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Enough. Enough. Enough.

Everyone at work today remarked about how well I looked – how much more rested and less stressed I appeared. I replied with comments about the curative power of Alabama’s micaceous red clay, gave a fake smile or two, and inwardly rolled my eyes.

The past several days have been exhausting in every way imaginable – in many ways for positive reasons, with one notable exception.

The staggering toll of the Orlando hate crime seeps into the fore of my mind every other moment. The faces of the dead slowly begin to emerge; we learn about their lives, loves, passions, dreams – all cut short by the hands of a disgusting waste of human flesh. His selfied face becomes the one plastered across the subconscious of so many television viewers – not those of his victims. And it makes me ill.

So many of my LGBTQ friends are having a hard time with this one, which is a horrible thing to write – “this one,” as if the other tragic mass shootings are any less horrific. But the fact of the matter is this was a hate crime – a deliberate, calculated attack on the lives of LGBTQ people.

It is different for us.

***

A tiny bar tucked away in the far reaches of Tuscaloosa’s downtown, Michael’s was more than a bar; it was a haven for fledgling LGBTs, each like me – unsure, cautious, exhilarated, terrified. But despite those initial feelings of unease, I felt safe when I passed through the doors; these were my people.

It was one of the first places I felt comfortable in my own skin, and the first place I got groped by a crush and felt alive in a way I’d never felt before. I laughed and screeched along to horrible karaoke and stuffed dollar bills into a drag show performer’s nylons for charity; I started to transform into someone I felt could actually make a life and be happy.

And then my friends and I stepped back outside, into the cool of the deeply late evening.

“FAGS!”

“COCKSUCKERS!”

“ASS-LICKERS!”

A bottle shattered in the gutter.

My mind stopped working; my self-esteem plummeted, and I reverted to my antisocial cocoon – all while humming to myself, “Get back to the car. Just get back to the car.”

The small group of fraternity brothers hovered on the side of the street opposite the bar door; they raised their fists, spat, gave us the finger, and made sudden, aggressive moves toward us.

Just get back to the car, back to the goddamned car…

I was sobering up fast. But then, the unexpected happened.

“OKAY! YOU WANNA ROLL, MOTHERFUCKERS? C’MON, I’LL DRIVE MY FIST SO FAR UP YOUR ASSES…”

Our self-described matriarch began crowing back, which is when I realized a few things.

 We’re not punching bags.

We can fight back.

We’re in much better shape than them.

We can be scary too.

We’re family.

We took up a cacophonous chorus, each of us stitching together our entire repertoire of obscenities, and watched the band of misfits melt back into their beer-soaked truck, disappearing entirely.

For the first time, I felt I had a voice.

I felt alive.

I felt I could make a difference.

I felt right.

***

A decade later, I know there will always be broken glass to dodge. But I do know something for certain: I am right.

And so were all the victims.

Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34

Stanley Almodovar III, 23

Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22

Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36

Luis S. Vielma, 22

Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22

Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20

Kimberly Morris, 37

Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30

Darryl Roman Burt II, 29

Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32

Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25

Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35

Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50

Amanda Alvear, 25
Martin Benitez Torres, 33

Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37

Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26

Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35

Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25

Oscar A Aracena-Montero, 26

Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31

Enrique L. Rios Jr., 25

Miguel Angel Honorato, 30

Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40

Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19

Cory James Connell, 21

Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37

Luis Daniel Conde, 39

Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24

Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32

Frank Hernandez, 27

Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33

Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49

Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28

Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25

Akyra Monet Murray, 18

Paul Terrell Henry, 41

Antonio Davon Brown, 29

Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24

Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21

Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33

Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25

Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24

Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32

Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25

Jerald Arthur Wright, 31

Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25

Jean C. Nieves Rodriguez, 27

May they rest in power, their memories kept alive in the fight for justice, compassion, and understanding.

For our humanity.

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Pulse

I don’t realize how hard I’m clenching the waded paper towel until I turn from the television to look out the window and lose my balance, my hold loosening as I re-center.

My parents’ dogs have just been bathed, and are rolling around in the sun-bleached grass. I try and lose myself in their simple revelry, but know I can’t. My mind is swirling with the news anchors’ voices, the phrases “domestic terrorism,” “deadliest mass shooting in nation’s history,” “lone wolf,” and, occasionally, “LGBT community.”

I can’t breathe, and start sweating; my chest tightens and face burns. I grab my camera and walk out, up the gravel drive past the dogs – the youngest’s plaintive cries to tag along drifting away as I quicken pace.

Every step on the gravel sounds like a series of crashing cymbals; everything is amplified. I snap a photo of newly bloomed flowers, and try to map on a heartening metaphor, but fall short. A turkey feather catches my eye, and I dissect it through the lens; it’s nothing special, and completely uninteresting – but I have to focus on something, anything other than the rapid-fire thoughts pounding inside my skull.

