The studio was for older dancers in an Asian-American community, the article had said. For people over 50, and specifically, couples learning ballroom dance. They’d been facing the mirror when the gunman entered to kill 10 of them and injure several more.
My mom is 60. She started dancing at 35, at the same time she put me in ballet and Chinese folk dance when I was 4. She gave me the dance classes she wanted when she was young — but growing up during the Cultural Revolution in a poor family didn’t allow it. Twenty-five years later, on my last trip home for the holidays, I attended her dance recital and watched her take center stage for her solo.
Last night, my chest constricted as I looked at my parents’ smiling faces on our hour-long WeChat video call. My dad told me, “I read a study that said most couples don’t spend 50 seconds a day looking at one another. But why would anyone stare at someone for almost a minute?!” Then he made a show of staring at my mom, which made her giggle, which made him kiss her on the cheek.
They told me how they went to a Chinese New Year dance performance in DC the night before, the night of the mass shooting in LA. I thought of the daughters waking up to the news of their murdered parents on Sunday morning. I don’t know what I would do. Collapse to the floor, probably. Scream until my throat shattered. Crawl into bed and stay until death took me, too. I read there was one man whose wife was shot and then taken away. As of this morning, he’d called all the hospitals in the area and couldn’t find her.
I remember going to DC when I was young, maybe 9 or 10. I was worried about a shooting or a bomb. That unease of being in a big city has waned over years of living in New York, and now London. But then another shooting, and the fear comes back. I’m ashamed that the other 32 mass shootings that have happened in the US just this year haven’t elicited the same devastation and fear in me – only the one that killed victims that looked like my parents.
My boyfriend stayed on the phone while I cried last night. He suggested not reading more news until I’ve given myself more time. That it might be better to protect myself until I’m ready. He’s right, I’m definitely not ready, and I’m not going to read anymore today, I promise. But I also feel I’m betraying my Asian brothers and sisters for not plunging myself into the depth of despair that they must be feeling.
We are collectively scared. We are collectively heartbroken. We are crying into our screens this Monday morning for each other and the ones we love. We are seeing that the victims were in their 50s, 60s, 70s. We hear that an 11th victim has died in the hospital.
“I don’t think doom-scrolling will help,” my boyfriend had told me, gently. “Maybe we can do something beautiful for it. We can commemorate their deaths – light candles, send out paper boats – whatever you want.”
Something beautiful. Today, we are also reading about the 26-year-old hero, who’d never seen a real gun until it was pointed at him, who knew he had to “disarm him otherwise everyone would have died,” in his own words. We are spending a bit longer on the phone with our parents, sending “hey, I see you” Slacks to coworkers that seem distracted, texting friends to let them know they’re not alone in their pain.
There is no beauty in this act of violence. But to me, this is a small comfort: we have the chance to do something beautiful for the ones who are still here, in honor of the ones who are gone.
