REMEMBRANCE
Honoring Activism, Humor, Sex, and Love
Ten activists recall the eternal words of writers lost to AIDS
BY PAUL SCHINDLER
As darkness descended
on the New York City
AIDS Memorial in the
West Village on December
1, 10 activists who, in
the words of one, have long been
“thriving” with HIV paid tribute to
an equal number of writers, poets,
and novelists who fell to the fi rst of
the pandemics we encountered in
our lives.
In the hour prior to the 30th
annual “Out of the Darkness
Candlelight Vigil” marking World
AIDS Day, the 10 — in a program
of readings curated by novelist,
journalist, and teacher Tim Murphy
— restored to life the words of
10 remarkable artists whose work
highlighted themes of activism
and community, of humor, of the
ecstatic joys of sex, and of love.
Kevin Hertzog recalled the credo
that his good friend Michael
Slocum, who died in 1995, co-wrote
(with Jim Lewis) for the HIV support
group Body Positive. “You Are
Not Alone,” reprinted in every issue
of the group’s magazine, aimed to
honor emotions such as fear and
anger felt by people living with
HIV, while challenging the shame
and guilt initially felt by many who
were newly diagnosed. The credo
also underscored the urgent need
to seek support from others facing
the same health challenges.
“What you are feeling now is perfectly
normal. Anger, fear, confusion,
numbness, depression — all
John Grauwiler reads David Frechette’s “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.”
are completely natural reactions to
the kind of news you’ve heard,” the
piece read, while reminding positive
folks, “You have to keep in mind
that there are many people who are
HIV-positive who are living productive,
happy lives, and you can be
among them if you choose.”
It went on to say, “You are facing
enough right now; you don’t need
to punish yourself for testing HIVpositive
also… You are not ‘damaged
goods.’ You are still a valuable
person, as capable of giving and
receiving love as ever.”
The credo concluded with a reminder:
“Those millions of people
living successfully with HIV are
people who’ve reached out to get
the help they needed.”
Ivy Kwan Arce read from poet,
writer, and editor B.Michael Hunter’s
praise for his fellow activist
Keith Cylar, co-founder of Housing
DONNA ACETO
Works, whose death in 2004 would
come three years after Hunter’s.
In “Doors Will Open!,” Hunter
wrote, “Keith/ Like a black panther,/
A militant vanguard in the
fi ght/ Could no longer/ sit, watching/
Lives needlessly lost.”
Mary Bowman, who was born
with HIV and died at age 30 in
2019, was recalled by Kineen
MaFa, who read from the poem “I
Know What HIV Looks Like.”
“It was predicted that she would
breathe her last breath before 5/
But now/ Here she stands 5 foot 9
/ 15 years after her expected demise
/ Flashing a smile that blinds
eyes trying to see her pain,” Bowman
wrote in 2014.
Later, the poem continues, “She
can’t allow people to go on and
think/ That HIV only looks like/
Skinny bodies, pale skin, open
sores, and baby thin hair/ She can’t
help but start a movement that does
more than just wear red t-shirts on
December 1st / No matter how much
it hurts… Knowing what HIV looks
like/ Comes with the price of my life
nailed to a ruthless disease/ But I’d
rather die telling people what HIV
looks like than to live with knowing
I haven’t said a word.”
Lillibeth Gonzalez read the selfepitaph
that Cuban exile Reinaldo
Arenas, author of the indelible
memoir of life as an out gay man
under Fidel Castro, “Before Night
Falls,” wrote as he was giving up
his fi ght against AIDS by taking
his life in New York in 1990.
In his fi nal written work, a poem,
Arenas wrote, “He lived for life’s
sake, which means seeing death/
as a daily occurrence on which
we wager/ a splendid body or our
entire lot… The everyday becomes
hateful,/ there’s just one place to
live — the impossible…. He wanted
no ceremony, speech, mourning or
cry,/ no sandy mound where his
skeleton be laid to rest/ (not even
after death did he wish to live in
peace)./ He ordered that his ashes
be scattered at sea/ where they
would be in constant fl ow./ He
hasn’t lost the habit of dreaming:/
he hopes some adolescent will
plunge into his waters.”
While some of the writers honored
on World AIDS Day spoke
passionately about activism and
struggle, others used humor as a
weapon to pierce the widespread
complacency that the pandemic
occasioned.
In the epilogue to his second novel
“Spontaneous Combustion,” David
Feinberg, who died in 1994, imagined
a fantasy scene in 1996 when
AIDS would be cured. Amidst “ribald”
celebrations in San Francisco,
Los Angeles, and New York, anti-gay
fi gures — from comedian Andrew
Dice Clay to New York Cardinal
John J. O’Connor — would still be
“at large.” Gay men, grateful for the
support their lesbian sisters had
lent during the health crisis, would
oversee daycare at women’s music
festivals and give them “their favorite
dresses,” as read by Bruce Ward.
Iris de la Cruz, who organized
support groups for positive folks
from communities even more marginalized
than gay men and for
whom Iris House is named, wrote
how HIV had suddenly become a
“very chic disease.” In “Kool Aid
With Ice,” read by Patricia Shelton,
de la Cruz, who died in 1991, wrote
that phony positives could be sniffed
out since they did not wear beepers
that went off every four hours to remind
them to take their meds.
“I had a good time getting this disease,”
she wrote, “and I’m going to
have a good time dealing with it. Al-
➤ READINGS, continued on p.13
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