49 dead. Maybe more to come. Because of hate. Because of guns.
I’m not shocked or surprised. I’m just sad. To my core. Sad.
I dropped flowers off at my local Islamic Center today. I expected to lay them, white and green for mourning, and leave. Then a woman came out to say “thank you”. I hugged her tight and the tears came gushing. As they had been all morning. I was there to support her but she ended up consoling me. That wasn’t my intent. I felt terrible that all I could do was cry. That she was trying to help me find “meaning” in the senseless massacre that had, in essence, targeted her.
She invited me in but I declined. If I had accepted, I knew that people would have felt compelled to make me feel better because I was a mess. That would be wrong. That wasn’t why I was there.
We stood outside and held hands. Mine are whiter than white because I have vitiligo and my hands have completely depigmented. But I am so naturally pale that you would never know unless I told you. I looked at our clasped hands, my absolute colorlessness contrasting so sharply to her normal human skin. I looked at the contrast and thought of the white supremacist who valued nothing about himself beyond his own pigment and what that supposedly meant about his “identity”. What a sad, pathetic piece of shit.
I thought of his hands now stained red, bathed in the blood of the innocent. And I cried some more.
I am still crying. Because I know this will get worse before it gets better. Because I don’t know how many more will die. Because I am afraid. Because even though I know some people and some places have absolute targets painted on them, it can happen anywhere, to anyone.
I’d like to ask “how did we get here” but it would be silly. I know how we got here. What I don’t know is how we get out of here.
And I know that I am sad. To my core. Sad.