7.28.16 Editor’s Desk

There are certain things – scientific remedies, poems, friends, family, rhythms, compassionate beings, Duran Duran, Pet Shop Boys, lovers and losers – that I personally hold dear. If I err on any side of this balance beam we call life, I tend to self-correct and help somebody else up off the ground before I turn turtle and pretend I don’t exist as somebody meant to be of service.

So when given the opportunity last week to cross the state on I-4 for Hillary Clinton’s event at the Florida State Fairgrounds on July 22 – oh, I know; we’re a little heavy on the Hillary this month, but it’s also the month of the convention and just weeks after a massacre, so please forgive our indulgences – I leapt at it. It’s something I’ve always dreamed of. To meet somebody who has done so much good yet taken so much shit peripherally is reaffirming in its own way. Yes, I’m with her. I’m allowed to be.

And so it was that on that particular Friday night that I carried myself, alone, through the parking lot of an I-4 rush hour and into the manic energy pool of a political event. Why? I mean, I could have just listened online or picked up a feed a day later. I could have spent that time catching up on missed deadlines, examining spreadsheets, beginning the beguine in a mirror. But I wanted to see something I had yet to see. I wanted to see the alchemy of the Clinton campaign and its supporters (and its detractors) from beneath my own bleached head. I wanted to be in the experience and not simply a distant witness to it. I know, vain. But this has not been an easy road I’ve traveled, just as I’m certain it’s not been easy for most others equating terms like mortal and coil while eyes roll in the heat of a Florida summer. I wanted proof of my affection, proof that my own efforts were somehow intertwined with those of the state, the nation, the greater good.

“Do you want to be press or VIP?” I was asked at the check-in table.

One answer would have been dismally professional and seen me pushed into a far off corner of a big arena; the other, a chance at catching lightning for a moment and holding it so close to me that I would be reinvigorated in these sad, terrible times. Hours before Hillary Clinton’s stunning speech in Tampa, she roundtabled with local LGBT leaders, she led a bus tour for the media to Pulse Orlando where she would ultimately pay her respects, hand over mouth in horror. A few hours later, she would announce Tim Kaine as her Vice Presidential running mate. This is history. You don’t generally want to be a spectator in history if you have the choice.

The reason that this engagement was so personal to me shouldn’t be lost on anyone reading this. I was front and center in the media brigade following the June 12 massacre at Pulse. Along with other community members, we used our decorated pulpits in order to prove that we had to move forward, we had to be strong, no matter how dark and long the anxiety attacks.

Also, as I have shared to the point of emotional caricature, I hate guns. I hate the fact that I had to watch my former husband kill himself in front of me with a gun, had to hear those gurgling noises you never want to hear, had to scream so loud at such a broken world that no change could seemingly ever be affected. Then, I had to stop. I had to breathe. I had to move on.

This presidential election is a frightening one, a bloodsport made more evident by the rickety cartwheels of Donald Trump as he dances across – indeed, beneath – reason. So, for just one moment, I wanted to feel unfettered inspiration. Sitting in the arena with thousands of others, I felt exactly that. Watching Clinton listen rather than run toward spotlights while she was in Orlando was exactly what I remembered that feeling of political engagement being one half of a lifetime ago. It was transcendent. And yes, I do like “Fight Song.” Sue me.

As the festivities came to an end, I was ushered into a backstage area and given a few seconds with the future President of the United States. I didn’t mince words.

“Two things: I am here because I believe in you and good people, and I am forever grateful that your campaign saw fit to publish an op-ed in Watermark,” I said. “Also, my cousin worked under you for the state department and I tend to trust her judgment. She says hi.”

At that point, Clinton’s face lit up.

“Just help get me elected, Billy,” she laughed.

Then she hugged me.