World AIDS Day 2008

I don't remember the first time I heard the word AIDS. What I do remember is the chill that washed over me when I suddenly realized that the people they were talking about on the news, the group that was primarily afflicted with it, wasn't some group of 'others'. It was ME they were talking about. I was at risk, because I was one of 'those people' - gay men. What I do remember is the horror that was AIDS in those early days - the horror of the disease as well as the horror that came from ignorance and fear. And boy, did I feel that fear and I surely was ignorant. Everybody was. Nobody knew for sure what caused it, where it came from, how you 'got it' - except that gay sex seemed to be connected somehow.

What I do remember is being angry. I hadn't come out yet, not to my parents, my friends, anyone - and barely admitted to myself what I knew in my heart to be true. I was gay, and O how I wanted to express it. As normal as any adolescent boy on the verge of manhood in that hormones played havoc with my body, my libido, my imagination. And here on the edge of the abyss where we all stood, waiting to step off into the sexual wonderland that seemed just within reach, suddenly the stakes were much higher. Impossibly high. AS IF I didn't have enough to worry about, now I could die a horrible death if I indulged, explored, discovered. It was SO NOT FAIR.

But it wasn't just about me. I was the lucky one.

Stories would air on the nightly news and articles would run in the national papers (certainly not local print) about how the one's afflicted with this new terror were shunned, cast out, pariah. Nurses refused to enter their rooms, leaving them to waste away in their own filth, trays of food left on the floor in the hospital hallways by their doors. Mothers and Fathers cast out their own children, landlords evicted their tenants, businesses fired their employees. The devastation of diagnosis matched only by the desolation that followed if it was revealed. Gray, skeletal faces stared back at us with desperate eyes and the nation turned away. Religion told us it was okay, because this was God's retribution for sin. We needn't feel bad, it was all part of the plan.

As dramatic and harsh as it sounds, the above is - sadly - not an exaggeration.

Mercifully there were Samaritans out there who didn't look away. The gay community rallied around it's fallen brethren, organizing to provide services to all who were affected, gay or straight. We cared for the sick, the dying, even the dead when a decent burial was difficult to acheive. We fed them, and housed them, and gave what comfort we could. We spoke up, spoke out, marched, petitioned, protested.

Even then, I wasn't directly affected. I did finally 'do it', and I thankfully I didn't 'get it' - though my first time was without a condom. I moved on from High School to College to the Navy, and Yes, I finally came out. I was fortunate enough to have a good friend to help me through my coming out - Van. Van took me to my first gay bar and taught me what to watch out for, how to buy a guy a drink, what a 'top' and a 'bottom' were, how to 'dish' and 'hold court' and date. He taught me what "Safe Sex" was, assured me that it was still hot and fun. He bought me my first box of condoms, and made sure I knew how to use one. And then one day he told me he had it.

He had to, he said, because we were going to be roommates and that I shouldn't use his toothbrush (eww) or his razor - and that I couldn't get it from casual contact. He was on AZT and some other new drugs and I learned about T-cells and Viral Loads. I was impressed, I thought he had it together. He took me to my first AIDS fundraiser, a raucous affair full of laughter and fun in which he participated as a performer, doing a drag rendition of "Let's Hear It for the Boy". It's a song that is forever bittersweet for me because Van didn't make it. Despite the odds at the time, I was sure he would. AIDS didn't take his life, but Van was no less a victim of it. At the first sign of opportunistic infection, Van sank into despair and took his own life rather than risk losing his mind to dementia or facing disfigurement and pain from Kaposi's Sarcoma or Pneumocystis. 4 months later the first protease inhibitors were introduced which could have prolonged his life.

Since then, I have read names at a showing of the Quilt Project, volunteered and even worked for HIV/AIDS nonprofits. I have become a certified AIDS counselor and tester, and I have tried to be more than a bystander. I have done these things as much for myself as I have for Van - and for my friends past, present, and future. But what have I done lately? Nothing. I burned out and had to take a break for a while. And during my hiatus, the numbers of newly infected young gay men are creeping back up.

This new generation of confident young people who come out in High School (or sooner!) and proudly declare themselves to the world have more information about HIV and AIDS at their disposal than any of my generation ever did. But they didn't witness the early horrors - the new drugs have put those days behind us, and so it's not so scary on the surface anymore. A false sense of security comes from the mistaken belief that HIV is merely a chronic inconvenience that a few pills can easily hold at bay. Unsafe, condom-less sex is on the rise and some even seek out HIV positive partners for unsafe sex, hoping to 'join the club'. But HIV drug therapy is no picnic, and the virus is still, ultimately, fatal. There is no cure.

So I say this to all of you: Protect yourself, Support those who are affected by HIV and AIDS, and Pray for the Cure. And never, ever forget those who are absent, the ones who went before.

I love you, Van, and you are missed.