49 people died in Orlando on 12 June 2016. 53 were wounded, many seriously.
These victims of a senseless act of terror were real people; they had names, stories, lives that mattered. They had parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, children, friends, co-workers. The ripples of suffering extend out into a vast web of pain that touches thousands of lives.
The people who lost their lives in Orlando died because they chose to go to a bar to celebrate Latin Night. This club was thought to be a safe place for people who are gay and their friends and family to relax together because, if you are gay, outside that “safe” haven,
there’s a world that politicizes every aspect of your identity. There are preachers, of multiple faiths, mostly self-identified Christians, condemning you to hell. Outside, they call you an abomination. Outside, there is a news media that acts as if there are two sides to a debate over trans people using public bathrooms. Outside, there is a presidential candidate who has built a platform on erecting a wall between the United States and Mexico — and not only do people believe that crap is possible, they believe it is necessary. Outside, Puerto Rico is still a colony, being allowed to drown in debt, to suffer, without the right to file for bankruptcy, to protect itself. Outside, there are more than 100 bills targeting you, your choices, your people, pending in various states.
You have known violence. You have known violence. You are queer and you are brown and you have known violence. You have known a masculinity, a machismo, stupid with its own fragility. You learned basic queer safety, you have learned to scan, casually, quickly, before any public display of affection. Outside, the world can be murderous to you and your kind. Lord knows.
And then suddenly “outside” storms inside. The safe place is no longer safe. The haven has become a place in which hatred wreaks vengeance against unsuspecting victims.
I would like to be part of a community that is safe, or at least becoming safer, for all people regardless of their race, creed, colour, socioeconomic status, sexuality, or sexual identity.
But I am not sure how truly safe the church in which I serve can really be. I hear a gay Anglican voice crying out and challenging me,
Why am I different? My love harms no one. I seek to create a strong, healthy, loving family. I only want to be affirmed and supported in living a godly life within my community of faith.
Why do you interpret the Bible to accept certain behaviours that affect you, but allow that same Bible to continue condemning my loving relationship?
How do the actions of my church promote in a practical way the love, justice and peace we say we support for all people?
How can you say you want to be a safe place for me when you exclude me simply because of the person I love, even though I believe in the same Jesus in whom you believe and consider this church to be my spiritual home?
How is my church creating a fully and truly inclusive community in which no one will be judged because of the person they love?
When will my church give up the insulting arrogance that makes it feel entitled to claim there is something wrong with my heartfelt genuine love just because it looks different than yours?
You talk about being a “safe church.” How can you be a safe church for me when you say my love makes me unworthy of marriage?
How can you claim to love me when you place restrictions upon my access to the sacraments of the church due to a harmless reality of my life that I did not choose?
How am I to understand my place in my church when the church says that my intimate, life-long, monogamous, loving relationship can be “blessed” but cannot be a marriage?
Samantha Bee in her blistering monologue on the Florida massacre points out that
Love does not win unless we start loving each other.
(caution strong language warning):
Near the end of her monologue, before closing with a prayer in which she justifiably mocks religion, Bee quotes the Bible, reading James 2:17 in which the writer points out that,
faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.
I wonder by what “works” the love and faith in our church will be judged?
Why did these people die?
Who have they harmed?
In what way did their lives transgress some boundary that meant they should be excluded from any part of the human community?
Juan Chavez Martinez, 25, was a beloved boss and friend, friends and co-workers told the Orlando Sentinel.
Friends said Martinez came to the U.S. from Huichapan, Mexico, and worked as a housekeeping supervisor for a hospitality service company.
“He was extremely friendly, very dedicated to his family, to his co-workers . It is very difficult. Everybody loved him,” said Alicia Amarro, chief financial officer for the company, APDC Services.
Jose Crisantos used to work with Martinez at Reunion Resorts and also remembered Martinez’s kindness.
“He was very well known among us as very kind and loving,” Crisantos said. “There was nobody else like him. It is a devastating loss.”
Jerald Arthur Wright, 31, was quiet but knew how to treat guests at Walt Disney World, where he worked as a seasonal employee, a former co-worker said.
