Show notes
Wit and Wisdomby Beth BroderickI recently spoke at an event for the newly formed Pride Bar Association of the Inland Empire. There were several people honored that evening. I received the “Stonewall Legacy Award” alongside Abby Rubenfeld, an attorney famous for her pioneering spirit and harrowing victory at the United States Supreme Court, which established marriage equality for people in the LGBTQ community. My resume pales in comparison, but we were both present at a crucial moment in our Nation’s history.The two of us were on the front lines of the AIDS crisis in the very early years. She pursued legal remedies and political avenues of support for persons with HIV/AIDS, while I served on the social service delivery side, providing meals and counseling, and other basic needs. We were there to witness a time that is etched into our beings, has forever imprinted itself upon our psyches. A time and a cause that is largely being forgotten and relegated to the history books, well, one hopes it is in the books. I want to believe that it is, at least in places where history still matters. I am afraid it may be lost entirely in others. History is tricky that way.There was a dinner and program planned for that evening, but there was also a session beforehand, which was designed to give people a deeper understanding of our histories.That afternoon, sitting beside Abby during a plenary session where the lawyers in attendance could learn about our work, we were in synch. I explained the basic nuts and bolts of the illness in the early days and what we set about doing on the ground to try to ease the suffering of so many. Abby talked about the legal side of things and how she ended up prevailing against all odds. When it came to what we witnessed in the early mid-eighties, we could have finished each other’s sentences. Two women who, on the surface, could not be more different. Abby is short of stature, long married to her wife, with whom she shares a quiet life, several children, and a gazillion animals. I am tall, straight, and childless, have spent a noisy life in front of the cameras, and have one dog.When we were there in the 80s, we were just two young women trying desperately to get help for, and to raise awareness of, young people who were dying of then-unknown causes. Because the disease first affected gay men in disproportionate numbers, we faced a society full of prejudice and fear, and even worse, indifference. President Ronald Reagan never even said the word, though he knew it was happening. He and his staff often joked about it. I guess young people dying was funny to them. It wasn’t to us. A lot of folks remember his tenure fondly; I am not one of them.It also soon became clear that people from all walks of life were at risk for infection. AIDS was not then and is not now a “gay” disease. As it grew from a crisis into an epidemic and then swept out into the world, creating a pandemic, it was not picky about who it killed. The virus is not interested in your identity, sexual or otherwise; the virus is interested in reproducing itself and finding a host where it can thrive.I am often asked to speak about that time and encouraged to write about it, as I was a firsthand witness to the horror and tragedy that fell upon thousands and thousands in the early-to-mid-80s and remained a death sentence until 1996, when the “AIDS cocktail” was introduced. That was the first medication able to disrupt the progress of the disease and a precursor to the terrific drugs available today. I always go when I am summoned, and I always tell the story of that time, but it is always impossible for me to do so without emotion. Last week, I was grateful for the plenary in the afternoon, as it gave me a chance to work through the tears that inevitably threaten to choke me when I share what happened. Several of our listeners wept as we spoke. I teared up several times that afternoon but held steady.A few people in the audience asked what they can do now to help those who face new forms of discrimination and prejudice. Without hesitation, we both answered: “Get involved.”Go to City council meetings. Go to church. Go wherever folks gather and tell them the truth. Support politicians who believe in civil rights for all. Donate, knock on doors, help them win. We can both tell you from experience that elections have consequences. It absolutely does matter who is elected to office. As we saw in the 80s and are seeing all around us now, in places like Minneapolis and beyond, it can be a matter of life and death.I hope we got through.Abby and I took photos with the class at the end of our session. It was a good event.“Abby, we are a good team,” I said to her between poses. “We should do this more often. They had not heard any of it before. There are new generations with no clue about what went on.”“You are right. We should. So weird that we did not meet back then. There were so few of us,” she replied.