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Positive Empowerment:
Talkin’ ‘bout my Generation
by David Weeks
With that fateful smack, to
which I attribute my attraction to the slightly kinky, I was
born in January 1971, in Williamsburg, Virginia. I was only
11 years old when Dan Rather was talking about “Gay Cancer”
and “GRID” on the evening news. It was Dan’s hair, more than
this strange disease, which troubled me.
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A sweet little well-bred Southern
boy, I graduated high school in 1989. My aspirations took
me to the grand old city of Richmond, where I graduated, with
honors (thank you very much), from university in 1993, the
same year that I came out to my family as being a full-fledged
homosexual.
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Two points away from receiving
my Gay Card from the Association, I was well on my way to
true Queer Enlightenment, a status envied by all the closeted
conservatives of blue blooded aristocracy that bog down the
East Coast. I envisioned my royal birth parents reclaiming
their only child, me, and returning me to the throne before
the age of 30.
Everything was coming up
roses
I believed that I was part
of the “new generation” in the AIDS epidemic: the safe generation.
I was of the generation that was educated on the differences
between safer sex and high-risk sexual behaviors. My generation
remained for the most part untouched by the epidemic, or so
it seemed to me in my safe little world. Relatively speaking,
it was “older men” who were infected, not younger men, not
us and certainly not I. Throughout my college years, to the
best of my knowledge, I never encountered anyone with HIV
or who had died of AIDS. Somehow, my generation had been granted
a kind of immunity. And because we were immune, we were a
generation that did not need to worry about the disease ravaging
the world.
Market Days, Chicago,
1997
Still in pursuit of my Gay
Card, I moved to Chicago in 1995. I had grown tired of the
stifling conservativeness of Virginia. I wanted to experience
a big fabulous city. San Francisco, I feared, would have eaten
me alive. New York was too crowded, too many actors. I picked
Chicago for its cost of living, public transportation, bountiful
theatre opportunities, and world-famous Boys-town. And I began
my “hoochie” period.
Halsted Street Market Days
‘97, in Boystown, was the peak of my hoochie days. I had the
best haircut I have ever had, a couple of curls lazily drooping
near my eyes. Working my “daisy dukes” and tank top, cute
little shoes from Payless. I was flawless.
I remember it started raining
on the last hot and humid day. The rain felt so good. Tents
were being taken down, tables collapsed and chairs folded.
I was busy hitting the 7-11, in search of sweet cherry cigars
and 40-ounces, all the while checking out the boys in the
rain. Caught up in the sexiness of the atmosphere, I went
home with a group of guys I didn’t even know. The rest, as
they say, is history. A few weeks later I attended my brother’s
wedding and then came down with what felt like a really bad
flu. First, I was diagnosed with German measles. Huh? I had
been vaccinated for measles, so what the fuck? Then it was
mono. I’d had mono before, this was no mono. Bedridden for
over a month, I started to wake up. The swollen glands. The
fatigue. Then reality set in. No generation gap was going
to keep me safe. No age range would keep a virus at bay. No
ignorance that I hid behind would barricade my blood. I was
diagnosed with HIV in February 1998. I was 27 years old.
I was in shock for months
after finding out I had become infected with the virus that
causes AIDS. The virus that causes AIDS. I said it over and
over. The virus that causes AIDS. The virus to which I thought
my generation was immune. I became paralyzed with fear, grief
and confusion. I had no excuse for getting infected. I was
stupid to have gotten infected, careless to have gotten infected.
I suddenly heard a clock that was ticking for me, I didn’t
have time for some fucking disease. One day, while standing
on a street corner near Wrigley Field, I stopped and dropped
what I was carrying. I began to cry. I stumbled around, lost.
I finally sat on the sidewalk and just cried, uncontrollably.
The dam had finally broken. That night I called a hotline
and got in touch with a psychotherapist.
I hadn’t just been a socially
irresponsible hoochie. Before getting sick and being diagnosed
HIV-positive, I had signed up to do the AIDS Ride. While I
thought my generation was protected from HIV, I was conscious
of a moral and social responsibility that my “protected” generation
shared with others. I was in tune to the bigger picture. I
wanted to do the ride to help make a difference in the lives
of others. How the fuck had I become one of those lives? I
continued training for the ride and I did it. I rode 500 miles.
It turned out to be the only thing that carried me through
those first months of total shock.