“He was one of the kindest people you could meet,” co-worker Kenneth Berrios told the Orlando Sentinel. “We had students from the London program . and Jerry was always willing to give rides to them and show them around town.”
Wright “was a great guy to work with,” former co-worker Scott Dickison said. “He was quiet but really wonderful with all the guests. He always had a smile on his face.”
Dickison said Wright had worked most recently in merchandising on Main Street in the Magic Kingdom, but also had worked in Tomorrowland and at Universal Studios in Orlando.
Jason Josaphat, 19, called his mother as a gunman opened fire to ask for help, his aunt and uncle said.
She stayed on the line with him and could hear gunshots in the background, but tried to calm him down as he hid in the bathroom, Jimmy and Myrleine Inelus told KPNX-TV in Arizona, where Josaphat went to high school.
His mother then didn’t hear anything for as many as 20 seconds.
“It was dead silence on the phone … I think that’s when the gunman finally made his way into the bathroom,” Jimmy Inelus said.
Josaphat moved to Orlando after graduating from high school in 2014. A childhood friend, Messiah McMillian, told KNXV-TV in Phoenix that he was one of the first people whom Josaphat told he was gay.
“When I found out, I never judged him,” McMillian said. “I never looked at him any differently. He was always my friend.”
Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40, was known as “Javi” by his friends and as “Harvey George-Kings” on Facebook — a literal English translation of his name.
But his Facebook profile name belied a deep pride in his Latino heritage, friends told the Orlando Sentinel.
“He was proud to be Latino, super proud,” friend Jose Diaz told the newspaper, adding: “He was always positive. He was very humble. He was a lovely friend.”
Diaz recalled being sold a wallet by Jorge-Reyes, who worked at a Gucci store at an Orlando mall.
Another friend, Edith Colon of Miami, said Jorge-Reyes was a top salesman and makeup artist.
Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24, was always friendly and outgoing, “the most positive guy I’ve ever known,” friend Josh Palange said.
They became friends during middle school, and in high school, took honours classes and band together — Sanfeliz on trumpet. Though they didn’t see each other much after graduating in 2010, “we stayed friends on Facebook,” Palange told the Tampa Bay Times.
Sanfeliz’s family moved there from Cuba in the 1960s, family friend Mike Wallace said. Sanfeliz took business classes at a community college and was hired as a bank teller and worked his way up to become a personal banker, Wallace said.
“He (was) a wonderful person and this is such a tragedy,” said Wallace. “He was cut down in his prime.”
Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36, followed the crowd from a housewarming party to Pulse, according to former roommate Abismael Colon Gomez.
“I am really in shock that he was in the club, because he was not usually a club-scene person,” Colon Gomez told the Orlando Sentinel.
Ortiz-Rivera worked in merchandise management and had earned a degree in communications from a university in Puerto Rico.
He left behind his husband of a year, Ivan Dominguez; they were married June 26, the day the U.S. Supreme Court gave same-sex couples the right to marry in all 50 states.
“It was a big and happy coincidence,” Dominguez, 30, told The Associated Press. Dominguez is grieving, but said he still feels connected to his husband. He was not at the nightclub because he was supposed to work the next day.
Another friend posted on Ortiz-Rivera’s Facebook page after learning of his death: “God just gained one funny and caring angel today.”
Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49, loved to dance, so much so that she’d go to nightclubs with her 21-year-old son. They were both at Pulse. She was killed, son Isaiah Henderson survived, her oldest daughter, Khalisha Pressley, told NBC News.
“She was always really cool, but really a mom at the end of the day … the sweetest lovingest person in the world,” Pressley said of her mother, a two-time cancer survivor who had 11 children.
“She was a fighter,” lifelong friend Noreen Vaquer told the Orlando Sentinel. “She doesn’t take nothing from nobody.”
Vaquer, who met McCool when they were kindergartners in Brooklyn, New York, said her friend gave good advice, backed up by life experience.
“She’s smart,” Vaquer said. “She’ll put you right.”
Frank Hernandez, 27, loved fashion and lived to purchase the finest pieces of clothing at Calvin Klein or Armani.
