The drama chronicles the dawning of AIDS activism in the wake of unconscionable political and institutional neglect. Timeless and poignant, the play's call to action is as relevant now as it was when the play debuted in 1985.
The major new opportunity that has arisen recently has been encapsulated in the term "treatment as prevention." Powerful new evidence has emerged that antiretrovirals not only can preserve the lives and the health of people with HIV but can significantly reduce the odds of new transmissions.
We went in for our test results together. It was May 1985. Still, after three years of reluctant monogamy enforced by the dread of a sex-borne plague stalking San Francisco, I feared for my lover of seven years. Christopher was younger and had been far wilder.
When I learned of Keiron's death, I made the round of calls, dutifully and with dread, to inform our friends. If you're lucky, you never become skilled at telling people that your mutual friend has died. A few days later we were all assembled at Keiron's memorial service.
Just like in any battle, some of the long-term survivors of HIV can sometimes hold a bit of resentment toward those who avoided the worst part of the fight. And this sentiment is quite understandable. The early days of HIV are comparable to very few other epidemics in modern history.
It is remarkable how little has been done to dispel myths about HIV-positive people. Changing these perceptions is one key to wiping out HIV. Meanwhile, the HIV-positive community, now numbering almost 2 million in the U.S., continues to grow every year by 50,000 people.
On Sept. 18 the United States government observes National HIV/AIDS and Aging Awareness Day. On such an occasion one is left to ponder whether the aging of the HIV-positive population is a cause for celebration. Is this day intended to be a celebration?
Despite the promise of its beginning, the novel falters in its lack of character depth and development, ultimately pinning the novel's success on the glib lives of six New Yorkers who occupy a bubble separate from the city's racial and socioeconomic diversity.
What Larry Kramer, inspired so profoundly by Hannah Arendt, demonstrated is that the importance of our voices -- of speaking our minds and our truths, of organizing, of acting up and out -- can mean the difference between life and death. Which brings us to the situation in Russia.
"Did I ever tell you about the night that Emil died?" my brother Richard asked me. It was 1992, and AIDS had taken Richard's lover a full three years earlier. The death ended a love affair that had lasted more than a decade.
Most of my young gay friends are uninterested in the history of my membership in ACT UP, but a few, like Jake, are curious, even insistent. I answer their questions and try to explain what it was like to be 25 in the East Village in 1989.
Spencer Cox's death triggered an awareness that remaining unconnected (and silent) was no longer effective in dealing with the trauma and sorrow of the AIDS crisis. So former members will converge on a Greenwich Village club to reconnect -- and perhaps settle on a strategy.
I reached out to both those who directly faced the onslaught of HIV/AIDS and those who are younger who have never known a world without it, to find out how 32 years of HIV/AIDS have affected their lives. Here are 32 voices on the 32nd year of AIDS.
Some were there to thank the San Francisco AIDS Foundation or the L.A. Gay & Lesbian Center. Some were there to support a family member, friend or co-worker who is battling HIV/AIDS. Others were there in remembrance of lives lost. All ride all in solidarity to raise funds to end the epidemic.
On Friday, I have the honor of moderating an incredible panel discussion on the progress that has been made to understand AIDS, how that was accomplished, and what it will take to finally end the AIDS epidemic.
Many of us AIDS-generation survivors in some way have unprocessed grief, or guilt, or an overwhelming sense of abandonment from a gay community that turned its back on us and increasingly stigmatizes us, all in an attempt to pretend that AIDS isn't its problem anymore.
Recently I attended a forum titled "Is This My Beautiful Life?" It focused on the veterans of the front lines of AIDS: activists and survivors. Like veterans of Vietnam and Iraq, many have not fully recovered. I seem to have. However, there's a deep grief that fills my heart.
All of us who were in the trenches of the AIDS war are today dealing with the grief and the survivor guilt. Many are grappling with deeper scars and something akin to post-traumatic stress. But unlike for veterans of other wars, there isn't any built-in support system for us.
In my upcoming book, The AIDS Generation, I share the life stories of 15 remarkable gay men who bravely navigated the pioneering days of the AIDS epidemic, a time when many of us had very limited understandings of the disease and few viable options for fighting the virus.
This is my call -- from a poor nation to history makers -- to be the generation who can change the course of history. Let's march mercilessly against TB, HIV and malaria. In an age of vaccines, antibiotics and dramatic scientific progress, these diseases can be brought under control.
When I hear that phase I'm more likely to think of a service that wasn't on Easter, a funeral for a guy who died too young and had insisted that no matter when death came, we were to sing "Jesus lives!"
In med school, future physicians are trained to look for the prosaic horse -- not the exotic zebra -- when making diagnoses. So I've been told, variously, that I'm a migraineur, a hypochondriac, a schizophrenic. But I'm none of those: I'm a zebra.
Those of us who tackled the AIDS epidemic head-on are facing a new plague -- the one that likely killed Spencer Cox. As yet unnamed, it manifests in aimlessness, depression, broken relationships, substance abuse, unsafe sex and suicide.