After the ride, I started
to share my burden, lighten my load. I began to find my support
systems. I started telling friends, one at a time. For many
of my friends I was the first person that they knew of to
be HIV-positive. I quit smoking, stopped drinking alcohol
and coffee. I became the Crixivan and Combivir Caped Crusader,
being very good about my drug regimen, watching my diet and
exercising. I became more and more open about being positive
and buried myself in research about the disease and treatments.
I took up Reiki, visual imagery and massage therapy. I went
home to Virginia and told my family that I was living with
HIV. I was making progress with my therapist. And I did the
AIDS Ride again. I was regaining control of my life.
That process went on for
nearly three years. Healing. Trying to make a difference,
not only in my life but in the lives of others. I was rushing
from massage appointments to educational expos on “Living
with HIV.” Going to fundraisers. Hoping that Jerry Farwell
and Reverend Felch (or is it Phelps) would get struck by lightening.
I would linger over lunch telling yet another person about
my life now and what my pill regimen was like. My T-cells
were climbing, my viral load tittering around the undetectable
zone, and my belly getting bigger.
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While I thought my generation
was protected from HIV, I was conscious of a moral and social
responsibility that my “protected” generation shared with
others.
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Eventually, after disappearing
into books, magazines, massage and reiki sessions, my bike
and everything that kept me busy, I found myself too tired
to give a shit about anything. I was keeping so busy that
I never “checked in” with myself. Flip. 180. I quickly found
myself depressed, canceling vacations, turning down invitations,
over-sleeping, over-eating, avoiding friends, drinking, smoking
and letting my life just happen without me truly being present.
I felt like I was running around in circles while standing
still. I wasn’t getting anywhere. What the hell was going
on?
The Screaming Room, a mother’s
journal of her son’s struggle with AIDS, made me realize I
was guilty of the same ignorance I had accused my father of.
In this book, Peter Peabody fights for his life in the early
1980’s. Sadly, it seems needless to say that Peter did not
survive. When my doctor first told me, “This is not a death
sentence anymore, you could live a long time,” I didn’t hear
him. I imagined, I assumed, that I would die, no matter what
anyone told me, just as Peter did in the book. I would waste
away. Why? Because that is what I heard so many times, it
was the only “outcome” I knew of for people with AIDS. My
dad, too, thought I would most likely endure the “uncomfortable
death.” Finally it hit me. We both were ignorant. I hadn’t
realized it until I read that book. We don’t know the outcome.
It’s a whole new chapter. Even though I am a part of this
new generation, the generation that has anti-HIV medicines,
I don’t know how or when I’ll die. Times are different. There
is no one certain outcome, not anymore.
In all the reading I did
I was stunned that another aspect of this “new generation”
was the disappearance of so many advocates, so many activists.
Some had died. Some had been sick but then gotten better and
needed to move on with their own lives. Some were just burnt
out and needed to take a rest, regain their spirits. But I
wondered, where the fuck were the replacement troops? Why
so much complacency from people, well, people like me? I was
of a generation that just sat there and reaped the benefits
from the sweat, tears, shouts and deaths of men and women
they’d never met. Christ, I was exhausted from “making the
most” of everyday. What a privilege. What is my generation
doing now?
While I have tried my own
little outreach project by telling guys who want to go down
on me that I am HIV-positive, for the most part I see my generation
has not changed. Just like I didn’t want to, no one wants
to admit to himself or herself that they are practicing risky
sexual behaviors. No one wants to hear that oral sex without
a condom is unsafe. For most guys about to give me head, licking
my lollipop suddenly is not so appealing, when I tell them
I have HIV. Some guys surprise me and whip out a flavored
condom, which, however, is the exception. Some guys say they
don’t care. Sometimes it leads to a discussion or an argument.
On a couple of occasions it has led to friendships.
But what is my generation
doing? What am I doing? The AIDS Ride? While it’s looking
more and more like a big old scandal, for me, personally,
it was a very positive, life affirming event—and the awareness
that it spread is extremely important—and I know dollars (no
matter how few) that otherwise might not have been available
were sent to HIV/AIDS organizations.
Still, I ask myself: What
did I accomplish? I rode my bike for six days. I inspired
some other people. I made some incredible friends who I will
always treasure. I used it as an opportunity to spread my
story, which had positive ramifications for others and me.
I learned that one person can make a difference. All of that
is great and I am thankful for it all. But I can do more.
What next? What do I do now? I want to be an activist, I want
to protest, I want to scream and be heard.
What’s this generation going
to do now?
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