Connected to Orlando: An Autoethnography in Three(ish) Acts

ACT II

“We Must Remember That the Orlando Shooting Happened At a Gay Club on Latin Night” (c)

It wouldn’t be till later in the day on Sunday that I would learn that it was Latin Night at Pulse.

It’s Monday and I drag myself out of bed to go to the gym. The gym is a space for me to feel productive, and in the moment of tragedy, I need to do something. Before I leave, I check Facebook on my phone. What do we know now? Do we know who the victims are? Who was the shooter?

Christian, an acquaintance from the gym, has been posting nonstop on Facebook since Sunday morning. He is a young Latino man, invested heavily in communities of color, but presents as White. We became friends on Facebook after realizing our shared sexual orientation through the dating app Grindr. As a recent college graduate, he struggles to remain active in gay, fraternal, collegiate, and activist communities while balancing the needs of his job. In the ever-becoming process of ally-ship, I’ve been reposting many of his shared articles and posts. It is my way of bringing forward minority voices without replacing them. Facebook and other social media provide a unique opportunity because you can re-share and attribute ownership the words of those who are not often given the chance to speak. Between official posts from new sources and commentary from social activists, Christian has been posting about his own emotional struggle with the events in Orlando.

When I get to the gym, he’s doing arm curls with an EZ curl bar. He is muscular but slim, and his biceps are visible through each movement. In-between sets of exercises, with rest periods that seem to get progressively longer, he is tuned in to his cell phone. Instead of a real greeting, which I am accustomed to, he gives me a head nod. We both continue our workouts in silence.

About an hour later, we both head to the showers around the same time. For some time, the locker room has been a slightly flirtatious space, checking each other out as we change and shower. The subtle sexual innuendo is an ego booster for both of us, and in some ways signals a sense of solidarity before facing the rest of the day. Given the events of the weekend, which I cannot say vocally except to call it “Orlando,” the flirtation is something that would be welcome. I see him in the shower, and I steal glances, attempting to build the bridge of flirtation. He heads out some time later, without directly responding.

I finish toweling off and sit down at my locker. I pull out my cell phone and send him a quick text.

Although I would consider him an acquaintance, the sharing of tragedy makes me want to reach out. I’ve found myself randomly checking in on people, asking if they are alright. I think I just want to know that I’m not the only one in pain. It’s like I am there, at ground zero, and I’m checking for survivors. Nudging limp bodies to see whether they are responsive. Trying to do what I can, and in so doing, do something . I feel helpless.

I feel like he’s blowing me off. He’s not letting me in. He’s not letting me help. I know he’s not doing well from his Facebook posts. I know he’s been crying every few hours. I know he feels angry that the Black community hasn’t been supportive—a community with which he has tirelessly worked to be an ally throughout the #BlackLivesMatter movement. I know he’s locked himself in his office since he left the gym. I know he hasn’t slept well either. It’s a lie. It’s a façade. Am I doing this too?

I need him to let me help. I’m being selfish and I’m pleading. I cannot fix the chaotic destruction in Orlando. I need to feel connection with the community. I need to make something better. I don’t let up.

A pragmatic response. Is he blowing me off, or is this his way of coping? Is this his way of communicating with an acquaintance? He was much more forthcoming about his emotions on Facebook. Is there a masculine front that he is still trying to keep intact? Either way, it’s an opening for me to do something.

I feel a bit cheap for a moment. Am I buying his friendship? Will he interpret my offer that way? Can I reconcile my desire to help with the knowledge that helping is my coping mechanism? I shake the thoughts from my head. There is something about moments of crisis that can make material exchanges string-less. There is a giving that I witnessed during the events of September 11 and during my little brother’s near-death appendicitis. There is a need to give of the self in order to will things better. A form of pragmatic disbelief? A desire to counter the negative with the positive? A need to rewrite the narrative?

“I can swing by in a wee bit. Do you want me to come to your office?”

