisy from people who call themselves “prolife” yet won’t even do so much as engage in a conversation about gun control measures.

I don’t have the words to explain how entirely unfair it is that we are once again asking Muslims to prove themselves worthy of their right to be here, which is something we never ask of white men when they kill.

I don’t have the words to describe how I feel so defeated I have given up thinking anything will change. If the slaughter of 6 and 7-year-olds does nothing, how am I supposed to believe we will somehow care more when it happens to brown-skinned gays?

I don’t have the words to express the level of rage I felt when I saw a friend share an anti-Muslim opinion piece on her Facebook page, along with her own words: “Do not let the media and Liberals distract you with the fact that a gun was used, or of the sexual orientation of the target,” as if the facts don’t matter, as if it’s better to create our own narrative so we don’t have to admit the truth about the kind of people we have become.

I don’t have the words to say how relieved I am that my loved ones are safe, how this could have easily happened to one of them. It could have been me, even, as there was a time, in my younger days, when I spent my weekends in gay clubs because they were welcoming and made me feel safe.

I don’t have the words for the despair and anxiety I feel because I know it is only a matter of time before the next massacre comes.

I don’t have the words to tell the GLBTQ people in my life how much I love them, never in spite of how they identify, but because they are entirely glorious just as they are.

I don’t have the words to express how much desperation was behind my need to take my daughter in my arms last night and, through tears, tell her she will never have to hide who she is from me.

 

 

 

I’m not intentionally staying silent, it’s just that I don’t have the words.

 

 

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