He was called a hero during Pulse, but he wants to remember the music instead
Chris Hansen said he was ready to re-enter the Pulse Nightclub, nine long years after his life changed in a barrage of bullets.
He saw it as a means to an end.
'I actually want to feel the letting go,' Hansen said when WFTV first met up with him Wednesday. 'I want to feel the if I feel anything at all when I walk in, see if I can feel eerie, or if I can still remember the dancing and then hear the music and hear the laughter of everything before the chaos.'
Most of all, he said he wanted to find the wall where he hid from the gunman, and if possible, touch the bullet hole on the other side.
After his visit on Friday, he had many things to say about the 30 minutes he had months to anticipate.
'Confused,' he described. 'Emotional.'
Hansen said he walked through Pulse as he did on June 12, 2016. He pretended to pay a cover at the door. He went to the bar and bought his final drink. Memories began flooding in of victims and survivors dancing.
'The [dance] floor is gone. The bar is still there, but I thought the wall was missing' he said. 'I went to the wall, and I leaned up against it, and I'm like, 'Maybe this was the wall.' And I felt like, was I hiding from it all? The whole time? Was I in the corner?'
Hansen said the building felt smaller than before, noting that time slows down in moments of chaos. He said he stuck his hand into the fountain where police busted through the wall, naming it a 'fountain of life.'
He couldn't remember what happened after he escaped, when he jumped into action to carry other survivors to get help and triage some of the wounded. His actions had him branded a hero.
'I tried, but I couldn't, I couldn't get past the beauty behind my pain,' he said, tearing up. 'I still remember the dancing, the laughter, the joy, and I think that's where I want to leave it.'
He quoted song lyrics several times during his interview, and pulled in the woman who he credited with saving him: Michelle Rampone, a counselor who drove to Orlando after hearing about the Pulse attack and allowed Hansen to stay in her hotel room because his car keys and credit cards were locked inside the club.
The two have been friends ever since. Hansen asked her to accompany him and his father into the club.
'It was very emotional, especially the floor, you know?' she recalled. 'There were certain things that were very difficult to see and imagine what went on, and I've heard a lot of different stories from different people. I was just happy I could be here.'
Hansen said he would turn his focus to the future and to his Rainbow Remembrance project that displays flags and messages of hope in honor of violence victims.
He said he didn't think he'd return for the 10th anniversary next year but planned to come back for the 11th to see the finished permanent memorial.
'I'm ready to move forward,' he said. 'I'm not going to forget [Pulse], but… I'm going to put a period at the end of that chapter and move to the next chapter. It's time for a change. It's time for a transition. It's time to move forward from Orlando.'
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Developers behind new LGBTQ+ bar/restaurant 'Anthem Orlando' hope to honor Pulse legacy
The Brief A new LGBTQ+ venue, Anthem Orlando, will open downtown this year. The space aims to honor the legacy of Pulse nightclub while providing a safe, joyful place to gather. Organizers hope to restore community spirit through drag shows, music, and inclusivity. ORLANDO, Fla. - A new LGBTQ+ venue, Anthem Orlando, is set to open in downtown Orlando, providing a dedicated space for the community after the closure of Pulse nightclub nine years ago. What we know Anthem Orlando is preparing to open in downtown Orlando this year in the former "Saddle Up" bar in downtown Orlando, offering a new home for Central Florida's LGBTQ+ community. The venue will feature a bar, restaurant, and event space, hosting parties, drag shows, and other community-focused events. What we don't know An exact opening date has not been announced, and it's unclear what specific security measures will be implemented in response to community concerns about safety. Details about long-term programming and partnerships with local LGBTQ+ organizations are still emerging. The backstory The Pulse nightclub was a significant space for Orlando's LGBTQ+ community before its closure nine years ago. Its absence left a void in dedicated spaces for the community downtown. Michael Vacirca, a community member, felt the grief of Pulse's closure and was inspired to create Anthem Orlando as a new gathering place. What they're saying Michael Vacirca emphasizes the importance of safety. "Safety is the number one concern that I have, especially in downtown, especially with Pulse." He also recalled his nights at Pulse. "It was coming together and being with your friends and being with people that are like-minded like you, who just want to have a great night, right? They just want to celebrate. They just want to have fun. They just wanted to have joy, and they just wanted to dance and experience life together." Why you should care Anthem Orlando addresses the need for a safe and inclusive space for the LGBTQ+ community in downtown Orlando, fostering a sense of belonging and celebration. What's next Anthem Orlando is slated to open in early fall, with plans to offer a vibrant atmosphere reminiscent of Miami-style lounges, complete with outdoor sidewalk café seating. STAY CONNECTED WITH FOX 35 ORLANDO: Download the FOX Local app for breaking news alerts, the latest news headlines Download the FOX 35 Storm Team Weather app for weather alerts & radar Sign up for FOX 35's daily newsletter for the latest morning headlines FOX Local:Stream FOX 35 newscasts, FOX 35 News+, Central Florida Eats on your smart TV The Source This story was written based on information shared by Michael Vacirca, a community member who is part of the development team behind Anthem Orlando.
Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
He was called a hero during Pulse, but he wants to remember the music instead
Chris Hansen said he was ready to re-enter the Pulse Nightclub, nine long years after his life changed in a barrage of bullets. He saw it as a means to an end. 'I actually want to feel the letting go,' Hansen said when WFTV first met up with him Wednesday. 'I want to feel the if I feel anything at all when I walk in, see if I can feel eerie, or if I can still remember the dancing and then hear the music and hear the laughter of everything before the chaos.' Most of all, he said he wanted to find the wall where he hid from the gunman, and if possible, touch the bullet hole on the other side. After his visit on Friday, he had many things to say about the 30 minutes he had months to anticipate. 'Confused,' he described. 'Emotional.' Hansen said he walked through Pulse as he did on June 12, 2016. He pretended to pay a cover at the door. He went to the bar and bought his final drink. Memories began flooding in of victims and survivors dancing. 'The [dance] floor is gone. The bar is still there, but I thought the wall was missing' he said. 'I went to the wall, and I leaned up against it, and I'm like, 'Maybe this was the wall.' And I felt like, was I hiding from it all? The whole time? Was I in the corner?' Hansen said the building felt smaller than before, noting that time slows down in moments of chaos. He said he stuck his hand into the fountain where police busted through the wall, naming it a 'fountain of life.' He couldn't remember what happened after he escaped, when he jumped into action to carry other survivors to get help and triage some of the wounded. His actions had him branded a hero. 'I tried, but I couldn't, I couldn't get past the beauty behind my pain,' he said, tearing up. 'I still remember the dancing, the laughter, the joy, and I think that's where I want to leave it.' He quoted song lyrics several times during his interview, and pulled in the woman who he credited with saving him: Michelle Rampone, a counselor who drove to Orlando after hearing about the Pulse attack and allowed Hansen to stay in her hotel room because his car keys and credit cards were locked inside the club. The two have been friends ever since. Hansen asked her to accompany him and his father into the club. 'It was very emotional, especially the floor, you know?' she recalled. 'There were certain things that were very difficult to see and imagine what went on, and I've heard a lot of different stories from different people. I was just happy I could be here.' Hansen said he would turn his focus to the future and to his Rainbow Remembrance project that displays flags and messages of hope in honor of violence victims. He said he didn't think he'd return for the 10th anniversary next year but planned to come back for the 11th to see the finished permanent memorial. 'I'm ready to move forward,' he said. 'I'm not going to forget [Pulse], but… I'm going to put a period at the end of that chapter and move to the next chapter. It's time for a change. It's time for a transition. It's time to move forward from Orlando.' Click here to download our free news, weather and smart TV apps. And click here to stream Channel 9 Eyewitness News live.
Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
Survivors, families tour Pulse, but questions persist
Laly Santiago-Leon sat on the floor inside the Pulse nightclub, the exact spot where her close cousin died with his partner in one of the nation's worst mass shootings nine years ago. 'It helped with closure,' she said with tears on the ninth anniversary of the massacre. 'But there will never be closure, but an understanding.' Santiago-Leon was among more than 90 survivors and family members who visited the Pulse nightclub this week before it is torn down and replaced with a permanent memorial. Until this week, few people, other than the investigators, had gotten a chance to go inside the shuttered LGBTQ-friendly nightclub where a gunman killed 49 people and wounded 53 others on June 12, 2016. Orlando city officials invited survivors and the families of victims to see the building if they wanted, saying some thought it would help them in their 'journey of grief.' Some visited Pulse on the ninth anniversary of the massacre Thursday but chose not to go inside. Others visited the building looking for answers, as questions still persist — about law enforcement's handling of the case, the club's compliance with building codes and a private foundation's failed fundraising efforts to build a permanent memorial. How onePulse broke Orlando's heart On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, groups arrived via a shuttle bus. Black privacy screens and umbrellas shielded them from onlookers. They got to spend about 30 minutes inside the club and then were driven back to a hotel. The visits wrap up Saturday. Santiago-Leon called it a 'sacred space' that she wanted to touch before the building is demolished. Her cousin whom she considered as a brother — Daniel Wilson-Leon — died there with his partner, Jean Mendez Perez. She was told the couple were found on the dance floor 'in each other's arms.' 'It was hard,' she said about visiting the site. 'All the memories just came through. …But it was something that I wanted to do. … It was a way to say goodbye to that space.' Christine Leinonen walked around the dance floor where her son Christopher 'Drew' Leinonen and 19 others died in a hail of gunfire. 'I needed to see where my son took his last breath,' she said. 'It's as simple as that, and as painful as it is, it's nowhere near as painful as what my son experienced that night.' Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando: Remembering the victims of June 12, 2016 The gunman, Omar Mateen, opened fire during the club's Latin Night. Police shot and killed Mateen, who pledged allegiance to an Islamic State militant group, after a three-hour standoff. FBI investigators deemed the massacre a terrorist attack, the deadliest in the United States since 9/11. At the time, the rampage was the worst mass shooting in modern U.S. history. The death toll was surpassed the following year when a gunman killed 60 people and injured 850 more in Las Vegas. The shuttered Pulse building has been cleaned, and the furniture removed. A makeshift memorial surrounds the former club with pictures of the victims and mourners, flowers and Puerto Rican and American flags. Handwritten messages are scrawled on the Pulse sign. One reads, 'Love wins.' Another says, 'Do Not Forget.' For some, it was too painful to go inside the building. Jorshua Hernandez, 31, was shot twice and still has a bullet lodged inside of him. As the horror unfolded, he waited for three hours on a bathroom floor bleeding from the gunshot wounds, along with other hostages, until police arrived. He said he didn't want to relive that day. 'It's for my mental health,' he said after lifting his T-shirt to show the long scar across his stomach and chest. 'I don't want to see the restroom. I don't want to see the bullet holes. I don't want to walk in and see where I was laying… I want to end this chapter of my life.' Hernandez said he wants new investigations, examining the city's code enforcement at Pulse and whether limited pathways to escape contributed to the death toll. City officials and the club owner said the building complied with code requirements and had sufficient exits. But Hernandez said windows and doors were blocked, preventing people from fleeing. The FBI met with families ahead of the visits, but Leinonen left dissatisfied with the agency, saying it didn't adequately answer questions. She said she's upset the FBI is closing the investigation and questioned whether the agency could have kept a closer eye on Mateen before the shooting. 'The 49 people are directly a result of the FBI failure,' she said. The FBI twice investigated the gunman before the attack but closed the case finding no criminal charges to pursue. Agents first scrutinized Mateen in 2013 after he boasted of connections to terrorists. He was questioned again in 2014 as part of a separate probe into a suicide bomber who attended his mosque and was a casual acquaintance. Mateen was put on a terrorist watchlist during the investigation, but he was removed when no criminal charges were filed as outlined by the agency's rules. In 2018, it was revealed that Mateen's father was a secret FBI informant for over a decade. U.S. Rep. Darren Soto said he'd like to see most of the FBI's files made public when the investigation is closed, with the exception of victim images and top-secret information related to national security. 'This tragedy remains in our hearts and our minds,' said Soto, a Democrat who represents Osceola County. 'We can continue to learn from it.' An FBI spokeswoman did not respond to questions about the status of the investigation and whether the agency's files will eventually be made public. Efforts to build a permanent memorial have been plagued with infighting. The onePulse Foundation, the nonprofit initially leading those efforts, dissolved in late 2023 without achieving its goal of building a remembrance and museum. The group planned a $45 million project that swelled to a price tag of $100 million. One of the group's founders was Barbara Poma, an owner of the Pulse nightclub. The foundation's failure to build a memorial outraged some victim families who questioned its spending decisions and operations. After onePulse collapsed, the city of Orlando purchased the property for $2 million and took over efforts to build a memorial. The city is planning a less ambitious $12 million memorial on the site. The nightclub building is expected to be razed later this year, and construction will start in the summer of 2026. The city hopes to complete the project by 2027. Early plans show a reflection pool where the club's dance floor stood. It also will include a pavilion, tribute wall and a garden. As families and survivors saw the inside of the club this week, a steady stream of people left flowers outside or just stood silently and reflected near the makeshift memorials. Some wiped tears from their eyes. Some wore Orlando United T-shirts. Jakob Strawn, 25, of Orlando, said he visits the Pulse club each year out of respect for the victims, still with a pain in his heart. The shooting happened when he was a high school student in Tampa, hitting him and others in his school's LGBTQ community hard. 'People do still remember,' he said, standing near a wall of flowers and memorials. 'I'm 25. When I look around here, I'm now older than some of these people were when they died. Nine years is not a very long time, and as long as I live in Orlando, I'll keep coming out here every year.'
