The Northampton Police Department estimates that about 2,000 people attended the event, which closed down Main Street for three hours.
NORTHAMPTON -- Early Sunday morning, Aimee Fyfe got a text message from her best friend of 15 years, KJ Morris. It was a photo of the two of them.
"We're so cute," Morris, 37, wrote. "I love you."
"I love you too," Fyfe responded.
Morris was killed soon after in the shooting at Pulse night club in Orlando.
"I couldn't have thought of a better way to have left it," Fyfe said of her final exchange with Morris.
It's become unbearable to hear and read her best friend's name in news reports, the 34-year-old Palmer resident said. Five-hundred words, three-minute broadcasts could never sum up Morris, who was an artist at heart, a reality TV junkie whose favorite movies were "Lilo and Stitch" and "The Color Purple."
"But when I saw that Lady Gaga said her name, I know that girl screamed somewhere in excitement," Fyfe said in a voice choked with laughter and tears.
Fyfe told her story at a vigil that honored the Orlando victims in front of Northampton City Hall Wednesday night. The Northampton Police Department estimates that about 2,000 people attended the event, which closed down Main Street for three hours.
Each speech was translated through Spanish and American Sign Language. Safe Passage provided on-site counseling. Iroko Nuevo, an local Afrocuban drum and dance group, performed. A few recited poetry.
Several spoke of Morris, who lived in Northampton before moving to central Florida to be closer to family. Many knew her as "Daddy K," her drag king persona.
Throughout the vigil, dozens of signed a memorial banner for Morris that will be sent to Pulse night club.
Many spoke of the importance of unity, love and resilience in the face of horrific tragedy.
"There is a loving heart at the center of this grieving," said Jennifer Walters, the
dean of religious life at Smith College, to the crowd. "You are here. You are proof of that. They will know we are standing with them because we share their sorrow."
In a particularly emotional moment, Holyoke City Councilor Nelson Roman -- who is both Latino and gay -- asked members of the crowd to turn to the person next to them and say, "You are my family."
"Family isn't always the family of your blood ... Family are the people who lift you up and make you the most happiest," Roman said. "Family are the ones who tell you to never change who you are."
Lovers, friends and strangers embraced.
Volunteers read the names of the 50 killed in the shooting, including the gunman, Omar Mateen.
Then, a moment of silence. Little else but muffled sobs could be heard on the usually busy Main Street.
Honoring Latino lives
Lena Wilson, one of the vigil's main organizers, spoke of growing up in Clearwater, Florida. She recently graduated from Smith College.
"In Florida, our LGBT spaces are so, so precious -- even more so for the Latinx community." she said. Latinx is used to make the word Latino, a masculine identifier, gender-neutral.
"When I woke up to the news of the Pulse shooting Sunday," she went on to say, "I wondered what would have happened if I decided to move home after graduating instead of staying in the Pioneer Valley."
Nearly half of those killed in the massacre were Puerto Rican, and an estimated 90 percent were Latino -- including 23-year-old Stanley Manolo Almodovar III, a Springfield native. Pulse was hosting a Latin dance night Sunday.
Speakers reminded the crowd that although many are in pain, it is those who identify as both LGBTQ and Latino that may feel the most vulnerable.
Frankie Yara Colon, 21, is both Latino and queer. She told the crowd that she got a text from her 80-year-old grandfather Sunday morning. In a show of love, he managed to assemble emojis into a rainbow of hearts.
Colon said that when she was young and went to family gatherings in Brooklyn, her LGBTQ identity felt like a burden. It didn't help that she grew up in the conservative suburbs.
"I have come to realize that my family never truly hated my queerness, but feared for my safety," she said.
Colon asked the white allies in the crowd to recognize how the color of their skin gives them a certain level of safety, an armor that most of the Pulse victims were born without.
"It's so hard to describe the many layers of pain that those of us who straddle and embrace both communities experiencing," said Bernadette Stark, who is also queer and Latino.
Holyoke city councilor Jossie Valentin, a self-identified lesbian, said that two big parts of who she is were assaulted Sunday morning.
Valentin moved to Northampton from Puerto Rico in 1988. The Caribbean Island was not a great place to come out, she said.
" ... I knew the City of Northampton was a safe place for me as a lesbian," she said. "For the first time in my 21 years of life, I could walk down the street ... and hold my partner's hand and feel safe."
Valentin said she ran for local office to be a voice for the Latino and LGBTQ communities.
She noted that many Puerto Ricans move to Orlando for the same reason that queer people move to Northampton -- to feel safe. Nearly 400,000 Puerto Ricans have settled in the Orlando area, according to federal data.
"What the city of Northampton has been able to have for many, many years ... is something we can replicate in cities and towns throughout our whole nation," Colon said.
A club as a sacred space
Many at the vigil spoke of LGBTQ clubs as a safe haven.
Stark and Roman both met KJ Morris at gay clubs. Morris was working as a bouncer at Pulse when she was killed Sunday.
"These clubs and bars are supposed to be safe places for us," Stark said, "places where we can find comfort and solidarity among those like us."
Roman's first interaction with Morris was at a Hartford gay club. He had just won a dancing contest, and she complimented him on his moves. Part of the reason Roman moved to Western Massachusetts from Waterbury, Connecticut, he said, was because of "Daddy K."
"It was because of people like KJ ... and this community that helped me to be the man that I am today," he said.
For young Frankie Yara Colon, the gay club is a sanctuary. It is where, she said, "queers and trans bodies are in motion, where they can absolve themselves of guilt and pain."
"We dance through this world together," she said, "even in death."