Voices: After Orlando, I will not be scared, silent or sorry

“Just heard about the Orlando shooting. Sending hugs.”

This was the text message I received a week ago Sunday from Kristina Anderson, a close friend whom I’d met nearly a decade ago when we were sophomores at Virginia Tech. Just weeks after meeting her, Kristina would survive serious injuries in a shooting spree on our campus that claimed 32 lives and, until that Sunday, would be known as the deadliest shooting in modern U.S. history.

I found her text odd. Over the years, after watching each mass shooting unfold, we would support each other, understanding that we were both re-feeling emotions and experiences. But given her direct exposure to the tragedy on our campus, I generally reached out first. This time was different.

I scanned the headlines and there it was: “Orlando — At least 50 dead in shooting at gay nightclub.”

Over the years, mass shootings would come to seem par for the course to me. But now, a much more profound sadness and fear welled up in me. There was a much deeper personal element to confront.

I am gay, and until this piece was published, I was not fully out of the closet. I have unconditional love from my parents and friends, and I’m fortunate to work for a company that is open and supportive. But even at 28, I have maintained a front with many, including the rest of my extended family, for fear that they might throw the Good Book at me and turn their backs.

Many outraged that reference to ISIL omitted from Orlando 911 transcript

I have accepted the fact that I am gay, but have long struggled to accept myself. I have had friends turn on me, sat through sermons to hear of the fire and brimstone that awaited me, and watched politicians argue that I did not deserve the same rights and respect afforded the rest of us, that I was subhuman.

I have been careful to not take a vocal stance on the very things that made me feel subhuman to avoid being outright labeled as such. I often avoided joining friends at gay bars because my insecurities convinced me not to segregate myself from the “normal” I so badly wanted to be associated with.

Orlando jolted those insecurities and added an acute realization that there are many who would gladly do harm to me for merely existing as I am.

Since that Sunday, my fear and sadness morphed into anger at hearing calls for thoughts and prayers. Thoughts and prayers, without real action, are the stuff of the vapid political speech we endure in the aftermath of such tragedies. I was disgusted with the swath of lowercase christians who praised the massacre. I was angry with those who suggested America should not make Orlando a political issue.

Mark my words: Orlando is a political issue, a very direct consequence of the political and social climate in America.

Gay bars see increased security, customers across USA one week after Orlando

In the past six months, more than 200 anti-LGBT laws have been proposed seeking to legislate and legitimize the marginalization of millions of Americans. The attack at the Pulse nightclub marked the 133rd mass shooting in the U.S. in 2016. Yet nothing had been done to curb our obscenely easy access to firearms. Access to weapons of mass murder easily turn bigotry and hatred into 49 body bags. We have absolutely created the political and social framework that enables atrocities of such enormous magnitude to occur.

But there is still hope. Watching Senate Democrats lead a 15-hour filibuster that forced a vote on gun bills gave me confidence that there is unending momentum toward common sense.

A look at the 4 gun bills up for vote in Senate

And there is still love. Through all of the hatred displayed last week, the outpouring of support for Orlando reminded me that there is plenty of good in the world. Feeling and knowing this has emboldened me.

Juan Ramon Guerrero had just recently come out to his family, who accepted him with open arms. That he was able to know that unconditional love and support for just a few months before his life was cut short in Orlando burdens me. To think that for almost his entire short life, he was afraid to speak up because of who he was.

In the aftermath of this tragedy, I refuse to be scared. I am no longer scared of who I am or what others will think and say. I will not be silent. Silence and inaction is what got us to this moment, and I will not stand by and watch my dignity and safety be legislated into oblivion. And for this, I will not be sorry. I will never again feel compelled to apologize for who I am and for taking a stand.

Welch is a communications consultant in Washington, D.C. Follow him on Twitter @JohnAWelch.