“He had the best of everything, the most expensive,” said Jessica Leal, 19, one of his five siblings. “He liked the good stuff. And he worked hard for it.”
A manager at a Calvin Klein store in Orlando, Hernandez grew up in Texas’ Rio Grande Valley, near the U.S.-Mexico border, and had lived in Central Florida for three years.
Hernandez also loved Beyonce and going out to dance, and he frequented Pulse, Leal said. According to media reports, Hernandez’s boyfriend was able to escape, but lost track of Hernandez in the chaos.
His sister has planned a fitting tribute: She’ll wear Calvin Klein at his funeral.
“I’m pretty sure he’d love it if he saw it,” she said.
Franky Jimmy De Jesus Velazquez, 50, worked as a visual merchandiser, designing displays for an Orlando clothing store, according to his Facebook page. He posted inspirational and funny messages on his page, including a T-shirt that read: “Never underestimate an old man who is also a visual merchandiser.”
On a list of victims with an average age of 29 years old, Velazquez was the oldest. But age never became a barrier for Velazquez, former co-worker Bret Werner said.
“He was a very outgoing, friendly person,” said Werner, who worked with him at a clothing store in Miami. “Everyone wanted to be around him.”
Among family and friends in his native Puerto Rico, Velazquez was known for Jibaro folk dancing, said his sister, Shiela De Jesus. “He was a very loved person.”
Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37, barely spoke English when he moved from Puerto Rico to Florida in 2004, but he wasn’t deterred by the language barrier.
He quickly learned English, got a job and eventually met his partner, Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35, who also died.
“(Wilson-Leon) walked into the room and all eyes were on him because of his positive energy, just what he radiated … I’m heartbroken,” said his cousin, Laly Santiago-Leon, adding that the couple frequented Pulse and loved Latin Night.
Longtime friend Daniel Gmys-Casiano described Wilson-Leon as a protector and confidante. The two grew up in the same small town, and when Gmys-Casiano moved to the U.S., Wilson-Leon gave him a job in a shoe store.
“He was my hero,” Gmys-Casiano told the Orlando Sentinel.
Even though Wilson-Leon had been bullied for his sexuality, Gmys-Casiano said, “he never retaliated with hate. … He would stand to protect his friends.”
Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35, had a humour and warmth that made him a great salesman — and helped him find love, a co-worker said.
“He laughed with the people and would make jokes,” said Claudia Agudelo, who worked with Perez at a perfume store. “He was always happy.”
Mendez Perez met his longtime partner, Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, about a decade ago when he sold him the fragrance Declaration by Cartier, Agudelo told the Orlando Sentinel. Wilson-Leon also died in the nightclub shooting.
Mendez Perez moved to the U.S. from Puerto Rico when he was a teenager, and made friends quickly, father Angel Mendez said.
“He was a real dynamic kid,” he said.
Sister-in-law Katia Mendez said Mendez Perez also was a fun-loving and doting uncle who would buy her three children candy and ice cream.
“He was like a little kid when he was with them,” she said.
Capt. Antonio Davon Brown, 29, served in the Army Reserve and deployed to Kuwait for nearly a year.
Brown graduated in 2008 from Florida A&M, where he majored in criminal justice and participated in the ROTC program.
Lt. Col. Kelvin Scott, a ROTC instructor, remembered Brown’s positive attitude and sense of humour.
“He kept a smile on his face,” Scott told the Tallahassee Democrat newspaper. “He was willing to work very hard to earn his commission.”
Devonta White, a friend of Brown’s, said Brown was known in their dorm for waking up early for drills and becoming close friends with his fellow trainees, but also making friends outside of ROTC.
“He had a car so when he went to Wal-Mart, I would ride with him,” White said. “We just became good friends over time. He helped me more than he knows.”
An Army service record shows Brown deployed to Kuwait from April 2010 to March 2011.
Darryl Roman Burt II, 29, worked as a financial aid officer for Keiser University’s Jacksonville, Florida, campus.
As a volunteer, he co-chaired a clothing drive for the homeless for the Jacksonville Jaycees, a non-profit organization.