“Yeah please. Like actually in my office crying TBH.” (to be honest)

I swing by an ATM on my way and take out a bit more money than he asked for. It’s just numbers and pieces of paper. In the light of lost lives and homophobia and everything, I can’t bring myself to care about it. I recognize that this may be my privilege as a White man talking. I recognize that I’ve been invasive to Christian twice today, both times due to my needs. I cringe at the internal conversation. How must he feel, impacted as both a gay man and a Latino man? And here I am demanding his attention for my needs. In trying to find connection with another gay man, how did I erase Christian’s Latinoness? By the time I’ve realized my own callousness, my own potential to do harm, I’ve already committed to go to his office. I’m running roughshod over someone who is hurting from the events more than I am. Even in the act of offering help, how am I continuing to put my needs ahead of Christian’s? Guilt, frustration, loneliness, anger: over Orlando, over my own actions, over my own frailty. I feel like a lesser person. Again.

When I get to his office, I quietly ask the receptionist which room is his. I’ve never been here. It’s probably the first time I’ve talked to another person since Saturday night. I can’t speak loudly. I find his door and knock. He opens it slightly and lets me in. The circles under his bloodshot eyes betray that he has been crying again. I ask how he’s holding up. He doesn’t think he’ll get any work done today. It’s all awkward and perfunctory. I give him some cash. I give him a hug and wish him well. I feel his need for comfort and my need for comfort meet. I let myself out, shutting the door behind me. I quickly walk past the front desk and into the crowd of people outside. My eyes start to tear up. This is all too much. Fuck this. Fuck this so much.

I’m on edge. I’m listening for casual homophobia in crowds. I’m listening for text notifications. I’m listening for gunfire.

It’s not late, but I head home. I’m tired. I can’t get to sleep.

ACT III

“What do we call the attack in Orlando? ‘Hate crime’ or ‘terrorism?’” (e)

It’s Monday night and one of the many articles I repost on Facebook is a news article debating whether the Orlando shooting should be considered a “hate crime” or “terrorism.” I’ve spent the better part of the evening moving among social media sites, piecing together narratives and press releases, disseminating and accumulating information. General Tso’s chicken from the local take-out Chinese restaurant, a comfort food, is half-eaten and cold at my computer. In the midst of scrolling through Twitter tweets, I get a message from Conrad.

Conrad is a recent college graduate who lives in the Midwest. I met him through a Facebook weightlifting group, where he shares his experience as an amateur power-lifter. He’s young, straight, and White, but he’s experienced quite a few hardships; an abusive family, moments of poverty, and intense social exclusion. In many ways, his experiences share several striking similarities to the narratives of exclusion faced by gay youth. Perhaps that’s why he often asks me questions about being gay. We’ve talked a bit through Facebook messenger and phone texting. I’ve yet to meet him in person, though we now follow each other on Snapchat and Instagram.

Given previous conversations, it is unsurprising when he sends me the following:

Conrad’s question gives me pause. There is a tension, particularly coming from White men, about what “equality” means. Conrad has endured and persevered through uncommon hardships. Given the ability to erase history and give the public amnesia, Conrad’s understanding of equality would make sense. From his perspective, his ill treatment is not because of his Maleness or his Whiteness or his Straightness, so understanding the concept of community harm is a logical and empathic leap.

Which lives are valuable? Conrad is seeing hate crime victims as bodies that are more valuable, and therefore deserving of higher punishment. But that’s not it. It’s quite the opposite. Minority bodies are less valued. The punishment is harsher to deter the notion that some human bodies are less human because of race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, ability, and so on.

And then it clicks. How does one explain a lifetime of stress and fear caused by the incessant jabs to self identity, from the small slights of homonormative assumptions to the more visceral physical violence in parking lots from drunks who want to “beat up fags”? How do you explain minority stress, the “additional” chronic, unique, and socially based stress experienced by minority groups,^1-3 to someone who has experienced their own exceptional difficulties due to class and personal situations?

I step away from the keyboard and pace the apartment, cleaning up as I go. My brain is trying to translate a concept. I take off my sweatpants and drop them on the floor in the way to the bathroom. I turn on the hot water and open the window, letting in the warm humid summer air. I stand under the shower for what feels like hours, feeling the water rush down my back as I hold myself. This is important. This is something I can do. I look at myself in the shaving mirror, hanging on the wall across from the shower head, and I see my face. Dark circles, red blotchy eyes. I think I understand. I turn off the water, grab a towel, and sit back to my keyboard.

