The pride pulsing in me.

In June 2016, I had just gone to my first big gay pride. I was just taking the first steps into coming out; my friends new but my extended family didn't. I knew intolerance toward the LGBTQ+ community existed and I was aware of the history of criminalization of and violence toward the community, but I had never really faced it. I was living in a bubble where I didn’t see any threat to my wellbeing when I walked down the street or rode public transportation or went about my normal, daily life. I came out in a time when I could see the White House lit up in rainbow colors for pride, and when same-sex marriage was legal throughout the country. I took being able to be out and proud of who I was for granted. I didn’t understand what Pride meant beyond being a chance to party and I didn’t appreciate all of the activists that spent their lives fighting- and sometimes dying- to gain the rights and acceptance I enjoyed without thinking twice about. Being gay was an interesting personality trait that meant I could put rainbows everywhere just for fun. Pulse changed all of that.

Pulse was the first time I felt threatened because of who I am. It made me want to run back into the safety of the closet and slam the door. Suddenly, I didn’t feel safe walking down the street or riding public transportation or going about my normal life. The feelings of paranoia and fear that thousands of LGBTQ+ people had lived with for hundreds of years finally landed upon my shoulders, violently bursting my Utopian bubble, seemingly crushing me. I wondered if I was safe, if I was next, if I could put rainbows everywhere for fun without also putting a target on my back. Looking back, I know I was a little more paranoid than I should have been, but could you blame me? Pulse wasn’t just a wake up call that burst my bubble. It wasn’t just an incident of harassment on the streets of Salt Lake City I would face two years later when a man would scream at me from across the street to tell me he doesn’t want any faggots in his neighborhood, and that faggots should be tied up and dragged behind a pickup truck - this wake up call was brutal, violent, and deadly. Extreme. To go from rainbows and happiness one day to waking up the next and seeing 49 people had been murdered for being gay was a lot. From that day forward, my life as a gay person in America was no longer rainbows and happiness. My life instantly became constantly looking over my shoulder when I was holding my girlfriend’s hand, carrying keys between my knuckles as I walked alone, and an acute awareness of the people who were around me and what they were doing.
In my memory, Pulse is not just a horrific hate crime against a community. Pulse is the first horrific hate crime against my community that I can remember. It showed me what I would have to spend my life fighting against. It taught me what it means to be a proudly out gay person- that being out is an act of bravery, of protest, of risk. It left me with constant fear, where even on the best days, I wait to hear shots being fired or a bomb going off as I walk down the confetti-covered streets of Salt Lake City after the Pride Parade. But it did not leave me with only fear. It has also been a source of inspiration. To allow it to only fill us with fear and never challenge that fear would be a disservice to those who died that day. It has inspired me to continue living with pride as an act of protest, to study and appreciate the lives dedicated and lost to the fight for equal rights, and to continue that very fight.
The Pulse Massacre was important, but not in the obvious ways. In my memory, it was the first time the fight for equal rights became about life and death. It redefined what it meant to be gay and it inspired, and continues to inspire me. Pulse was not just a tragedy; Pulse helped to define who I am. That’s how I remember the victims, not just today, but every day.