Stonewall Inn vigil for Orlando shooting victims

I went to the Stonewall vigil for the Orlando victims because my heart told me to.

Also because the spin class I took after work was in Chelsea and I don’t know if Francisco (our instructor) did it on purpose but the warm-up was Latin music with party lights and I nearly panicked when I made the connection: this was probably sort of how it looked and sounded on Saturday night at two a.m. before all the murders, and intellectually I knew I would not likely be shot in a basement cycling studio but I pedaled harder all the same, partly to relieve my anxiety and partly in honor of the scores of humans who no longer had heartbeats.

After class I called my gay friend Matt, thinking I’d pay him a visit if he was at his apartment a few blocks away. He answered with a subdued tone and told me he was at the Stonewall vigil. He asked if I was going back uptown and I said yes and made loose plans to see him next week, then told him I loved him and hung up.

And then instead of getting on a train I started walking south. I did it because my first thought was that I didn’t belong at that vigil and that it was not my cause to fight, and as soon as I had that thought I hated it.

I remembered an Instagram post I saw yesterday that said the worst thing we could do was be silent, that our voices as allies were important, that our gay friends and family needed to hear from us, that even if we didn’t know what to say, silence said the worst.

I didn’t know what to say, though, so I didn’t call Matt yesterday. Being in his neighborhood made it feel more real: I just wanted to hug him.

Which is another reason I headed down to the Stonewall: I just wanted to hug him. He’s not really the clubbing type but even so, it could have been him, killed because his sexual orientation is other than mainstream. Dead because he is attracted to men instead of women, as if it’s any of our business.

It took about fifteen minutes to get there and on the way I concluded I will need to find a new church. The one I have been attending is big on teaching the gospel but on Sunday they didn’t say a word about Orlando. Not even an allusion. I got more acknowledgment from the spin class soundtrack (which also included “Born This Way”).

Meanwhile, the church where I work was discussing a response first thing this morning and is planning a vigil for the weekend. I haven’t watched their Sunday sermons yet but I can guarantee you they addressed the issue.* The church where I work is openly accepting of all sexual orientations. The church I have been attending avoids the topic. If pressed, they conclude the only biblically acceptable form of intercourse is heterosexual.

I was going to that church at my boyfriend’s suggestion even though I didn’t like that I could never invite Matt to join me, not without feeling weird about it. I’d protested initially, referencing my discomfort with their stance, and he wanted to know why I thought an issue that didn’t directly affect me was more important than our relationship.

He’s not my boyfriend anymore and I don’t think I can go to that church anymore and I had to walk down to the Stonewall exactly because I could, because I am alive and breathing and I live in New York City and I love my friend and I wanted to show up for him, to do something more than just tell him I loved him. I imagined the surprise and appreciation he might feel when I suddenly appeared at his side. Showing him I’m on his side. The right side—the only side, really. The side of love.

I underestimated the crowds. It turned out to be impossible to find my friend but I soaked in the experience anyway. I listened to forty-nine names be read aloud and honored by a thousand people who never knew them. I heard the roar of “not one more” and wished that could be true. I held up my cell phone flashlight in lieu of a candle.

And lest you think it was all solemn and poetic, I must report that before those names were read aloud, the crowd was chanting to hear them (“Say the names! Say the names!”), and a group at the back started yelling out the names and ages on their own, and then whoever was at the mic running the show finally started officially saying the names, but the rogue group was still yelling, so then people in the crowd started yelling at the group in the back (“Shut the f*ck up! They’re f*cking saying them!”).

In other words, it was New York. And I felt the pride.

Love > fear,

Christina

 

 

*I checked. I was right.