Urban Thought Collective

In honor of World AIDS Day on December 1, 2008, Urban Thought Collective brings you a thought provoking series of excerpts from Gil Robertson’s bestselling collection of essays, “Not in My Family: AIDS in the African American Community.”

I know the face of AIDS. I have touched it, kissed it, comforted it, listened to its voice cry out in anguish, tried to find a hopeful word to soothe its fears, and wiped the tears from its eyes.

I have lived it, buried it, loved it, and lost it, but never will I forget it.

The first face of AIDS I knew was that of my younger brother, who died in 1991 at the age of 28. No, my brother was not gay, to answer the question that so many stupidly ask (as if that factor should somehow justify the person having the disease).

Back then, in some way that train of thought may have led our young people to look at AIDS as strictly a gay disease. They never paid attention because they were led to believe that only the “gay boys” were dying. The only thing you needed a condom for was to protect you from having a baby, and any STD could successfully be treated with a shot or a tube of ointment.

No one told my little brother that he would be fighting for his life, that he would be leaving his parents, his sisters and brothers, his five-year-old son, and his girlfriend because he had AIDS. No one told us that we would be standing around his hospital bed watching him struggle to breathe, touching his handsome face, and wiping the tears from our eyes as we said goodbye. No one told us that in a couple of years, his girlfriend would also be dead.

The next face of AIDS I knew belonged to my dearest friend of twenty-five years, a talented fashion designer. Every Friday after work, we would hit the “happy hour” at our favorite club, sip our drinks, catch up on the latest gossip, and share our dreams and our secrets like only best friends could do. The bar would be packed with the beautiful people, who were drinking, cruising, and dancing the night away.

You could always tell what season it was at the club by the posters on the wall; an invitation for the “Summer Boat Cruise”, tickets being sold for the “New Year’s Eve Gay-la,” and my favorite, the “Sunday Night Talent Shows.” But all too soon, it would become the season of AIDS.

As the virus began to take its toll, the atmosphere at the club began to change. The “happy hour” crowd grew smaller, and old familiar faces began to disappear. My best friend quietly slipped away a week before his forty-fourth birthday. The thump-thump-thump of the house music that had once beckoned us to dance the night away reverberated like a heartbeat, and then the music died.

Within the gay community, AIDS could not and would not be ignored. What started as a silent whisper would soon be heard loud and clear, like an air raid siren warning you that a bomb was about to drop. One by one, the faces of my friends began to change. One by one, when asked, they denied being sick. One by one, the minds and bodies of those beautiful people were ravaged by the sickness. And one by one, those happy vibrant faces stared back at me from the pages of their obituaries. Happy hour was never the same, nor would it ever be again.

Twelve years would pass before I would once again see the face of AIDS, and that face belonged to my sister. My sister, who is a mother and a grandmother, was diagnosed three years ago. She contracted the virus from a former boyfriend; no, he was not a brother on the “down-low,” but instead a brother on drugs.

The passing of time has brought about change: new medicines that prolong and sustain the quality of life, community AIDS programs that provide comfort and support, and media campaigns to remind us that AIDS does not discriminate.

On my sister’s behalf, I am thankful for the progress that has been made.

On my brother and my best friend’s behalf, I am sorry that it took so long.

-S.M. Young

Gil Robertson IV is a journalist, bestselling author and lecturer. His work has appeared in numerous publications that include the LA Times, the Atlanta Journal Constitution and Black Enterprise magazine. To contact him, visit www.gilspeaks.net.