Beginning Words

(CW: Orlando attacks)
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Words won't come from my hands. My body has taken over this week. Attempts at expression: of solidarity, of despair, of gratitude, of isolation, confusion, of grief, falter and get swallowed by my stomach, lungs. I have been hurting and terribly lonely. I have been cared for and in deep gratitude to friends. I cried for others and for myself and for things that don't have names and that I don't understand. I wrote a long piece (couldn't write, sleep, eat, stop crying, much this week till today) and it disappeared in copy paste. It was trying to say something simple:
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I see you and I love you and I am with you.
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I see you, friends, acquaintances, strangers that are hurting. Families, friends that are grieving. People who are angry, sad, afraid. I see you and I love you and I am with you.
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I say this as a white, cisgendered person, to other white cis folks: May we not be silent, even if you, like me, are feeling wracked with grief and clumsy as hell with your words. I see that this was an attack on primarily queer and trans* people of color, I see that it was Latinx night at the club, I see that this violence came from stories we are told are true by our laws and our systems and our police (by a culture and systems in which I am in less danger than most), I see that this violence is being used again to do racist harm, to spread Islamophobia, to divide and conquer, to fuel the nation-breadth skeleton-building of the structures of hate.  May we, white cis folks, hold this intersectionality of violence central in our grieving and rebuilding, in our offering of solidarity or support.
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May my grief,  pain flow in embodiment of our dedication to mutual interest. Not only an idea, it is my body crying real salt furious tears. My understanding that in most ways, it couldn't have been me, and yet where is the edge of me. I grew a plant from a seed and ate it and now it is my body. The edges are blurry at best. I am in many ways privileged as hell and it is not the same for me, and also I still am not free if you, and you, and you are not free. "I" is not in opposition to "you." At the intersections, messy and overlapping, this weaving of interest becomes more and more clear. I don't know how to talk about the furious, grief-stricken, fire-sharp love for people I don't even know that keeps running through my body in waves of tears. "Your liberation is bound up with mine."
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My body knows this. My body will not let me rest for the grief. It is wordless, nameless, it comes and screams or whimpers or floods and does not leave.
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I don't know if this is right. I don't know if it's the right thing to say. But I need to say something to stand with those who have been forced to keep saying it over and over so it gets said at all.  I am going to mess it up, the saying. I want to be here anyway. I want to listen quietly when needed. And when asked I want to open the volume of my voice.
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I see you and I love you and I am with you.
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And I see you, the extra Q that often goes unlisted, those who are Questioning. The confused. The closeted, whether by choice or necessity or both or neither. Those who do not know how they are oriented, or for whom it changes. Those who know and know alone. Those who cannot safely be out right now, or don't know what to be out as, or don't want to be out. Who find themselves, questioning or confused or closeted, alone in their thoughts, dropped into the middle of this storm. Those for whom this violence has made it even more dangerous, or terrifying, or lonely. Those questioning who are living at the intersections at the heart of this act. I wonder what it is like, in this moment, to watch the outpouring of queer love on the internet that I am watching, posts about queer community, queer family. I hope it feels like it is also love for you, because I hope that it is. But if it feels like a terrible compass needle pointing to community, love, solidarity that you don't have access to, you are not alone. I see you.
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I see you, and I love you, and I am with you.
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A lie we are told is that there is a right and a wrong way to love.