It starts to sink in. The “gay” community has changed its behavior and presentation to be perceived as more acceptable and worthy; to become model citizens “deserving” of rights. ⁴ We fight for rights under normative patriarchal structures such as marriage. Queer communities have become less “queer.” The Pride parade, a rebellion against normative sexualities, has become co-opted and neutered to be more “family friendly” and commercially viable. We White gays have continued to push people of color out of gay spaces to protect our White privilege—a privilege that is torn from us in the moment we come out and “become” a stigmatized identity. ⁵ We’ve been fighting to be “normal” for years, gradually normalizing our behavior through self-surveillance and distancing ourselves from other “deviant” bodies. ⁶ What have we lost in our desire to not be hurt? Where did all this sacrifice of self, begging before the altar of normalcy, get us? How did that legacy of sacrifice protect Pulse? How will the Pulse massacre and its aftermath further change us?

I’m furious.

Conrad is not the only one to ask. I field questions for the next week.

Why does this matter? Why am I so distraught? Why is it a hate crime? How could this impact you?

This matters because I will have to have these conversations with my mother over and over again, even though the massacre occurred in another state and I’m White and I didn’t personally know any of the victims.

This matters because other Pride celebrations will be more heavily policed to protect White lives, further alienating people of color and reifying the “good White gay citizen.”

This matters because my behavior is constantly under self-surveillance.

This matters because I have to make strategic choices, every day, about who I come out to and where.

This matters because I want to flirt with people, just like everyone else, and not be shamed or threatened violence.

This matters because I am always anticipating violence, now even in gay spaces. ⁷

This matters because when I hear the word “queer,” or “faggot,” or “gay,” my body physiologically responds and I am put on edge.

This matters because I will always second guess every employment decision, broken friendship, and consumer transaction.

I

“Stockton LGBT Nightclub Patrons Pelted With Paintballs” (f)

AM

“Man Arrested After Threatening to Attack Brooklyn Gay Bar ‘Orlando-Style’” (g)

SO

“San Diego Craigslist ad to LGBT Community: ‘You’re Next’” (h)

FUCKING

“Anti-Gay Message Spray Painted on Dupont Circle Sidewalk” (i)

TIRED

“This Is the Other Heavily-Armed White Terrorist Who Targeted LGBT Pride Festival Sunday” (j)

OF

“LGBT pride flag raised after Orlando shooting ‘unbearable’ for Christian employee, Hillsborough commissioner says” (k)

THIS

“FBI investigating threatening tweet aimed at Houston’s gay pride parade” (l)

SHIT

Coda

“26 Things Queer People Actually Want to Hear After Orlando” (m)

I check my Facebook messages.

A closeted bisexual guy I had been talking to about coming out has deleted his Grindr account.

I check my Facebook messages.

I get a text from a straight friend. “This really sucks.” What more can he say?

I check my Facebook messages.

I update my Facebook status. “My heart goes out to Florida.” It gets 35 likes.

I shut off my phone, curl into a ball, and try to sleep.

Intermission I

“Thousands Attend Vigils Around US for Orlando Victims” (b)

On June 12, 2016, a 29-year-old man entered the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida, and opened fire on the crowd. In the hours that followed, 49 people were killed and 53 were wounded. The narratives of the night were released in snippets of writing, audio, and video, bubbling up through social media and traditional media outlets alike. The deluge of information was in turns confusing, heartbreaking, contradictory, and incomplete, as pundits and people attempted to make sense of what had occurred with the scraps of details that were available.

What you find yourself in the midst of is an attempt, partial and incomplete, to communicate the experiences of a gay White male living hundreds of miles away from the Pulse nightclub. This piece serves as a process for healing through the cacophony of entangled virtual and nonvirtual interactions, and concomitant emotional turmoil, which constituted my personal experience of the horrific Orlando massacre and its aftermath. Elias and Adams state that, “Through writing, we can make sense of a repetitive or problematic cultural experience and have the possibility of venting our frustrations or at least making these frustrations known to others.” ⁸ In communicating my experiences, I hope to illuminate the specters that haunt ⁹ the edges of gay experience and become poltergeists in moments of crisis.

This autoethnographic piece is presented performatively as a layered account; combining digital dialogues, introspection, and contextualizing personal narratives. Hallett and Barber argue that in the current “cyber era,” the ubiquitous use of digital spaces and technologies has changed the way we develop and understand relationships and communities. ¹⁰ “While some researchers draw arbitrary lines between online and offline life, this divide does not actually exist in a postmodern world where individuals present and construct themselves in multiple, overlapping spaces.” ¹⁰ Similarly, Trend invokes a Marxian dialectic in stating that, “Instead of focusing on the discontinuities between virtual and nonvirtual worlds . . . we can view these two spheres as mutually informing.” ¹¹ In building on Hallett and Barber’s call for a more multidimensional approach to ethnographic research, I have produced this work to elucidate the entanglement of narratives created through intra-action of nonvirtual and virtual spaces.

