The aftermath of the Orlando massacre has fixated on terminologies: “terrorism,” “gun control,” “LGBT,” “radical Islam.” But another word has escaped meaningful scrutiny: “hate.”
“Hate” entered our discussion of the shooting immediately. The event’s anti-LGBT nature triggered deliberations over hate crimes. Media accounts and news feeds churned out trite memes about “love conquering hate” and recycled hashtags, like #NOH8. Even President Obama’s eloquence succumbed to characterizing the tragedy as “an act of terror and an act of hate.” “Hate,” it seems, is the lowest common denominator for explaining horror.
Yet, while “hate” makes for a simple and eminently tweetable expression for condemning senseless violence, “hate” is a ridiculously banal term to grapple with the complexities of events like Orlando. For most English-speakers, the word “hate” is a primary color of emotion. It conveys a deep dislike for someone or something but gets used in a blasé fashion. We marshal it to rant against a bad sushi restaurant or to take down a celebrity on social media rather than to signal an affront to our humanity. What’s more, hate gets characterized as instinctual, something beyond reason and rationality. It feels raw and emotive and is often beyond our control. In short, “hate” is a childish word, a vacuous blanket term for the inexperienced and inarticulate to indicate aversion.
But to understand Orlando and what we should do about it, we need to bring a more sophisticated set of terms to the table.
Let’s consider, for instance, homophobia or heteronormativity. Despite efforts by many conservative politicians to frame the tragedy as an attack against the nation, this is undeniably a crime rooted in anger, fear and disgust toward the LGBT community. To deny it is to deny the root cause of the horror. And it isn’t enough to say the shooter found the sight of two men kissing “icky.” Underneath the ick-factor is a systematic, learned antagonism toward anyone who is not conventionally heterosexual taught both within this country and many others. To say Mateen was merely hateful towards LGBT people ignores the fact that he was instructed in their disavowal and destruction.
Or perhaps we should consider intent. “Hate” suggests a gut reaction, a feeling that we cannot choose or control, a perspective mirrored in labeling these kind of shooters as “crazy.” But little about this crime was unintentional. The shooter selected his targets, got his gun permit, and executed his victims with a cool demeanor. We can’t erase this vicious intent through well-meaning but simplistic words, only through tough conversations and smart policies.
Another word is “alienation.” Its a hard word to swallow because it forces us to consider the shooter as a person rather than a monster. But it seems clear Mateen was just the most recent in a string of men who felt alienated from their lives and their country. This estrangement might not be justified or even relatable. But until we’re willing to grapple with the root causes of these shooters’ animosity, we’ll be incapable of preventing these kind of crimes in the future.
These phrases, admittedly, ask a lot more from us than “hate.” Using them requires us to learn, think and struggle with talking about violence when every core of our being screams for satisfying simplicity.
But that’s the point. The language we use to describe the world shapes how we can or cannot act in it. If all we are interested in is acknowledging a tragedy and then moving on to the next cat video, then I guess “hate” is good enough. But if we’re really interested in empathizing with victims, understanding the causes of these repulsions, or stopping these kinds of tragedies from happening again, we need to put away our childish language and embrace the nuances of adult dialogues. In the end, saying #NOH8 will never be enough.
Thomas R. Dunn is an assistant professor of communication studies and director of public speaking at Colorado State University. His research focuses on the rhetoric and politics of the LGBT community and anti-LGBT violence. He is the author of “Queerly Remembered: Rhetorics for Representing the GLBTQ Past” (University of South Carolina Press).
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