“Darryl was very passionate about working in the community and wasn’t afraid to take the lead,” Jacksonville Jaycees President Shawn DeVries told the Indianapolis Star. “If someone needed anything, he’d usually just ask for the details: where, when and what are the deadlines.”
Burt left behind family in central Indiana, and recently earned a degree in human resources management.
Keiser University’s chancellor, Arthur Keiser, called Burt “a highly respected member of the KU team” on the school’s website, and the school was providing grief counsellors to help Burt’s colleagues.
Simon Adrian Carrillo-Fernandez, 31, loved to travel and “worked to be able to enjoy his life,” co-worker Ivonne Irizarry said.
A manager at McDonald’s, Carillo-Fernandez had travelled to the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico and Mexico and went on cruises, Irizarry said.
He and his partner, Oscar Aracena-Montero, who also was killed at the nightclub, had just returned from Niagara Falls, Irizarry told the Orlando Sentinel.
Carillo-Fernandez never forgot a birthday, she said, and would bring in cakes for his McDonald’s co-workers.
Colleagues said Carrillo-Fernandez’s attention to detail was a trademark of his leadership style.
“He had to be the best, that was his thing. I cook the best, I clean the best, I work the best,” she said of him.
Oscar A. Aracena-Montero, 26, lived with his partner, Simon Adrian Carillo-Fernandez, and three Chihuahuas in a home they bought last year, a friend, Andrea Herrera, told the Orlando Sentinel.
Yamilka Pimentel, a cousin, said Araceno-Montero moved with his father from the Dominican Republic to Central Florida as a child.
“Oscar was a very sweet guy. Very sweet to everybody,” Pimentel told the newspaper. “Every time he met somebody they would like him a lot. He was the type of guy who goes along with anybody.”
Akyra Murray, 18, recently graduated third in her high school class of 42 students, had scored 1,000 points on the basketball team and had signed a letter of intent to play basketball at Mercyhurst University.
“She was very loving, caring, out to help anybody,” recalled her mother, Natalie Murray.
To celebrate her graduation, Akyra Murray, her parents and her 4-year-old sister travelled to Orlando. Murray wanted to party in downtown Orlando, and her parents dropped her off at Pulse at 11:30 p.m.
About 2 a.m., Murray sent a text message, saying that she and her cousins wanted to be picked up and there’d been a shooting. Moments later, the phone rang.
“… (S)he was screaming, saying she was losing a lot of blood,” Natalie Murray said.
She was hiding in a bathroom stall, her arm bleeding for hours with no medical treatment. Akyra Murray told her mother to call police.
They never spoke again.
Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25, recently had found a job as a leasing agent for an Orlando apartment complex, said his friend, Jennifer Rodriguez.
“He had finally found something he liked. He was taking care of his mom,” she said of Fernandez, who was also her hair stylist and one of her best friends.
“He was like a brother,” she said. “He was just really very spirited and always happy, you know?”
Fernandez recently had been dating an older man, a dancer known by the stage name Eman Valentino, who also died in the shooting.
Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35, went by Eman Valentino on the stage. He dressed elegantly in a top hat, tie and gloves, collecting tips from the audience between high kicks and spins, according to a YouTube video.
Off the stage, Rosado had a young son who had graduated from pre-kindergarten.
“I have no words to express how proud and happy I am of my little boy,” Rosado wrote on Facebook recently about his son.
Yemil Royce, a friend, described Rosado as hard-working, talkative and friendly: “He was a lovely friend, brother and father.”
Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26, went to Pulse nightclub almost every weekend, often with her best friend, Amanda Alvear.
“She was very outgoing,” her sister-in-law, Nancy Flores, said. “She had lots of friends.”
Mercedez Flores worked at Target, studied at a local community college and wanted to become a party planner so she could co-ordinate events with her two older brothers, who are both DJs.
Flores’ family spent hours waiting at Orlando Regional Medical Center, then a staging area at a nearby hotel. Someone read the names of victims still hospitalized or being released, and her name wasn’t on the list. Her father got a call early the next day from the sheriff’s office that his daughter had died, Nancy Flores said.
