The headlines kept coming in, like wildfire. "Deadly shooting at Orlando night club," "49 killed and 53 injured."

I woke up the morning after Pulse trying to make sense of what happened. I couldn't believe that this was the world we lived in.It was supposed to be a safe space and fun evening for black and brown queer people. What happened at Pulse would change everything I knew.

The worst U.S. mass shooting was, in fact, a hate crime, and I still can't wrap my mind around that a year later.

So what did I do?

I came out.

COMING OUT is supposed to be this rite of passage for LGBTQ+ people; sometimes it can turn out beautifully, and other times it can become a nightmare – the fear of that keeps people in the closet, unfortunately.

You could say my "I'm not totally straight" moment happened at Houston's Pride Parade in 2015, the year gay marriage was legalized nationwide.

That was the first Pride I attended, and the mood in the air was triumphant. The parade was held just days after the Supreme Court ruling, and being surrounded by so much love and support from complete strangers made me realize that I could be this loving, supportive, happy and empathetic person and still be out – who knew, right?

One night later that summer, my mom came to Houston for the weekend. We were both staying in the spare bedroom at my aunt's house. Earlier that day, I made plans with someone I met on Tinder, the dating app. I was excited about it; I couldn't stop thinking about what I would wear, what I wanted to talk about, how I wanted to do my makeup – and I wanted to share this with my mom.

But the daunting thought of her rejection kept circling my mind. My mom was having a conversation with me about her bus ride into Houston, but I was too busy thinking about whether I was prepared to pack my overnight bag.

So I casually mentioned I was going on a date that night with a girl. She shrugged and said, "You've always been a weird child, anyway!"

Well, that could have gone way worse.

But even with the support of my immediate family and select friends, I still kept myself in the closet. I was at a point of finding myself while also feeling that I wasn't queer enough to come out to the world.

WHEN I marched in Pride 2016, days after the Pulse shooting, things changed. Looking at the crowd, watching those strangers out and proud even after this horrific event, made me realize that even the worst U.S. mass shooting in history couldn't stop these people from celebrating their unapologetic selves.

It was at that parade that I realized I needed to make my voice count. There are so many Latinx people who have no choice but staying in the closet for one reason or another.

And, while I'm aware I can't speak for an entire population, representation matters. So I came home that night, wrote one "coming out" Facebook post, and the rest is history.

But some of those Pulse victims were not given the same privilege to come out on their own terms. Some were forced out of the closet as a result of the shooting. In one instance, a father wouldn't claim his son's body because he found out he was gay – the sister did come forward and claim him, thankfully.

Stories like these are painful reminders that homophobia still runs deep in Latinx communities. They help us understand how that kind of hate can radicalize people like Omar Mateen. They're why we need to keep talking about this hate crime and stop using the blanket term "act of terrorism."

They remind us that to date in 2017, nine black trans women have been murdered.

And they tell us we still have a lot of work to do: Violence against queer and trans people of color did not end when gay marriage became legal.

I was lucky to be surrounded by so many loved ones at the anniversary of Pulse held last week at the Montrose Center. I ran into people I don't get to see often, and that told me how deeply this affected our community. An onlooker would have seen different walks of life in one place. But I saw a community that was glued together because of this event. Even almost 1,000 miles away, we were Orlando united.

During the vigil, the victims' names were called out one by one.

"Stanley Almodovar III, 23 years old."

"Luis Daniel Conde, 39 years old."

"Akyra Monet Murray, 18 years old."

With each name came a bigger blow to my heart. I think about Pulse constantly, and it'll impact me the rest of my life.

But we can't show up once a year for change to happen. We need to make sure we're doing everything we can to prevent another Pulse from happening: Stepping in when we see an injustice, becoming politically active, voting and normalizing our voices in spaces if we feel we can be out. We have to hold ourselves and each other accountable.

Before you go out to Pride tomorrow, don't forget it all started by trans women of color, Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson. Don't forget about Chay Reed, Alphonza Watson and the other black trans women who have been murdered this year. And don't forget about Amanda Alvear, Mercedez M. Flores, Christopher J. Sanfeliz and the other 46 victims who won't be able to celebrate with us.

Bianca Gomez is the communications associate at Families Empowered. She lives in Houston with her dog, Levi.





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