Remember The Joy
In loving memory of those lost, harmed, and terrorized in the Club Q Shooting on November 19, 2022. Written the following day, with a shattered and aching heart.
I only went to Club Q once. It was a September Saturday night, 2019, my senior year at Colorado College. I was the only one of my friends not drinking, so when a group of us spontaneously decided to go out, I was chosen to drive. I hadn’t planned on a night out – nights in were more my thing. But I love to dance, and the mood that evening was just right. So I scurried upstairs to my bedroom, and threw on a pair of bright red pants, a chic black-and-white shirt, black hightops, and my favorite earrings – delicate dangly silver leaves. I put in contacts so I could wear heavy mascara without smudging my glasses. By the time I ran back downstairs, I felt fluttery and confident and ready to go.
Seven of us piled into David’s old station wagon, with the two smallest of our crew in the rear-facing back seats. Before we pulled away from the curb, I checked that everyone had their seatbelts on, and was met with affirmatives mixed with endearing groans about my “mom friend” status. David hooked up his phone to the speakers, and as Lady Gaga’s voice rang out, our laughter bounced around the car and spilled out of the rolled-down windows. I weaved through the otherwise quiet streets of Colorado Springs, singing every word to every song, catching glimpses of my friends’ vibrant faces in the rearview mirror, feeling the cool autumn air rush against my face… and I felt a gorgeous mixture of radiant aliveness in my mind and my body, and of deep, soulful, peace.
As we pulled into the nondescript strip mall parking lot, that peace was briefly tainted with a wrenching flicker of fear. We stepped out of the car and into the quiet of the night, and I nervously glanced around. There were a few other people around, seemingly also going to or coming from Club Q – based on both their body language and my quick observation that none of the nearby businesses were open. I looked up at the big “Q” glowing in the dark, and felt a momentary wave of panic rush over me. If someone wanted to kill some queers tonight, they would know where to come. Shit. How dark! Everything is fine, I thought, as I shook out my limbs and snapped my attention back to my giggling gaggle of friends.
After showing our ID’s at the door, a world unfolded before us; I felt like Dorothy, stepping from black and white into the saturated color of Oz – and my lingering fear vanished. It was replaced at first by sensory overload: blaring music; rainbow lights dancing across the walls; reflective surfaces everywhere; people dancing, drinking, laughing, lounging, and flirting. As I adjusted to our new surroundings, I noticed what perhaps I should have expected but still came as a welcome surprise: this crowd was truly a cross-section of the whole local queer community. There were people that I guessed were in high school (a possibility, since Club Q is 18+), people I guessed were in their 60s or 70s, and people of every age in between; people of a more heterogeneous racial mix than I had seen off campus in a long time; people of every combination of gendered characteristics and expressions; people wearing jeans and t-shirts, and sequins, and basketball shorts, and mesh crop-tops, and jockstraps, and full make-up, and muscle tanks, and flashy nails, and patterned button-downs, and heels, and sneakers. All these people lived in Colorado Springs? Incredible. I fit right in, without a second thought.
We left our things on a table in the corner, and made our way onto the dance floor. My friends stuck together, mostly dancing with each other in a loose circle. I joined in for a while, but as I felt the joy that was radiating throughout the space permeating my skin, making me glow to the core, I ventured out. It felt like I was electric; sparks flew around the room every time I locked eyes with someone, or shared a smile, or a touch. I was made for this, I thought; I love people, especially queer people, and I love bodies, and dancing, and movement-conversations. As I floated around the dance floor, feet and hips and shoulders in constant motion, smile that I couldn’t (and didn’t want to) hold back, music flowing through my every cell, I suddenly realized that I didn’t feel afraid. No restraint.
As I ebbed and flowed in and out of movement with a variety of people, seeking some and sought by others, and sometimes sharing in the fire of mutual pursuit, I felt free. To say yes. To say no. To say yes and then no. To be big, to take up space – to be tall, and strong, and soft, and curvy, and powerful, with visible muscles and rolls and scars and stretch marks. To jump up and down knowing that my earrings – and my belly – would jiggle. To be sexy. To be earnest. To lead and to follow. To sing along loudly to the songs I knew. To press up against someone without fear of what body parts they would notice that I did or did not have. I was staggered and moved and invigorated by what felt like a collective master class in nonverbal consent. The balance here was perfect – with such sensitivity to each others’ boundaries, the world of intimacy was all the broader, for our ability to venture into it knowing we were free to back out without consequence. We looked out for each other. I didn’t need to watch my back, because I knew that everyone here was on my side.
My time on the dance floor felt like an eternity bundled up into a moment: a pure and delicious moment, of ecstasy, unboundedness, even divinity. At Club Q, I was just a person. Not a gender, not a story, not a statistic, not a target, not an inspiration. Just a person. A being. A sweaty, dancing, joyful, beautiful, queer body. It seemed to me like I danced with almost every person there that night. Some moments were sensual, others were playful – the best were both. I wrote my phone number on a napkin from the bar and left it in the pocket of someone who I found especially lovely (the first time I had ever done that). I could have stayed for hours longer, but my friends were ready to go home, and I was their ride. I left grudgingly, but full of warmth.
As we stumbled back across the threshold from Oz into the black-and-white night, I remember thinking that I should come back soon – no, more like I really had to come back soon. This was what my soul needed. What all of us need. Safety, and hope. Joy. As I mourn the latest brutal losses that we have suffered this weekend, I am shattered with grief. We are not meant to endure this much pain. Queerness shouldn’t be painful. I do not know what to do. I doubt any of us do. But I felt joy. I will remember the joy.