“So weird.”We made a note to keep in touch and look for opportunities to help educate people about the early days of the crisis. In order to honor the thousands who died, it is important to keep the memory of what happened to them alive.At the dinner, Abby spoke before me, introduced by her daughter, who was a delightful presence. Abby spoke of the struggle, the harrowing battle to establish equal rights for the LGBTQ community, a battle that is being fought again in the face of a new political regime, which seems determined to set back all of the progress that has been made. She is a good speaker and a true legend in the legal field. The audience was on their feet as her remarks drew to a close. Then it was my turn as the final speaker of the evening.My good buddies Jeremy Bernard and Michael Alden took turns introducing me, and I sat there, moved by my two old friends and, of course, trying unsuccessfully not to cry. Then the Realm Ballet company, for whom I serve as president of the board, somehow managed to perform a beautiful piece in the middle of a hotel banquet room. It told the story of a young man telling his beloved that he has AIDS. It was gorgeous and, of course, foiled my efforts to hold back tears. Then it was my turn to speak to a group of folks who had, by then, heard a lot of speechifying. My words were printed in comically large font, so that my old eyes could see them in the dim light. I somehow got through it without breaking and managed to hold the audience’s attention. I was grateful for their enthusiastic reception. A long night. A good night.I am reprinting the speech here because it speaks to a time in my personal history that has informed every waking hour of my life since. It is in the exact form that I read from that evening. It is called “Gay Men’s Cancer.”Thank you, Jeremy, and Michael and Chasen and the Realm Company.ADLIBGay Men’s Cancer, no one knew what else to call it then. No one knew what it was or what caused it, but young men were turning up in doctors’ offices with strange symptoms. Some were flu-like, others were old people’s afflictions like Kaposi’s Sarcoma and weird stuff like Toxoplasmosis. None of it made any sense. No one could explain the rapid decline in fellows who were otherwise young, healthy, and strong.I had been reading about it in the Village Voice weekly newspaper and other non-establishment sources, this strange disease that was spreading. It was worrisome. The whispers were growing louder. It was clear that something was wrong, very wrong. Then one day I read that a NY State senator intended to introduce a bill to quarantine all gay men, which to this day I do not know how he proposed to do that.“Nuts!” I thought. If we could get it from the air, we would all have it. If we could get it because we touched the rail on the subway stairs and rubbed our eye, we would all be sick.Ridiculous! But fear and prejudice can make people ridiculous, and we know all too well, that it can make them dangerous.I decided that I had better sign up to help. I found an office in the village. It was tiny, fit only one desk. It was the beginning of Gay Men’s Health Crisis. The young man behind the desk did not cotton to me, gave me the side-eye. I couldn’t blame him. It was hard back then, to know who to trust.“Look,” I said. Just take my number and let me fill out the form. I have been on my own since I was sixteen. I know what it’s like to be away from family on the holidays. Just take my number.” He did so reluctantly.I got a call the next day“Are you a woman?” The voice was breathless, excited. “Are you really a woman? I need a woman so bad!!” He pleaded in his thick New York accent.“Yes. Yes, I am. How can I help you?”His name was Peter Avitabile, and he was organizing a Thanksgiving dinner at St. John’s Episcopal for a few men who were sick with the “cancer” and needed volunteers to cook and clean and serve.“Yes, of course. Of course I’ll be there.”What I saw that night as eleven young men came through our doors took my breath away. The disease had ravaged those boys. Some were covered in dark purple lesions; others had faces hollowed out by wasting syndrome. They were all skeletal. One 6’2” boy could not have weighed more than 120 pounds. A few used canes to steady themselves; one was in a wheelchair. I greeted everyone, then ran to the ladies’ room holding back tears. ‘You will not cry,’ I told myself. “You will not cry’. I stared into the mirror. Those young men had the courage to come here, and you will go out there and honor that. You will go out there and smile.And I did. We served dinner, and I made sure to sit with each young man and touch him. These plagued, untouchable boys. I held their arms, patted their legs, looked deeply into their eyes, and I smiled. We talked about regular things, like where they were from, what their favorite holiday movie was. I was 23 years old at the time, but I put out my best Mother energy. When a young person is sick, they need their parent, and those fellows didn’t have that.At the end of the night, Peter came over to hug me. He was on the shorter side and I was in heels, so his face got sort of squished into my chest. Not exactly where a young gay kid from Long Island wanted to be, so he threw himself on his knees, and he wrapped his arms around my legs, and said:“Will you help me? I am starting a program. These men are all alone. We need to help them.”“Yes, of course,” I said. “Of course I’ll be there.”We started serving dinner once a week at St. Peters Lutheran on 5th Avenue. We needed to address the fear and consequent isolation that accompanied the illness. It wasn’t just people’s bodies that were suffering; their minds and hearts were terrified and filled with confusion and, sadly, too often shame. Imagine being 19, 20, 21, years old. You are in New York City in 1984, ready to tackle life. You have talent. Maybe you can sing or have a keen design sense, or maybe you are good with numbers and headed to wall Street. Maybe you feel called to teach kids with disabilities or want to be a five-star chef someday. You are in New York City and finally able to be who you truly are, who you were afraid to admit to being back home. Here, you are free. Free to be gay and to be with others like you who have all finally found a place where they feel welcome. It is exciting and the possibilities are endless.Then one morning you notice a small purple spot on your cheek, the size of a dime or maybe a nickel and gazing at yourself you think, “Am I losing weight? … Weird, it looks like I am losing weight.” But you don’t think much of it. You’ve never been to a