And Still We Dance
A poem in memory of those we lost at the Pulse nightclub shooting 8 years ago
I wrote this poem in 2016 for the Colorado Springs Independent, following the massacre at Pulse nightclub. I remember the shockwave of grief that passed over our entire community nationwide that day. It is a shockwave that has echoed on this day ever since.
And Still We Dance
my first time clubbing was at a bar called tracks. because of its proximity to the train tracks, you could feel the rumble if not for the bass i’d go with my childhood friend who danced like he was the only one in the room (which got us in trouble a few times) flailing his fists waving his arms like he had never danced before it was there that he told me: you’ve been watching that girl all night. when are you going to talk to her? it was there that i swallowed my fear crossed the swirling sea of bodies to ask her: do you want to dance and we danced that entire night like we were strobe lights unsure of how to be on and off each other at the same time i never went with any intention to get off, so much as i went for a chance to leave my body on the dance floor. didn’t matter the music, like, DJ how many times can you play titanium? on those nights, i felt nothing like metal and more like the mist of hot breath refracting the night. trans and lucent enough to waltz with the spotlights. i could dance sober then never had to take a hit to crackle electric light in the loafers without a single drink back when i could go to the gay bar without the thought of shots fired – how many of us are mist these days? and is this not our history the way we keep existing reviled in the way our bodies move with other bodies the way we move around the fist that tries to catch us the other day, my friend and i pulled off a canyon road, the road we drive most nights when we feel our lives falling apart. we seem to make this drive more often lately. they showed me the spot where they told the truth for the first time to the moon and the mountains and the river below that they were as queer as the moon, the mountains and the river below. we shouted into the echo our not so secrets knowing the wrong sort of people could hear us and do to us what lead does to flesh but here we still are carving out space like wind carves a canyon can you hear the train whistle can you hear the hum of a hundred phones looking for love on the other side can you hear my pulse pounding like a bassline
It’s Pride Month, and I have been reflecting on the importance of queer spaces. This past weekend, my friends and I went to Pikes Peak Pride. I’ve been jaded about pride at times throughout my life. I get frustrated with pinkwashing and corporations profiting off our community by pandering to us one month out of the year. However, this year, none of that mattered. I was most present with queer joy and celebration and it was healing.
I am also present with how it is not necessarily easy to come together in celebration of queerness these days. There was a moment during this past weekend’s Pikes Peak Pride parade where there was a gap in the procession. We were sitting and wondering what was causing the pause. Suddenly, the motorcycle cops who were at the front of the parade at the start zoomed past us at dizzying speeds, back toward the parade route’s start. Their urgency was disquieting. A hush came over the crowd, and then confused murmurs. We all turned to look at each other. People started standing and walking into the street to try and see what was going on. All of us fearing the worst, picturing the possibility we knew all too well living in Colorado Springs. The risk we decided to take by being loud and abashedly queer and in one space together.
Eventually, we could see the rest of the parade coming toward us, and everyone relaxed. But there was a moment of cold panic that ran through our veins. And it reminded me of just how important it was that we were there to celebrate ourselves and our community, in spite of the fear, in spite of the risks.
I am so proud of everyone who shows up, queer and proud. I am so proud of everyone who makes those community spaces and events possible. I am so proud of all of us who continue to dance in honor of those in our community who no longer can. And more than that, I am filled with immense gratitude.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for being your most beautiful and authentic self. Thank you for dancing. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.