Remembering Bill: Why We Shouldn't Forget About the AIDS Era

 

       First of all, let me just say that I have a thing for gay men.  Perhaps it's because my brother Bill, who died of AIDS, was gay--although I'm sure that's not the only reason.   Of course, to say that he was gay isn't saying much: he was witty, even disturbingly sarcastic at times, smart, fond of children, handsome in a wholesome Irish kind of way, and was deeply loved by and loved his seven siblings and parents.  He became sick in his early twenties--before he had a chance to grow up or even grow gay--and had barely embarked upon a sexual career when the virus invaded his body.  Coming out with AIDS to our family happened simultaneously with coming out as gay: a choice that was forced upon Bill by his failing body. Bill often joked that he couldn't be gay because he didn't enjoy Broadway musicals.  He wanted to remind us that he was unique, like the rest of us, and didn't easily fit into stereotypes.   While some of us embarked on careers as we aged, established committed relationships, or had children, Bill lived on the edge, fearing that the virus would finally put an end to any effort to make a viable life for himself.  But, in the meantime, Bill read,  traveled, and developed a marvelous romantic friendship with an older accomplished and wise gay male, who--like the rest of the Grant family--had both the Irish gift of gab and a remarkable capacity for friendship.   In the end it was family and friends that defined his life.

    Today the AIDS era seems distant, and it is easier to remember other wars, other disasters than it is to recall what has been termed by some the years of the "plague."  There was a spate of books, movies, and plays about AIDS during the epidemic, but all that is passe' now.   Remember the rampant homophobia, the indifference by the medical community, the sheer numbers of young men coming to an early death with no acknowledgment by the government.  Put this in contrast to the hysteria over the swine flue which has now killed how many Americans?: zero    And the AIDS epidemic is hardly over.  Nearly 30 million have now died from the disease, and there are over 20 million alone living with the virus in Sub-Saharan Africa, along with more than 6 million orphans.  Forgetting is not an option.

   For the rest of us who lost loved ones or who care for those still living with AIDS, the era continues to linger in our memories and in the lives of those who harbor the virus. Yet people with AIDS still don't announce it at work or to their neighbors.  The stigma lingers as a remnant from an even more hostile era, which is why it is still important to remember this history and the damage it wrought upon an entire generation of newly visible gay men.  It was my brother Bill who recommended to me some of his favorite gay novels and memoirs, and it was Bill who suggested that I read the works of Paul Monette who is our best chronicler of the AIDS era.  It is partly through reading and re-reading Monette that I remember Bill.

     Perhaps one of the best indications of an influential book is that you remember the book at different points in your daily life; it's almost as if the book lives within you and--like the unconscious--it pops up into consciousness from time to time. I thought about Borrowed Times when I traveled to Greece and explored the ruins of the Parthenon and other Greek monuments. Roger and Paul, long-time lovers who have fulfilling lives in Los Angeles, find in Greece a sense of identity as men-loving men.  Today's post-modernists want gays and lesbians to forget about finding an identity for themselves in the past.   They want us to believe that sexual identities are constructed, and nothing like a twenty-first century gay male or lesbian existed in the past.  But such academic posturing neglects  the psychological need that all of us, and especially oppressed minorities, have to find some evidence that others like themselves have gone before them.  We, too, have a past.

     Perhaps it is Paul the narrator who is most intent on finding a usable past for himself as a gay man, after suffering through a protracted and painful process of coming out.  He draws sustenance from the lovers depicted in  Greek mythology and the philosophers who celebrated manly love.  The symbolism of the trip to Greece is significant: it represents the pinnacle of the couple's life as gay men, unfettered by viruses, sickness and death, and also prefigures the losses that will follow, as when Monette says: "A gay man seeks his history in mythic fragments, random as blocks of stone in the ruins covered in Greek characters, gradually being erased in the summer rain."  The erasure begins with the first signs of the virus in Paul's exuberant and lovable partner Roger.  The trip to Greece is also a celebration of their great love affair, although it is not without its flaws, and represents the zenith of Paul's life, finally finding love and fulfillment. Perhaps he is overly romantic and apt to envision his life before AIDS through rose-colored lenses, but this is understandable in the context of what comes next.   I won't say more, because I think you should read this book, and there's a lot more to ponder. This books reminds us that we should never forget about this era and its impact on a generation of gay men and those who loved them.