Amanda Alvear, 25, and Mercedez Flores posted on Snapchat from the nightclub before the shooting.
Alvear’s friend Sandy Marte said one of Alvear’s Snapchats showed a packed club full of revelers. Another, a selfie video of Alvear with a series of gunshots in the background.
Marte and Alvear bonded over breakups and health problems.
“She was loving, she was caring, she always had an open ear, she always wanted to help people,” Marte said. “She had an amazing heart.”
Marte said he understands what it’s like to be at a nightclub during a shooting. He was at the Glitz Ultra Lounge in Orlando in February when two people were killed, and said he froze in place from the shock of it.
Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20, wanted to be a star.
“He was one of the most amazing dancers,” his sister, Belinette Ocasio-Capo, said. “He would always call me and say, ‘I’m going to be the next Hollywood star.’ He really did want to make it and be known.
“Now his name ended up being all around the world, like he wanted — just not this way,” she said of her brother, a dancer who was working at a Starbucks while studying theatre.
Omar, as he was known to family and friends, at first seemed brash to 70-year-old Claudia Mason, a co-worker, but after getting to know him, she said, “I realized he had a very outgoing personality.”
“His sense of humour was definitely his defining personality trait,” she said. “Omar got along with everyone. Young, old, male, female, gay, or straight, it didn’t matter to Omar.”
Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30, tapped out a series of chilling text messages to his mother from a bathroom at Pulse, a 45-minute exchange that began with a message of love.
“Mommy I love you,” the first message to Mina Justice said at 2:06 a.m. The messages became more frantic as he told her the shooter was in the bathroom where he was hiding.
“He’s a terror,” her son wrote.
Eddie Justice normally was a homebody who liked to eat, work out and make everyone laugh, his mother said. He worked as an accountant.
“Lives in a sky house, like the Jeffersons,” his mother said she liked to say of his condominium.
Miguel Honorato, 30, was a father of three who managed four restaurants in central Florida along with a side catering business. He was always the one to drop everything to help out his family, which included seven siblings.
His brother, Jose Honorato, wrote a simple, heartfelt message on his brother’s Facebook page: “Come home bro, I’m waiting for you.”
“He was my mentor and my supporter. He helped very much in my parents’ house and work,” Honorato said. Even though Miguel was younger, he gave sage advice about the family business, his brother said.
Jose Honorato changed his Facebook photo Monday to one of the two brothers smiling over a charcoal grill, one of many happy memories cooking together.
Shane Tomlinson, 33, had a passion for singing, and had been the lead vocalist with “The Frequency Band” at a nightclub before going to Pulse, according to the Orlando Sentinel.
“He was destined for a grand stage and he was doing exactly what he wanted to do,” said Dr. Lathan Turner, associate director of student transitions at East Carolina University, where Tomlinson graduated in 2003 with a degree in communication.
Tomlinson was a vibrant and charismatic lead vocalist, friends said.
“I’ve never met anyone like him,” said Carey Sobel, an Orlando resident who hired Tomlinson’s band to play for his upcoming wedding. “He was really special.”
Tarrick Cox, an adviser for East Carolina’s gospel choir who worked with Tomlinson, remembers his contagious personality and the laughter that surrounded him.
“He was gifted and creative. He was a go-getter,” Cox said in a statement from the university.
Jonathan Camuy, 25, moved to Central Florida from Puerto Rico to work for the Spanish-language television network Telemundo. He was on the production team for “La Voz Kids,” a talent show for young singers in its fourth season.
“Jonathan was an extremely hard-working individual, full of life, enthusiastic and with a great personality,” the network said in a statement. “He will be missed dearly.”
Camuy was also active in the National Association of Hispanic Journalists, which called him “one of our own” in a statement about his death.
Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22, known among family and friends as “Ommy,” was always the life of the party.
“Peter makes a difference everywhere he goes. He was a happy person. If Peter is not at the party, no one wants to go,” his aunt, Sonia Cruz, said.
