OPINION: Until death do us part, being gay in America
I woke up Sunday morning afraid to simply exist.
As a white, cisgendered, able-bodied person, I’ve been handed a number of privileges that many others don’t have, but I still spent Sunday texting my friends about how afraid we are to just exist.
Fifty people were killed and more than 50 injured in a mass shooting at a gay nightclub in Orlando. It was nearing the closing time when the shooter entered the building and carried out the deadliest single-person shooting in U.S. history.
June is national gay pride month. A year ago this month, gay marriage was legalized throughout the U.S. This year, we are mourning the loss of 50 LGBTQ+ people in a direct act of hatred.
I am a lesbian. This means I check my surrounding before holding a significant other's hand and still deal with my uncle introducing me to boys because he still has hope of fixing me. When I was in a relationship and I made it Facebook official, I was congratulated for making such a “bold political statement.”
I was at a gay club a few weeks ago and I was happy. Now if I go to one, I’ll be afraid. This is what being gay in America is like. It’s not handing out rainbow flags to your children to spread our big gay agenda; it’s assessing every social situation before deciding if it’s safe to keep the pronouns of our significant others the same.
When I came out four years ago, my dad told me not to be too open about my sexuality because someone may hurt me. I didn't expect that to still be a serious possibility in 2016.
The legalization of gay marriage wasn't the endgame to our activism. It's a single step out of hundreds on a blood-stained road that we didn't choose to walk. We are still forced to prove our love is authentic, that our looks don't determine our sexuality, that our sexuality is even real.
Restrooms have turned into war zones, where transgender people are fighting to pee without risking their lives. They're being called potential threats by the same people bringing bombs into Target restrooms to "protect America's traditions and families."
Granted, killing people for being different is an American tradition, but the irony in their "protection" is both humorously hypocritical and terrifying.
We currently live in a country that feels more comfortable with men owning guns than two men holding hands. Being openly gay in America is still considered radical, an act of bravery that continues to be a privilege some cannot afford. Some of the victims' sexuality were likely only outed in death after they visited one of the few safe spaces for LGBTQ+ members.
When I asked my bisexual friend Autumn Gairaud what to include in this column, she said this: “You can have your marriage equality back. Give me basic safety and compassion.”
This is a time to mourn, but do not look away. Stand in solidarity, but recognize the problems the community continues to face and actually make changes.
I spent Sunday heartbroken and afraid. My phone lighting up with messages from my LGBTQ+ friends saying that it could have been them at the club. A few weeks ago, I was at a nightclub's pride night. I was dancing and laughing with my fellow LGBTQ+ friends in one of the very few places we feel comfortable and safe being our full, outed selves.
That sanctuary was destroyed on Sunday. Marriage equality does not mean the fight is over.
Mourn, but do not look away.
