3 years since June 12th, 2016
June 12th. June 12th is the 3rd anniversary of the Pulse Nightclub shooting. At 2 AM on June 12th, 2016, 49 beautiful queer lives were taken from us and the LGBTQ+ community was instantly rocked to its core.
I want to get in a time machine and tell myself that it is okay to feel anger and fear and sadness. I want to tell myself that I am not alone and that the pain can be turned into strength and beauty. I will never forget that Earth shattering day, June 12th 2016.
I woke up to a news alert of this massacre and my day immediately became a blur. I was furious. Furious that this person was able to be radicalized online. Furious that he could purchase a weapon of war and gun down 49 beautiful queer people. Furious at the thoughts and prayers, instead of legislative action.
Then the horror set in. How could this happen in a gay nightclub? These are supposed to be our safe spaces. It was 2016, we were supposed to be past this. My 23 year old, very privileged and naive gay self, could not comprehend that this level of hatred still existed. This massacre was a reality altering event for us. Some of us suddenly realized, and others were reminded, that even in our safest places, we are not safe. Hatred in our society makes our queer identity reason enough to kill us. This hatred was unfathomable to me and this pain I was feeling was something I had never felt before. I felt like my community was under attack and that our mere existence was no longer safe.
On Monday, June 13th, I returned to my classroom. How could I possibly teach that day without addressing what happened at Pulse with my students? I am out at school, so I felt I had to be a role model for my LGBTQ+ students and their allies. I felt it was particularly important that I show up as a proud gay man who was not afraid of bigotry. This was extremely taxing on me, and I spent a lot of my prep periods in tears. I was putting on a front for my students to make them believe that I was okay when I was not.
One of my colleagues, a Sudanese math teacher, found me upset in the bathroom. I did speak before he said “Mr. Hankins, you are my friend. Not only do I not hate you, but I love you and I am glad you are here for our students. I am sorry that a Muslim man did this and I want you to know that not all Muslims are like this.” Then he hugged me. I had no words. In a moment of complete chaos in my life, a person I hardly knew offered me love and compassion.
Tuesday June 14th was the hardest for me. While my head was still reeling from this tragedy, the world quickly went back to normal. I had a typical day; work in the day time and a doctors appointment in the afternoon. After work, on my drive to the doctors appointment, I was hollered at by men in a pick-up truck while sitting at a red light. I immediately was triggered, I had to pull over and try to collect myself. I ended up missing the doctors appointment and going home. This was the first time I ever truly contemplated taking my own life.
June 12th, 2016 was the beginning of a very dark period in my life. I was experiencing suicidal thoughts and began suffering from depression. I soon after lost my father and at this point I did not know which way was up. I simultaneously felt like I needed to “grow up” so I could be there for my mom and sister, while all I wanted was to curl up in a ball and make the world stop spinning. I am very privileged to have been able to go to therapy and work through these traumatic times. I am so grateful for my loving partner, my friends & family, and my therapist for guiding me through this difficult time. They saved my life.
Here was are now, three years later, I am able to reflect on how significant June 12th, 2016 was for me. 49 innocent, beautiful queer people were murdered for their identity, an identity that I share with many of them. Realizing that hatred of this level can exist towards us, based solely upon our identity, is terrifying. However, I cannot allow fear to win: if not for myself then for my students. As a gay teacher, it is my duty to provide for the next generation of young queer people that deserve to grow up free to express themselves without fear of bigotry. Hate must not consume me and the actions of one person must not make me lose faith in humanity. To this day, I cherish the moment my colleague comforted me in the bathroom. He took the time to show me love and compassion when he did not have to. It reminds me of the pure goodness that exists in this world.
I learned a valuable life lesson from this time of my life — it is impossible to show up for others if you are not showing up for yourself. The feeling of duty to protect and educate my students during this hard time completely overshadowed my own well-being. I felt so obligated to be a role model to my students, that I didn’t allow myself to feel the pain I was experiencing. Consistently spending your energy on others, while neglecting yourself, is an unsustainable approach to life. Recently, I have learned to take more time for myself and it has made me a better teacher and a better person.
As time continues to pass since this massacre, I am learning the power that exists in pain. In reaction to the pain of mass shootings in the US, we have seen mass mobilization of the people most impacted by gun violence. Students are taking action at school while historic levels of women, people of color and queer folk are seeking public office to say “enough is enough” — that is empowering to watch and even more so to take part in. By following the lead of the diverse coalition of activists fighting to end gun violence in America, I have found hope and love in a community of people who refuse to allow these incidents to be acceptable. As the fury and fear settles, I am left with a fire in my gut — a fire to go out and fight for those beautiful queer lives that we lost and to turn this pain into power for our community.
