Our college held a vigil for Orlando today. The audience was asked to stand and walk in rows to the stage at the front of the lobby, in order to ring a bell for each person who died in the Orlando massacre.
I thought for sure that I was sitting far enough back, that I wouldn’t have to ring that bell.
1 chime…5 chimes…20…40….49.
I was number 49.
49 bells. 49 innocent people dead.
49 people is so very many people, when you really see it. When you picture them all gone.
And I was devastated. I did not want to ring that bell. But then I turned around to walk off that stage, and I saw a hundred more people bearing witness. A hundred allies. A hundred good people, coming together at a small college in a suburb a thousand miles away from Orlando to say, “we hear you. We see you. We’re with you.”
And in the echo of that last chime, I thought, “this is the only answer.”
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an exposition of micro and punk poetry
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You don’t start out writing good stuff. You start out writing crap and thinking it’s good stuff, and then gradually you get better at it. That’s why I say one of the most valuable traits is persistence. Octavia E. Butler
My life as a black, disabled teenager
A bookish blog (mostly) about women writers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries