Orlando is a far cry (and a three-hour drive) from Ft. Lauderdale, but in opening Pulse, Poma's goal wasn't just to sell drinks to twinks, but to preserve John's spirit in a meaningful way -- the same way she watched it transform her own family dynamic, "from a culture of strict tradition to one of acceptance and love."
In theory and practice, Pulse offered the polar opposite of old-school gay-bar culture -- that stubborn, nearly unconscious tradition of sorting and separating ourselves into our bars by shape, size, sex, color, and type. More often than not, those old desire-driven ways of coming together just meant further isolation. For decades we've been united in acronym only.
Pulse's approach was an answer to this; a way of pulling "community" out of the abstract. The club was girl-friendly, boy-friendly, trans-friendly, and beyond. Unlike many places, the dancers didn't all have the same look. Straight people crammed into Latin night on Sundays just for the legit dancing. Its mishmash was its mission. Scan the faces of the victims, or the memorial on South Orange, or photos and clips that made it online, and you'll see a tribe unbound by race, age, gender, or body – but bound nonetheless. That was on purpose. "Pulse catered to anyone," Ryan Daugherty tells me. "It was the club that accepted everybody."