Photos by L.J. Roberts
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Visual artist Eric Rhein presents us with images of the men he carries with him every day, including his angel Nureyev. |
When I was asked to share some thoughts on the Intergenerational Storytelling Hour, part one of the three-part forum series Not Over: You, Me, Us & AIDS, I thought it would be easy. For days I struggled with how best to represent this forum, to explain why it was so important, why I left with tears in my eyes and a smile on my face, and why I suddenly felt so close to people that I had met only hours before.
Both Sur and second speaker, artist Kate Huh, painted pictures of a crisis taking place within a deeply communal world. They described the 1980s-90s as era of ‘socialization without technology,’ in which the only way to make connections was to leave the safety of home. Communities sprang up around local watering holes and copy shops, and these allowed for the development of strong, intergenerational social networks that could both organize and support one another as the AIDS crisis grew.
I almost didn’t make it to the forum. I hesitated at the door and even as I took my seat and waited for the talk to begin I questioned whether hearing stories of such intense pain and pervasive loss were really the best thing for me. But when artist and activist Sur Rodney Sur began to speak, sweeping us into the world of 1980s-90s New York City, I forgot to be afraid. I let the story pull me in and temporarily set aside my self-protective vigilance.
Both Sur and second speaker, artist Kate Huh, painted pictures of a crisis taking place within a deeply communal world. They described the 1980s-90s as era of ‘socialization without technology,’ in which the only way to make connections was to leave the safety of home. Communities sprang up around local watering holes and copy shops, and these allowed for the development of strong, intergenerational social networks that could both organize and support one another as the AIDS crisis grew.
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| Quito Ziegler & Jack Warner |
The availability of life-prolonging treatment for HIV has returned the option of disclosure to many living with the disease who would in the past have been unable to hide their illness. A generation of weary activists and survivors has been allowed a rest from the war-like realities of the epidemic and public discussions of personal struggles with HIV/AIDS have diminished. Conversations about one’s own serostatus are rare even within the relative safety of HIV clinics, in which an ‘assumed anonymity’ carries the understanding that ‘you’re not going to talk about serostatus or AIDS.’ This culture of disclosure acts as both a source of protection and of isolation.
Yet as a new wave of young people struggles to piece together a history obscured by the decimation of a generation of queer and artistic communities, they have begun to question this lack of communication, and to ask for the stories and experiences of both those who have lived (and still live) with HIV, and those who have loved them.
And so we found ourselves in a forum moving fluidly between discussions of the HIV/AIDS community to remembrances and celebration of those loved and lost during the first chapters of the AIDS crisis, each speaker allowing us tiny glimpses into the worlds in which they lived and the people we would never know. I braced myself as artist Eric Rhein and writer/performer Hana Malia prepared to address the topic that I had dreaded most, that all along I feared would break my fragile psyche into pieces; they began to speak of their enduring love for those they had lost.
I have never been good at dealing with loss. In an effort to avoid depression and paralysis I have buried my sadness deep under layers of spiritual rationalization and indifference. What was ‘meant to be’ would be, and all I had to do was keep moving. It was an unsustainable strategy at best, and the last year of my life has been an exercise in acknowledging its futility.
Yet as a new wave of young people struggles to piece together a history obscured by the decimation of a generation of queer and artistic communities, they have begun to question this lack of communication, and to ask for the stories and experiences of both those who have lived (and still live) with HIV, and those who have loved them.
And so we found ourselves in a forum moving fluidly between discussions of the HIV/AIDS community to remembrances and celebration of those loved and lost during the first chapters of the AIDS crisis, each speaker allowing us tiny glimpses into the worlds in which they lived and the people we would never know. I braced myself as artist Eric Rhein and writer/performer Hana Malia prepared to address the topic that I had dreaded most, that all along I feared would break my fragile psyche into pieces; they began to speak of their enduring love for those they had lost.
I have never been good at dealing with loss. In an effort to avoid depression and paralysis I have buried my sadness deep under layers of spiritual rationalization and indifference. What was ‘meant to be’ would be, and all I had to do was keep moving. It was an unsustainable strategy at best, and the last year of my life has been an exercise in acknowledging its futility.
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| Eric Rhein, Leaves, 1996-2012 - Each leaf is a "portrait" of a person who has died of AIDS" |
In Rhein and Malia’s stories I expected to feel the same sense of helplessness, the caged grief petrified in my inability to accept reality and the continuing sensations of missing someone so much that all I wanted to do was collapse on the ground and stay there forever. But in their stories of happy times spent with departed loved ones, in the subtle beauty of Rhein’s wire leaves depicting the lives and characters of people he had known, I felt more than grief. I felt the joy of their memories and the peace of acknowledging their continued existence. I could shed tears at the pain of those who spoke without feeling drowned in either their sadness or my own.
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| Kate Huh, performers her " analog powerpoint" tribute to her friend the artist John Bernd |
Too often we fear to speak our pain, believing that conjuring up those emotions and re-experiencing trauma will only prolong our suffering. Burying the pain and moving on feels much safer than displaying our wounds. Yet I know now that I, at least, cannot heal alone.
At the start of the forum, each of us introduced ourselves by stating what we expected from the meeting. Some came to support friends; others to ‘deal.’ Some came to better understand the history of the queer community within the context of HIV/AIDS. But almost every single person stated that they had come to ‘hear stories’. Within these stories we found hope. We found an outlet for our grief. We found the chance to construct community out of history. Fully formed human lives blossomed out of the images and words of our speakers. I left feeling as if I had met the late dancer and performer John Burn of whom Huh spoke, the fashion designer Gayle Kirkpatrick with whom Sur had shared a long and close friendship, and a host of others whose memories we celebrated over the course of three hours.
As I listened to the stories of celebration and grief, of humor and unblushing truth, I felt something inside me shift. It surprised me, yet perhaps I should have expected it. It was pain without despair. It was sitting in a fire and finding that the flames did not burn. It was a kind of safety I could only have experienced through the collective support of my peers.
Author Bio:
Eliza Sprague grew up in Evanston, Illinois. Coming of age during the years of intense international and local conflict that followed the attacks on the World Trade Center in 2001, Eliza has spent the better part of her young adult life exploring the factors that shape society in an attempt to understand the realities of our current struggles as well as our successes as a global community. Eliza has studied overseas in Costa Rica, India and Scotland through an international studies program called Global College. For the last two years she has studied sociology and community development at Bennington College, from which she will graduate this June. She is currently interning with Visual AIDS and Housing Works in NYC.
To find out more about QuORum Forum and stay informed about upcoming events, visit www.quorumnyc.org , or check out the Not Over: You Me Us & AIDS facebook page.
The second paragraph of this article paraphrases a summary of ideas expressed in the discussion led by the uncredited facilitator of the non presentational segment of the forum. The writer's omission of a description of that portion of the event underscores the problematic of erasure that was a key point of the discussion. While it is a sign of hope that those conclusions were heard and written about, the impression that those ideas are ones originated by Sprague is troubling. Sometimes pain is needed: Fire without burning is an incomplete and uncredible process.
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