I wonder how frequently the lives of those lost will be glossed over, their identities stripped and tamed and drained of color to be palatable enough for mass media consumption; how frequently “hate crime” will be disjointed from the narrative of this horrible attack; that “domestic terrorist” will become the coward’s moniker, divorced wholly from his anti-LGBTQ bias and motivation; that the fuel to his sickening fire was never spurred by our own politicians’ hate speech and rhetoric, but rather from “over there,” from “The Enemy,” “Them.”

I worry about our future, and mourn those whose futures were ripped from them – taken in an instant that should’ve been filled with joy and laughter, part of a series of rhythmic vibrations to club music, to living. Each of them should’ve been leaving exhausted and hung-over and sore from dancing, not having their lives become part of a protracted national narrative about hate and guns.

But then I watch the lines to blood banks grow longer, and hear calls to action ring out from more than LGBTQ groups. Where ignorance inspires hateful action, hope springs like seedlings from the earth, ready to grow. We must be constant gardeners.

***

A few feet away, our childhood seesaw hangs broken and rotted, a testament to the passage of time. Behind me, the wind gusts forcefully, nearly blowing me from the molding deer stand’s ladder-like steps.

But instead of bracing against it, I turn and face it. Eyes brimming with tears, I look to the horizon, to the infinite space before me, and murmur, “Keep dancing. Keep living. That’s how we’ll prevail.”

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A Heritage of Hate

Just when I think I’ve heard every absurd argument for keeping the Confederate flag flying, I’m treated to the latest – which I’ll paraphrase: “Well, the flag didn’t do anything wrong.”

Of course it didn’t. Symbols can’t do anything. But we can – mostly because we give symbols their power. After all, symbols are malleable things.

When we really get down to it, a symbol is a nexus – where the tangible world meets abstract thought. Symbols are time machines – allowing the past to inhabit and co-mingle with the future. They can embolden and destroy inasmuch as we allow them to.

Tragically, our society is light-years behind other nations in doing as much as we can to right the insidious wrongs of the past, including the long overdue retirement and removal of certain symbols from government-controlled, public spaces. What’s more, one of the only ways we seem to collectively act is when some horrific incident triggers a shock wave through our social consciousness. And even then, oftentimes nothing of substance is done. All that’s left is anger or confusion surrounding the memories of the dead – as with the cases of Rekia Boyd, Michael Brown, Kimberlee Randle-King, Trayvon Martin, Natasha McKenna, Eric Garner, John Crawford, Dante Parker, Ezell Ford, Freddie Gray, and all of the other women and men – LGBTQIA and straight alike – whose lives were cut short. We have moments of silence to remember. And then we forget. And we go about our days until another victim’s name reverberates in our heads, until another Sandy Hook or Aurora happens and we shake our heads and say “Something has to be done.” Just like I did when I woke up last Wednesday, opened Facebook, and wondered aloud, “What in the hell happened in Charleston?”

What we can do is this: face the facts. Who cherishes the Confederate flag and believes it honors the nation? I can think of a few groups. And there’s little to no racial diversity among them. Of course, when I’ve said that, I’ve heard the other argument (it’s more like a whine, really): “Just because I’m against taking down the Confederate flag doesn’t mean I’m a racist.” Actually, in all likelihood, it does. Let’s face it: anyone against this can only bumble through the semantic shuffle so long before the ugly bits that’re so often veiled are brought to light, or are woven into the tired, moldy chestnut about “heritage not hate.” Whose heritage exactly? Oh, right. The slave-holding Confederacy’s heritage. (And yes, of course there may have been some wonderfully decent people who thought slavery was as disgusting as it was, but got lumped into the rank-and-file and fought for the Confederacy. But you know what? I’m pretty sure those folks would be okay with removing the flag.)

As a born-and-bred southerner, I have to say I’ve never associated that flag with anything good or positive. It always elicited a visceral reaction – one of disgust and fear; it was (and still is) a tacitly understood warning. It’s a symbol whose past is drenched in blood, whose meaning has become so enmeshed with the disgusting atrocities of history that it largely fails to represent anything other than the violence and racism that wove it into existence.

If this country really wants to do something to start mending race relations, we have to start back at square one and remove symbols that celebrate dehumanization and subjugation.

The flag has to come down. It’s the only option.

We owe it to Cynthia Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance, Rev. DePayne Middleton-Doctor, Rev. Clementa Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, Rev. Daniel Simmons Sr., Rev. Sharonda Singleton, and Myra Thompson.

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Bonded, James Bonded

Okay, so I already wrote this post once. Then accidentally deleted it in a flurry of excitement surrounding the latest episode of The Walking Dead.

