I overheard a young man on the train on the way home today, talking to another young man. Holding hands. In college, I guessed. About that age anyway. Much younger than I am.
He was talking about AIDS, in a scholarly way. About how it had galvanized the gay community. How it had spurred change. Paved the way to make things better, in the long run.
The long run.
Maybe he’s right. I don’t know. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the theory. He spoke with clarity and with confidence. Youthful, full of conviction. But.
Remember how terrible it was, not that long ago, during the worst times. How many beautiful friends died. One after the other. Brutally. Restlessly. Brittle and damp. In cold rooms with hot lights. Remember?
Some nights, you’d sneak in to that hospital downtown after visiting hours, just to see who was around. It wasn’t hard.
You’d bring a boom box. Fresh gossip. Trashy magazines and cheap paperbacks. Hash brownies. Anything. Nothing.
You’d get kicked out, but you’d sneak back in. Kicked out again. Back in again. Sometimes you’d recognize a friend. Sometimes you wouldn’t.
Other nights, you’d go out to dance and drink. A different distraction. You’d see a face in the dark, in the back of the bar. Is it you? Old friend! No. Not him. Just a ghost.
At work, you’d find an umbrella, one you’d borrowed a few rainstorms ago from a coworker. I should return it, you’d think. No. No need. He’s gone. It’s yours now.
Season after season. Year after year.
One day you’d get lucky and meet someone lovely. You'd feel happy, optimistic. You’d make plans.
Together, you’d keep a list of names in a notebook you bought for thirty cents in Chinatown so you could remember who was still here and who wasn’t, because it was so easy to forget.
But there were so many names to write down. Too many names. Names you didn't want to write down.
When he finally had to go too, you got rid of the notebook. No more names.
Your friends would come over with takeout and wine and you’d see how hard they tried not to ask when he was coming home because they knew he wasn’t coming home. No one came home. You’d turn 24.
When he’d been gone long enough and it was time to get rid of his stuff, they’d say so. It’s time. And you’d do it, you’d give away the shirts, sweaters, jackets. Everything.
Except those shoes. You remember the ones. He loved those shoes, you’d say. We loved those shoes. I’ll keep those shoes under the bed.
You’d move to a new neighborhood. You’d unpack the first night, take a shower, make the bed because it’d be bedtime. You’d think of the shoes. For the first time, you’d put them on. Look at those shoes. What great shoes.
Air. You’d need air. You’d walk outside in the shoes, just to the stoop. You’d sit. A breeze. A neighbor steps past. “Great shoes,” she’d say. But the shoes are too big for you.
You’d sit for a while, maybe an hour, maybe more. Then you’d unlace the shoes, set them by the trash on the curb. You’d go back upstairs in your socks. The phone is ringing. More news.
The long run. Wasn’t that long ago.
@Damian_Barr Damian ❤️
@tucker_shaw Oh....you've broken my heart. Yes, I remember. I lived through it, if living in utter despair is living. No information, no hope, no help and no mercy. Just endless heartbreak.
@Arcanum_slc ❤️
@tucker_shaw I ♥️this thread.
@tucker_shaw @Colmogorman This is the most poignant thing I’ve read in a long time. Christ what trauma you all lived through. Sending you a hug from a stranger. This was beautiful. Thanks for sharing.
@tucker_shaw When I was 10 we went to San Francisco. At the museum was a withered man, covered in sores, attached to oxygen and an IV, for what must have been a last trip to see the art. Every step was suffering and joy, and it remains one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, /1
@tucker_shaw When I was I guess 14, Mom told me my uncle John had HIV. My big, strong uncle John - we have pictures of him swinging my sister and I around on the National Mall, one in each hand, like a carousel. I was SO angry. Still am. I hadn’t spent enough time with him. Still haven’t. 1/
@tucker_shaw America still hasn’t reconciled the callous way they turned a blind eye while these kids died. Alone. The survivors weren’t allowed to grieve. The stigma of it all, living beyond the grave. In the long run, quilt wasn’t, and still isn’t, enough.
@tucker_shaw I remember when young men first began dying. Families would say “he had cancer” but there was always something not quite spoken. I had a work friend whose son died very early on from AIDS and she kept it to herself for so long because she feared her beloved son being judged.
@tucker_shaw Tucker. This is beautiful and so brave and powerful to write, and I’m glad you’re here and I’m sorry for all you’ve lost. 💛
@tucker_shaw A big denim jacket. My friend from choir gave it to me to sew the patches on it. For him to be buried in. I wanted to....but..I couldn't. Because maybe if I didnt finish it, he wouldnt die. He wrote the AIDS Requiem. And soon after, we sang it for him too. Too many gone.