dermatologist, so you make a note to ask around and see if anybody knows one and to eat more now that you are running every day. You have heard rumors about some gay thing, but you’ve barely been out. It can’t happen to you.Within a month you are doubled over with abdominal pain, and there are three more lesions, one of them on your chest, the size of a grapefruit. You cannot call your parents. You cannot tell your boss. You cannot even go outside without everyone knowing. You are 19, and you are terrified and totally alone.We wanted to make sure there was somewhere those young people could go, where they could get help and find counsel and comfort. We centered the gathering around food. Volunteers showed up to cook meals and to serve. There were just a few in the early days, but we somehow made it work. We insisted on using real plates and silverware, so people felt appreciated and welcome. I learned how to work with city systems, and we were soon able to provide a free grocery store and later added clothing. In those days, even if we could set someone up with SSI benefits, that was not enough to cover rent and food. Life expectancy was 6 to 8 months. People lost so much weight so quickly that they had nothing to wear. The program grew rapidly. We started with about 13 attendees and quickly grew to 50, then within two years we were serving well over 100 people every week. The virus was identified as HIV; the condition became known as AIDS, Acquired Immune Deficiency SyndromeWe worked hard to address the basic needs of those young folks in crisis, but we also worked hard to provide entertainment and had special performances after dinner. We had pianists and jugglers and magicians. Sharon McKnight joked and yodeled, the legendary Carol Cooke sang, and many others from the Broadway and Off-Broadway world made appearances. Parents and family members were welcome. There weren’t many, but the ones who showed up warmed our hearts. Incredibly, some moms and dads continued to attend even after they lost their child because they knew that people needed parents, so though they were broken-hearted, they came and continued to give unconditional love. A true inspiration.That’s the thing about doing something so hard, so unpopular, so supposedly risky. You meet more than your fair share of heroes. There were so many terrible, ugly things about that time in our history, but there was good too. So much good.There were the wholesale vegetable guys in midtown who were, well, I don’t want to say they were part of the mafia, but (they were part of the mafia) , who gave generously every week. The lady from the 89th street block association who gave us a turkey one year and showed up the next with three cooked ones and a pot of gravy. There was the bakery on 9th Street who emptied their shelves every time I came by and the restaurants in the theater district who gave on a regular basis. There were the performers who graced our benefits for free and the caterers who made sure the audience was sated. Every Tuesday morning, I would get in a cab and head to midtown to start picking up donations for that night’s dinner. A huge vat of soup here, a pie there, giant bags of carrots. Usually, after the second or third stop, the person driving would turn to me and ask what the hell was going on, and I would explain what I was doing and why. And every time… I swear, every single time, that cabbie would sigh, turn off the meter, and ask, “Where next?”“Look for the helpers,” the late great Mr. Rogers always advised. Look for the helpers.Sure, there were crappy bits. Many of my peers in the straight community shunned my participation.“You can come to the party, but not if you are going to talk about that stuff you are doing. No one wants to hear it, and it’s gross.”I didn’t go to that party or any of the others, and I didn’t miss it, because I may share their sexual identity, but those folks are not my tribe.My tribe does not consist of people who are straight or gay or black or white or urban or suburban or actors or writers or steel workers. Those markers are immaterial to me.All of you here tonight are in those seats because you were asked if you could help and you said yes.I look around this room and I see my tribe.AIDS is no longer a death sentence. It can be easily treated, and even more important, it can be prevented with medication!So when people tell you that all hope is lost, you remember that. That is what can happen when people come together to stand up for what is right. Hope can be abandoned, but it is never lost.So I’ll leave you with one last thought…In the very early days, when we could not get people to help us or even to hear us, I would say to the other volunteers, “You just need one.” Every person has another twenty within their sphere of influence. Some have more, of course, but most folks have at least twenty, and if you can get to the one, you can get to the rest of them. So in this time where fear is once again running high, where prejudice is being stoked, when some people are being ostracized while others are literally hunted and hijacked, we will have to take it one by one, person by person, to prevail over the darkness. No matter what the future brings, you are not alone… we can and we will win the day. You are part of a special group, the only group I ever want to belong to. You are part of the group that, when asked if they could contribute replied:“Yes, of course. Of course I will be there.”Thank you for being the helpers, for bringing your generous hearts and brave spirits here tonight. I will sleep better for having met you and gazed upon your gathering. I will rest easy, knowing that MY tribe is ready, willing, and able to meet the moment.You’ve got this!On we go …We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe