(Photo courtesy Brandon Wolf)
When you lose someone you love, there is a sudden wave of emotions. Grief. Anger. Fear. You’re afraid that you will forget them — the way they walk, the way they talk, the way they smile. You’re terrified that you won’t remember their spontaneous giggle when something is funniest. You’re paralyzed by the thought of no longer remembering the tight squeeze of their hug when the world is at its darkest.
I experienced all of those fears after losing my best friend, Drew Leinonen, at Pulse nightclub in 2016. In an instant, a man filled with hate and armed with a weapon of war snuffed out the life of my chosen brother, his partner and 47 other souls. I was terrified. I replayed old voicemails to burn Drew’s joyful tenor into my mind. I put videos on repeat so I’d never forget the signature lilt in his walk. But I had another deep dread: that the world would never get to meet Drew at all.
Growing up, I internalized the idea that someone like me wasn’t deserving of success and love. Being a queer person of color meant I should get comfortable scratching and clawing to be accepted by society and learn to settle for whatever rung on the ladder I was assigned. I found ways to push past family rejection, fight through bullying in school and come to terms with the fact that the world didn’t have a place for me as I was. But Drew turned all of that on its head. He was defiantly proud of who he was, unshackled by the weight of a world demanding him to be less of himself. He was queer. He was mixed race. And he was unafraid. Drew taught me what it meant to love yourself unapologetically. He showed me the endless possibilities of chosen family. He redefined the world for me into a place where being my authentic self was an asset, not an obstacle to be overcome.
That was the Drew I found myself terrified to lose on June 12, 2016. Not only could I not fathom a world without my best friend, but I was left wondering how the next generation of LGBTQ kids would learn to accept themselves without someone like Drew to guide the way. Who would tell them that it’s ok to be who they are? Who would inspire them to find power in their identities? Who would teach the next iteration of Brandon that he is worthy of love and acceptance?
Those thoughts weighed heavy on me as a group of us gathered around the island in Drew’s old kitchen, his favorite bottles of wine still half-empty on the counter. It was just weeks removed from the shooting and the hole he’d left behind threatened to swallow us whole. We convened that night to discuss Drew’s legacy. We knew we couldn’t allow the memory of our best friend to fade or sit idly by while he became another one of the countless, faceless American victims of gun violence. We wanted to keep the best parts of him alive.
Truthfully, the way forward was immediately clear. We would give to the next generation of LGBTQ youth what Drew had given to each of us: a place to belong. We launched The Dru Project in the summer of 2016 with the hope of creating safe spaces for LGBTQ young people to be themselves, find refuge in their identities and grow into the leaders our community needs. In 2002, Drew, then a student in Lakeland, established the first gay-straight alliance student club at Seminole High School. It was among his proudest achievements — one that motivated his future career in mental health and passion for service. Our task was to keep that momentum alive.
For five years, we’ve done exactly that. We authored the nation’s most comprehensive guidebook for gay-straight alliance groups, delivered funds directly to those clubs for their programming needs and have given over $100,000 in Spirit of Drew Scholarship awards to rising LGBTQ leaders to achieve their higher education dreams. What started as a project to keep the best parts of our best friend alive has now helped students across the globe create spaces to be themselves, a reflection of the greatest gift that Drew gave to all who knew him.
The work we are doing is more critical than we could have known in the summer of 2016 — and still just beginning. Studies show that while LGBTQ young people are at higher risk of experiencing discrimination, bullying, violence and self harm, the presence of an affirming space like the ones we have sponsored reduces the suicide attempt rate in those teens by 50%. What began with a hushed conversation around a familiar kitchen island has transformed into an effort to save the lives of the most vulnerable among us, an effort that will need all hands on deck in the years to come.
The work of The Dru Project is collective now. We all carry the responsibility of crafting a world in which LGBTQ youth can thrive. We all hold the obligation of pushing back against the hatred and bigotry that erupted into violence on the floor of Pulse nightclub. We are all tasked with bringing Drew’s lessons of belonging, affirmation and love to life in our community. Five years after that deadly night, our challenge is to make the lasting legacy of the victims one in which young people can live as defiantly proud as he did.
When you lose someone you love, a deep fear sets in. You fear what the future holds without them. You fear picking up the phone for the first time to share good news only to be greeted by a dial tone. Those fears are still just as visceral for me as they were five years ago. But I no longer fear the world missing out on the parts of Drew that helped create the proud, queer, Black man I am today. Because together, as a community, we’re keeping them alive and well.