Intermission II

“What Queer Latino’s Are Saying About the Orlando Shooting” (d)

The emergence of social networks, and specifically social networks designed to bring together gay individuals, has created virtual spaces that allow for the construction and performance of nonnormative sexualities. It is an “other” space where gay men can experiment with their identities and explore desires without the omnipresent and often oppressive heteronormative social and familial structures. Gudelunas found that, “ . . . social networks allowed [gay men] to connect with a larger gay community in a designated gay only space apart from the limited physical spaces (bars, community centers).” ¹² Although these virtual spaces often reproduce the racial and gender divisions found in nonvirtual communities, ¹³ they frequently serve as extensions, or replacements, of physical spaces. In this way, the virtual networks created through location-based dating apps (and to a lesser degree more mainstream social media such as Facebook and Twitter) are imbricated in the construction of sexual minority communities.

My understanding of Christian’s life experiences are inherently augmented through the created persona that he puts forth more publically through social media and more privately through location-based dating apps like Grinder. Gatson argues that, “[In social media], self-presentation has the potential to be more explicitly multifaceted. At the same time, the converse may be true, as people fight to keep their segmented places/selves.” ¹⁴ In each of our social media realms, we put forth an identity that is interpreted by those with whom we keep in contact. While I may see it as reposting random things of interest on Facebook, a Facebook “friend” may see it as a more coherent narrative of my identity. When Christian and I meet in person, our interactions are an often awkward negotiation of our online and nonvirtual identities. Our public nonvirtual interactions are not clearly demarcated by experience and familiarity with our lived personas, and our ability to read physical social cues is underdeveloped because most of our interactions have been virtual. However, the Orlando massacre pushed us to interact in a space, his job, where we did not have clear social rules.

While we may have the opportunity to construct segmented identities in virtual space, our lived identities are always already intersectional identities—embedded in a web of systemic structures of power and privilege. As a White gay male, I must be cognizant that although I may be less privileged than White straight males, I still retain significant systemic advantages and must remain mindful of racial privilege. ¹⁵ Christian’s Latinoness brought in to relief my Whiteness, prodding me to ponder how our experiences of the Orlando massacre are different. As intersectional beings, at which points do my gayness and Christian’s gayness become points of connection, and where do they become a means to obfuscate the more complex identities that constitute our embodied selves? In my attempts to “help” Christian, how did I unthinkingly construct a convenient solidarity based on our shared sexuality for my needs, while glossing over our ethnic differences and the distinct impact of the shooting on the Latinx community? Did my emphasis on a solidarity centered on our mutual gay identity exacerbate the internal strife Christian was experiencing due to the silence of fellow racial justice activists who had distanced themselves from Christian’s sexuality? Although I try to be aware of my White privilege, the intense desire to identify with and help another eclipsed my ability to be attentive to our ethnic distinctions—a distinct advantage of my Whiteness.

The inattention to intersectional identities can be seen in the call for more policing at Pride parades following the Orlando shooting. Policing for whom? In the current context of highly publicized police violence toward people of color, the presence of more police at a Pride event is a deterrent for people of color to attend. The irony is heartbreaking; the death of people of color leads to the protection of Whites. How do I, as a White male, negotiate the desire for some form of protection after the horrific murder of gay people with the knowledge that I am getting privileged protection after the horrific murder of predominantly Latinx peoples?

In trying to balance privilege, pain, insecurity, and anger in the wake of the massacre, I am keenly aware of my potential to say or do something that may inadvertently cause harm. Sengupta describes the current combustible state of intersectional identities, produced through legacies of systemic violence and identity politics, as “negotiated minefields.” ¹⁶ As Sengupta elucidates, “I negotiate them at my peril, never very sure about what I am stepping on and which aspect of my beings will blow up in my face or what will injure whom.” ¹⁶ However, I must negotiate them. To stand by and do nothing out of fear feels unacceptable, particularly when fear is the product of such mass violence. I know that I am putting myself out there and may be unthinkingly inattentive due to my privilege, but the desire for solidarity in moments of crisis drives me to bravely venture forward.