A man blows a kiss at a vigil for the victims of the shooting at the Pulse gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida, June 13, 2016.JIM YOUNG/Reuters
When Earl Johnson first moved to Orlando in 2005, he spent many happy evenings at Pulse. It was less a nightclub than a place to be with your friends and enjoy life – a place where you could be exactly who you were and feel safe about it.
Two years ago, Mr. Johnson bought a house around the corner from the nightclub, in an up-and-coming neighbourhood south of downtown. In the wee hours of Sunday morning, he was awakened by loud bangs and sirens.
Since then, he has barely slept and is often on the brink of tears. Within hours, he had arrived at the office of Zebra Coalition, the non-profit where he works, which offers services to LGBT youth. The group set up a crisis hotline and has mobilized volunteers and donations to help anyone who needs it.
The perpetrator attacked the "joy and safety" that Pulse represented, said Mr. Johnson, 34. "But we will rebuild and recreate that safe space."
Orlando's LGBT community responded with defiance and solidarity to Sunday's shooting, even in the face of overwhelming sadness. At Parliament House, another fixture of gay nightlife in Orlando, the billboard outside read "Pulse Unbreakable."
At the community centre for the LGBT community – known here simply as "The Centre" – volunteers streamed in throughout the morning on Monday, unable to stay away and incapable of resuming their normal weekday routines.
"When you're up and moving and helping someone, you can't be afraid," said Julia Skalla, 33. Usually, she would come to The Centre to use some of its services, which range from support groups to HIV testing to a lending library. This time, she was there do to whatever the organization needed: moving chairs, lifting cases of bottled water, distributing food. As the hours passed, her mood swung between a sense of purpose and overpowering sadness.
"You die a little bit each time the phone rings," she said, knowing that every call could bring the worst possible news. She was lucky: No one she knew was killed. Behind her, a large television was tuned to a news channel. At the bottom of the screen, the names of the victims released by the authorities scrolled in an endless loop. "This is not a gay tragedy, it's a human tragedy," Ms. Skalla said.
For Roxy Santiago, 49, the worst moments came when she checked her Facebook page. "I'm a Latin, I'm gay," she said simply. "I'm trying to keep strong and focused, but it hurts." Ms. Santiago was helping co-ordinate food distribution to other organizations responding to the tragedy, including churches and blood banks.
Near her was Rob Domenico, a board member at The Centre. A day earlier, he said, the organization had put out a call for certified counsellors to assist people struggling with the aftermath of the attack. Two hundred people responded to the appeal for volunteers, including a woman who flew to Orlando from Maryland to offer her professional help.
"We are all in shock mode, we are all in crisis mode," Mr. Domenico said. "We're trying to stay on task." But a friend of his lost his partner in the shooting. And all through Sunday, parents called him to ask if he had heard anything from their children – and he had to tell them that he hadn't. "You can't imagine how that feels, telling that to a mother searching for her child."
Mr. Domenico's mother, Dee Richter, had also been at The Centre every hour its doors had been open since Sunday's shooting. "My heart is hurting so bad for the moms who lost their babies," she said, starting to cry. "These babies are all of our babies."
She said she hoped the attack would be a bridge toward greater tolerance. "For some people, there is this idea that the gay community is its own species," she said. "But yesterday maybe opened their eyes – maybe people realized it could happen to their kids."
Late Sunday night, some members of the community sought a small measure of solace by coming together at places like Parliament House. Mark Jimenez and George Tuttle arrived at the nightclub to honour their friend Edward Sotomayor Jr., who was killed in the shooting.
Known as "top-hat Eddie" for the black hat he always wore, Mr. Sotomayor managed a thriving cruise business at a travel agency that offers vacations aimed at the gay community. Mr. Sotomayor loved Alice in Wonderland and was always smiling, they recalled. Friends say he was fatally shot in the back while protecting his boyfriend with his body.
Mr. Sotomayor was "always the life of the party," said Mr. Jimenez, 33. "We just know Eddie would want us to be celebrating."
"We aren't going to be scared," vowed Mr. Tuttle, 42. "Our community has always gone through challenges – nothing like this, but we're still going to move forward."