Gonzalez-Cruz, who worked at UPS, went to Pulse with his best friend, 25-year-old Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez.
After news of the mass shooting emerged, Sonia Cruz said she held out hope for hours that her nephew would turn up in a hospital bed. The family was later told he and Menendez were among those killed.
Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25, moved to Orlando a few years ago, his cousin, Irma Silva-Lauer, told the Orlando Sentinel.
He was an only child and “the light and the life of all the family gatherings,” Silva-Lauer said.
Edward Sotomayor, 34, was a caring, energetic man known for wearing a silly top hat on cruises, according to David Sotomayor, who said the two discovered they were cousins after meeting at Orlando’s annual Gay Days festival around a decade ago.
Edward worked for a company that held gay cruises and often travelled to promote the company’s events, said David Sotomayor.
“He was just always part of the fun,” David Sotomayor said.
David Sotomayor is a drag queen who appeared on a season of the reality show “RuPaul’s Drag Race” using the name “Jade.”
The two texted regularly and kept in touch via Facebook messages, last seeing each other this year at a filming of the reality show. They last exchanged messages late last week.
“You never think that’s going to be the last time you speak to him,” Sotomayor said. “It’s just heartbreaking to know it just can happen anytime.”
Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22, told his cousin, Robert Guerrero, that he was gay about two years ago. But he was worried about how the rest of his family would react, and did not tell them until just before the beginning of this year.
“They were very accepting,” said Robert Guerrero, 19. “As long as he was happy, they were OK with it.”
He got concerned after hearing of the shooting at Pulse, where he knew his cousin would go to every once in a while.
Juan Guerrero was a telemarketer, in recent months he started attending college at the University of Central Florida and was in a relationship with someone his relatives regarded as part of the family, Robert Guerrero said.
“… (H)e was like a big brother to me,” he said. “He was never the type to go out to parties, would rather stay home and care for his niece and nephew.”
Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25, had a drive for success, which was reflected in his inspirational Facebook posts — “2016 will be the best year ever.”
“Whatever goal he had in mind, he worked hard. Whether alone or on a team, he worked on that goal,” Chavis Crosby told the Orlando Sentinel.
Tevin Crosby was director of operations for a Michigan marketing firm who’d recently visited family in Statesville, North Carolina, to watch several nieces and nephews graduate.
Then, he travelled to Orlando after passing along some brotherly advice about business and setting goals. He loved to travel for work and fun, Chavis Crosby said.
“He was definitely a good person and a good brother to me,” he said.
Stanley Almodovar III, 23, had tomato-and-cheese dip prepared by his mother to eat when he came home from his night out.
Instead, Rosalie Ramos was awakened by a call telling her something had happened.
Ramos told the Orlando Sentinel that her son, a pharmacy technician, posted a Snapchat video of himself singing and laughing on his way to Pulse nightclub.
“I wish I had that (video) to remember him forever,” she told the newspaper.
A friend, Hazel Ramirez, told the Washington Post she also saw a video from Almodovar on Snapchat. She described Almodovar as “kind, but sassy,” and someone who was comfortable with his sexual identity.
“He was so proud of who he was,” she told the Post. “He would do his makeup better than anyone else. It was so easy to be myself with him.”
Anthony Luis Laureano Disla, 25, started dancing at the age of 10 and was comfortable with any number of styles, from salsa to ballroom, his cousin Ana Figueroa said.
Figueroa told the Orlando Sentinel that Laureano Disla invited her out for a night of dancing at Pulse nightclub, but she told him she was too tired.
He was out with two roommates, both of whom were injured in the shooting, she said. The newspaper did not identify the roommates.
Born in Puerto Rico, Laureano Disla moved to Orlando about three years ago to become a dancer and choreographer, Figueroa said.
“I want people to remember Anthony as someone who was very happy and very kind,” Figueroa said. “This is just devastating for our family and his friends.”
Kimberly “KJ” Morris, 37, moved to Orlando months ago and worked at Pulse as a bouncer, the Orlando Sentinel reported.
“She was so excited,” ex-girlfriend Starr Shelton told the newspaper. “She’d just started working there and told me how she was thrilled to get more involved in the LGBT community there.”