Worse yet, the episode sucked. 

The Post Lost Forever was much better, mostly because it was infused with the enthusiasm borne out of a day off work. So forgive this iteration’s jagged edges.

But first, let’s start off with the good news: Daniel Craig isn’t a bigot. Or at least I don’t think so. The bad news? Plenty of his fans definitely are. Well, at least some bubbas.

***

This past Saturday, I wasn’t focused on the movies or James Bond, and I certainly wasn’t contemplating the politics of cinema. With my parents leaving town, and Andy receiving the Parental Seal of Approval with flying colors, we figured a little downtime was in order. And seeing as how movies provide much needed escapist fodder in our post-work day routine, we thought something splashed across the big-screen was appropriate.

Double-plus bonus: it was late. That meant the crotchety seniors were well into bed, and the hormone-high tweens had been picked up in minivans hours ago, taking their overinflated senses of misunderstood selves with them, along with their manic texting, LOLs, and like-cluttered drivel. The theatre closest to our place was a magnet for drunken undergraduates, so we’d be free of them, too.

After driving to the far-flung theatre and paying an exorbitant amount for Sour Jacks and Mike and Ikes, we settled into the unexpectedly crowded theatre.

But I really didn’t think about anything other than the movie, and sharing it with Andy.

And Sour Jacks. Always Sour Jacks.

***

By the time Skyfall started, I’d eaten almost all of our candy, and knew I’d have to sit through a painfully long introduction full of Bond poses, shooting, blood splatter, scantily-clad women, and random explosions.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Before I knew it, Bond had gotten blasted right off the train (Spoiler alert! Or was I supposed to write that before I gave it away? Oh well.), and I halfway expected the 28 Days Later actress responsible for his big fall to be attacked by rage-fueled sacks of flesh as she sat contemplating her unfortunate gunnery.

Meanwhile, Judi Dench made some caustic remarks, because she’s friggin Judi Dench and can do that. And Bond fed a sex-slave’s bodyguard to a komodo dragon, had shower sex, and ventured onto a deserted island resort city—which, coincidentally, Andy had told me about the day before.

A bad dye job later, we were vis-à-vis with Silva. Everyone in the theatre seemed to like his eccentricities.

But the minute it became clear his hands were getting pretty homey with Bond’s inner thighs (a.k.a., the Holy Lands), the audience erupted with expletives, gasps, and slightly muffled epithets.

That’s the moment when Andy and I were ripped off the island and brought crashing back into the overstuffed movie seats—to reality. In such an unexpected way that I thought I was dreaming. But when I shot a glance to Andy, I could tell it wasn’t a dream.

More of a nightmare than anything.

It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark. Just what lurks under its convenient veil. And, in that moment, I thought of the rash of very public shootings and violence earlier this year, and how easily nighttime and a generalized mob mentality can become quick bedfellows.

That’s where I hate to be: the edge—on it, wondering when I’m going to be reminded of my slight difference, and by whom. And I hate the feelings of helplessness associated with that liminal position. Knowing that, if I say anything—go right over the precipice—I’ll be putting more than myself in jeopardy.

So we took it.

In darkness.

In silent solidarity—bonded.

And sat as our movie experience was derailed, unbeknownst to those surrounding us.

***

And then we watched as a victim of the sex trade—having been bound and tortured—was shot in the head.

The response: nothing.

Not even a gasp.

Clearly, the majority of our lovely audience preferred rape, imprisonment, and misogyny over the slightest hints of homoeroticism. (Which reminded me why Romney/Ryan won NC. But I digress.)

And while I’m sure the loudest objecting bubbas pitched tents with every rub of Silva’s hands, I couldn’t help but become more embittered about the double standard LGBTs still face—how any sign of affection is perceived as an explicit display; how every exchange is suspect; how everything we do is thrown before voyeurs, who are afforded the ability to pass legislated judgment on our lives. Who take our lives in their hands and play with them.

Or end them.

Do I care about straight people showing affection? No. Would I have been equally as distressed to see the Bond-Silva exchange transpire with two opposite-sex actors? Yes. The principal elements are Bond’s captivity, and Silva’s insinuations of Bond’s imminent death.

Is there a sexual overtone to the whole scene? Sure. When isn’t there with captivity, regardless of the players’ biological sex?

***

So, as the rest of the movie blurred by, and Skyfall fell into a fiery heap, I focused on the little things.

Like how Bond joked about Silva’s hands, and didn’t care about the villain’s sexual wiring.

Like how he focused on life and living over everything else.

Like how we all get shaken and stirred.

But it’s what’s left that counts.

Shaken, but delicious.