The last week of my life featured a series of related events ranging the gambit from soul soaring to heartbreaking. I attended Pittsburgh’s PrideFest. I went on a date with the air of potential. A tragedy shook me to the core. Yet another fictional queer woman was killed by a writer’s keyboard.
Last Sunday, I wore my striped rainbow button-down to Pride and tried to cheer loud enough to drown out the usual bigot with a bullhorn and a sandwich board reading “God hates f*gs.” I found out about Orlando at a Crazy Mocha, on my friend’s and my post-parade iced tea and wi-fi break. I’d been happy, unashamedly alive and then the news was everywhere. Fifty people were dead, gunned down at a nightclub by a man who sandwich board guy would have high-fived. These were my people, killed somewhere I would’ve felt safe.
When turned inside out by emotion, my first instinct is usually to write. So this week I tried to turn some of my helplessness into fiction, to lean in to empathy and hopefully make some sense of this grief. But in a lot of ways this story doesn’t feel like mine to tell. Pulse was a club frequented by lower-class minority and immigrant communities, and the shooting happened on “Latino Night” – the majority of victims were Latinx themselves.
As a writer who prioritizes diverse representation, I’ve designed the parameters of my fellowship project around it. I want to represent queer people from as wide a range of experiences as I can manage, with as much authenticity and respect as possible. But I will never be able to fully understand the experience of those who lost their lives that night in Orlando, so I still agonize over the question: Do I have any right to write from a perspective that’s so beyond my experience? It’s a difficult problem that I haven’t solved yet. My proposal is for a series of connected stories with switching perspectives, but that plan may change if I decide that some voices shouldn’t be mine to assume.
One thing has become very clear to me this week. No matter what stories I write for this collection, I refuse to leave any bodies. Queer characters are still so few, and three-dimensional queer characters even fewer, that every one killed off (and there have been so many) feels very personal. Every shock value death and noble self-sacrifice, whatever the writers’ “good” intentions, sends the message to LGBT viewers that they are not valued, that they are disposable, that they will never find happiness. I’m so tired of it. The “Bury Your Gays” trope is old and stale and terribly destructive. I’ll make a promise to you right now: It won’t be all sunshine and rainbows for my characters, but — in these stories — everyone lives.
Something that’s bothered me about this fellowship is the fact that it indirectly forces me to come out at every event, meeting and discussion related to it, mostly to relative strangers. It forces me to get personal, to subtly and not-so-subtly point out where I fit into all this. Being part of this community (yep, I’m bi – surprise, surprise!) has shaped my identity and enriched my life in innumerable ways. Still, it makes me uncomfortable to think that it is the first and practically the only thing many people connected with the fellowship know about me. My gut instinct is to go on the defense, to say that my orientation is a) none of your business and b) only a fraction of who I am.
But I’m fighting back against that impulse. Lately, and forever really, the LGBT community has been battered by violence from all corners. There are people in the world who legitimately want us dead. What better way is there to fight back then to live – stubbornly, loudly, joyfully. Maybe we should revitalize that classic slogan of the ’90s: “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it.” Because living is the bravest thing we can do.