Narvell Benning met Morris when they were in college at Post University, where they both played basketball.
“I can’t think of a time when I did not see a smile on her face,” Benning told the Sentinel. “I’m so thankful of the good memories I have of her.”
Liz Lamoureux told The Associated Press in a statement that Morris was one of her sister’s best friends and a true friend to her entire family: “What did KJ die for? Being gay and going to work? It just makes no sense — her life amounts to so much more than that.”
Luis Vielma, 22, was well-loved and worked at Universal Studios, friends said.
High school friend Eddi Anderson told the Tampa Bay Times that Vielma loved his job at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter and was known for his pleasant attitude and warm demeanour.
J.K. Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter books that spawned the movies and section of the theme park, tweeted a picture of Vielma in a Hogwarts school tie, and said: “I can’t stop crying.”
“He was always a friend you could call. He was always open and available, Josh Boesch, who worked with Vielma, told the Orlando Sentinel.
Vielma “just wanted to make people smile,” said another co-worker, Olga Glomba.
Christopher Leinonen, 32, was at Pulse with his friend Brandon Wolf, who sent a text to Leinonen’s mother to say a shooting had occurred and her son was missing.
Christine Leinonen drove to Orlando at 4 a.m. from Polk County, southwest of the city. When she arrived, she began checking emergency rooms to find her son. She never did.
“These are nonsensical killings of our children,” she said, sobbing. “They’re killing our babies!”
She said Wolf survived by hiding in a bathroom and running out as the bullets flew.
Enrique Rios, 25, had come from Brooklyn to Orlando to celebrate a friend’s birthday.
Even though his mother, Gertrude Merced, says that her heart is broken, she has already forgiven the gunman.
“I’m not angry at the gunman. I’m angry about the situation. I’m going to forever miss my son … but I still have the hope that I’m going to see him again one day,” Merced told reporters as she packed her bags outside her New York apartment and headed to Florida.
Rios’ Facebook page says he worked with a home health care agency, and his mother said he had a heart for helping the elderly. He was studying social work.
Family and friends said he was determined, always helping others and had a heart of gold.
Angel Candelario-Padro, 28, moved to Orlando from Chicago in January to be closer to family. The nurse and National Guard member soon found a new job and a new love.
“He was a humble boy, a good student. He liked to work and wasn’t too much into partying,” his aunt Leticia Padro told Univision.
Candelario-Padro’s boyfriend, who was shot several times, told her that after hearing several shots he turned to Candelario-Padro and asked if he was OK.
“He told him he was OK, but in that instant he fell to the floor,” Padro said.
Candelario-Padro loved music and had played the clarinet in a band in his hometown of Guanica, Puerto Rico, according to uncle Efrain Padro.
“We’re waiting for his body to be brought home,” he said, “We will welcome him with music.”
Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32, moved to Florida from Mexico in the early 2000s in search of a better life.
He went back to his home state of Veracruz for several years but returned to Tampa less than a year ago, relatives and friends said.
“We came because here in the United States there are many opportunities here and because we were fleeing because in our country there was a lot of crime, violence and death … and we expect it should be more peaceful here,” his cousin Jose Paniagua told Newsday.
The construction worker was looking forward to meeting friends at Pulse for another night of dancing — something he loved to do, friend Lorena Barragan told the Orlando Sentinel.
“He was the best,” said Barragan, who met Rayon Paniagua at church. “He was loyal. He was always trying to do stuff to make you feel better.”
Merchant reported from Dallas and Webber and Johnson from Chicago. Associated Press reporters Thomas Peipert in Denver, Olga Rodriguez in San Francisco, Alina Hartounian in Phoenix, Jason Dearen in Orlando, Florida, Kelli Kennedy in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, Errin Haines Whack in Philadelphia, Caleb Jones in Honolulu and Don Babwin in Chicago contributed to this report.
Share information about victims and survivors of the Orlando shooting with The Associated Press: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1aPuHuGadVoeneo8hv0gHINjh6EA2SfHBZ6qsaudFaE4/viewform