World AIDS Day
Dec. 1, 2002

by Ruby Lips Dec 12, 2002
Our ‘ethnic’ disaster has, over the years, moved from being a crisis to becoming an institution. There are those who have made their entire lifetime careers out of it. Remembering the impact of AIDS, which for some of us remains a daily or even hourly ache for our lost beloved, has become a politically correct tradition for others. And thus, tragic ‘holidays’ have ensued upon which the names of the dead are read in a monotone one after the other. People don’t seem to cry anymore as they did in the old days. It’s a political statement now. And as with everything else in America these days, many of the institutionalized commemorative ceremonies are for sale, no longer free. Riverside Church, this year, had the premiere event of the day; a star studded concert with rather expensive tickets, alas. Well, its costs real money, after all.

The Center, however, had a free program and candlelight march, out of some remnant of its leftist past perhaps, called "Out of the Darkness." There were singers, speakers, and readers of names, and a panel discussion designed to focus on those often forgotten sufferers such as prisoners and women. It was a bitter cold bitch of a Sunday evening and so not a lot of people attended; even some of the scheduled guests sent their regrets about being unable to come. It was rather amazing really, there were about one hundred people there and an incredible amount of mainstream news media with TV cameras, reporters, and stringers trolling for something interesting out of it all. I saw photographers from the NY Daily News and The New York Times, and NY1 and Telemundo videographers, among others. In the end there was not much for them to tell that was news; as such things go, it was rather lackluster. After the partial panelists spoke, the microphone was opened up to the audience for comment. It was that, really, that made it a sort of warm ‘family’ gathering of mourning for the mostly 50ish crowd who could not bring themselves to be anywhere else on such a day. Cookie, a Black blond trannie, spoke most inarticulately from her heart and thus perhaps more meaningfully than all others.

Somewhere in the midst of the proceedings it became surreal for me, after nearly twenty years of awareness, and more than a decade since my lover died in misery. I’ve been to so many of these things, heard the names of strangers read, inscribed the name of my life-love upon yet another sheet laid out for magic marker memories. I’ve been handed candles-in-a-cup so many times, as my head begins to buzz when yet again I remember the horror of seeing him die. And then numbly I march, thankfully in silence as the tradition has it, through the streets towards Christopher Street as tradition has it, while passersby on the street stare and wonder what the fuck this is all about. Don’t you know? Don’t you remember? Its our Holocaust, damn it all. Why am I here? Where else could I be? I cannot forget; I don’t want to forget, even though I’ve lost his scent and the taste of him within me.