By David Mixner
This week there was a show on Oprah that sent me into a spin. Wishing I could change the channel, I was riveted as part of the "decade of darkness" unfolded before my eyes again. In celebrating her last year, Oprah returned to a Williamson, West Virginia where she had originally filmed a town meeting on HIV/AIDS in 1987. A young man with HIV had decided to take a swim in the town pool and set off a storm of protest, hate and anger. That hate, anger and sheer viciousness of the town folks were captured live. Anyone who lived through those times and watched this show remembers it well. And how I wish I never watched it this week. Even writing this column, I am struggling to remain focused and share with you feelings that have been so suppressed for over 15 years.
The years between 1980 and 1995 were years of such contradictions. I call them the 'dark years' of my life. On one hand I lost over 300 friends to HIV/AIDS, gave 90 eulogies for young men mostly under 40 years of age and lost the gay men in my life who I loved deeply. My story is not unique. Anyone in the LGBT community who made it out of these dark years has their own trail of tears. At the same time, never have I seen more individual courage and a community more determined to live and be free in the face of massive hatred, discrimination, anger, violence and governmental criminality.
Like Nero, our leaders fiddled as we died. Undertakers would not bury us. Dentist and doctors would not treat us. Some hospitals refused us entrance and others insisted on a separate HIV/AIDS section. People stopped inviting us to their homes, Those who did, would serve us dinner on paper plates while giving the rest of their guests china. We were blamed publicly and often for bringing on this disease to ourselves because of our "disgusting, shameful and repulsive lifestyle choices." Insurance companies refused to cover us initially since it was a "self inflicted" disease. Home healthcare workers refused to walk into our homes.
Most of us were only in our 20's and 30's and just couldn't believe what was happening to us. Leaving the period of hope and dreams of the 1970's into a time of total darkness and feeling very, very alone. Weekends became Saturday morning funerals and Saturday night disco to dance the pain away.
The other day I was having a very casual conversation about the 'dark years' just rolling off the statistics and a glimpse into those times. The young man asked me, "How did you get through those horrible times of death and hopelessness? How can you laugh now?" My respond was a simple "We had no choice. We just did it. Our very lives were at stake." And then I shared stories with him of the unbelievable courage by both members of the community and our straight allies. We never became victims.
What I didn't share with him was the intensity of what those years really were about for me. The prime of my life, my 30's and 40's were spent fighting this disease, taking care of my friends and burying them. Never was there any let up. One would be buried and then that afternoon we would visit others in the hospital. Taking our break to get away from it, we would encounter intense hate, discrimination and lack of love in the outside world. Oprah's West Virginia show reminded me of the intensity of that hatred.
What I realize now is that for the last decade and a half as I grow old without my gay male friends from youth, I have taken those years, put them in a neat little box inside of myself and refused to allow anyone to open it. Watching Oprah reminded me the importance of living for now and leaving that damn box alone. It is just too damn awful and painful to relive.
Read more from David at Live From Hell's Kitchen
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