I'm a gay man who lived through the AIDS crisis. I understand the tragic consequences of America's coronavirus failure all too well.
- Writer Jeff Leavell lived in and around New York City during the AIDS crisis, and saw firsthand the tragic consequences of government inaction and denial.
- At the beginning of the coronavirus pandemic, he was hopeful that the country would take a different track.
- Now, with spiking cases nationwide and a death toll that has topped 150,000, he fears for what comes next.
- When the institutions that are supposed to protect us fail, "it's on us," he writes. "To take care of each other."
A friend of mine recently asked me how I was doing. I hesitated for a moment, and then we both laughed. How, in the world we're living in, am I supposed to answer that question?
I'm scared. The world feels like it's falling apart. Every time I turn on the news it's about rising infections and spiking death rates. People refuse to wear masks. Conspiracy theories and anti-vaxxers have taken over the conversation. I have Facebook "friends" who think COVID-19 is a hoax, or media propaganda, or a liberal lie to take down the president.
The worse it gets, the less the Trump Administration wants to talk about it. And when they do talk about it, it is with conflicting plans and misinformation. As numbers soar, we're being told to go back to school, to return to work, and to behave as if everything is normal.
But I've seen this kind of denial before living through the AIDS crisis, and the needless death and suffering it can cause.
When I was a teenager, just coming to terms with what it meant to be gay, my community was devastated by the AIDS crisis
I am a 52-year-old HIV-positive gay man. I grew up in and around New York City in the 70s, 80s and 90s.
During the crisis, gay bars and queer spaces were shut down. There was a lot of misunderstanding and fear around this relatively new disease. People were unsure how you caught it, or what it even was. Early on, it was referred to as a "gay cancer."
President Reagan waited for years to publicly address AIDS. By the time he did, on September 17, 1985, more than 16,458 Americans had AIDS, with 51% of adults and 59% of children dying from the disease. Maybe no one cared because it was happening to marginalized communities — to gay people, and people of color.
We felt abandoned by our government and by our families. And we were afraid. Of each other, of sex, and of intimacy, but also of being alone, of not being intimate, of not being true to who we were as gay men.
I remember group circle jerks where ten of us would all sit in someone's apartment, at a "safe distance" from each other, with strict no touching rules. I remember conversations with possible hook-ups about status and testing, and going to clinics with new partners and getting tested together. We were navigating what it meant to be gay men in a time when that very idea was potentially life threatening.
COVID-19 is not AIDS, but there are parallels
Both diseases have disproportionately affected marginalized communities. As of 2018. people of color and men who have sex with men continue to be most affected by HIV/AIDS; communities of color have also been devastated by the coronavirus. Almost two thirds of all COVID-19 deaths under the age of 65 are made up by people of color.
But more than this is the way this administration's chilling inaction mirrors what I saw all those years ago. We are being lied to every day. We are being told that this will all "just go away." That it is no big deal. That it is less dangerous than the flu. The very things that can save our lives — masks — are being politicized.
I recently talked to a friend who lives in Berlin, Germany. He was telling me how, over the weekend, he went to a dinner party at a friend's house, and then to a beer garden, spending Sunday at a park with friends. Life was returning to normal because Germany took decisive action. It flattened the curve. And while he is aware there might be a second wave, he said he isn't afraid. He knows that when the time comes, his government will do the right thing. He feels safe.
In America, we are not safe. In America, our government has failed us.
Back in March, the Eagle, the gay bar where I work, shut down temporarily due to stay-at-home orders in Los Angeles. Then came the state-wide stay-at-home orders. But there was a plan for re-opening. It wouldn't be easy: we would all have to make sacrifices and follow basic rules like wearing masks and social distancing. But I believed we would be able to get this under control so that when we were hit with a second wave, we wouldn't be so devastated.
Now, four months later, as states yo-yo between opening and closing, infection and death numbers skyrocket yet again, and masks have been turned into signs of tyranny and political discord, I no longer have faith that we won't be devastated. It is obvious our government has not been able to save us.
Just like New York City in the 80s, we are on our own.
If we can't trust our government to protect us, we must once again come together to take care of each other
"I miss dating," a single friend tells me. He lives in Florida and is watching, just like I am, the numbers spiral out of control. "I miss meeting guys and making out and going dancing and getting stupid and waking up in a stranger's bed and not being afraid all the time. I need a COVID buddy if this is going to continue."
On gay dating apps like Scruff, I've had a few guys send me their coronavirus test results, telling me they are "safe." I have found myself attending zoom circle jerks and an unbearably awkward Zoom "sex party." Guys are forming "quarantine buddies with benefits" with other guys they trust.
My partner and I are in an open relationship, but we have decided that until the US is able to get this under control, we will behave as if we are monogamous.
We are once again navigating what it means to be gay in a pandemic.
In the late 80s, I met a man named Laurent. He had AIDS. He died a year after we met. He was my mentor. He taught me what it meant to be a Queen.
Laurent would dress in fabulous shimmering outfits and high heels and dance around his apartment singing songs and smoking the strongest joints I've ever had. I would take the train from Sarah Lawrence, where I was going to school, to his apartment in Chelsea, and read him Lorca and Frank O'Hara poems and tell him stories about the guys I was dating.
I remember him telling me, "The basic facts don't ever change. Wear a condom. Don't share needles. And live your life. Dance. Fall in love. Be kind. Take care of each other. Being a Queen is so much more than who you have sex with. Being a Queen is how you live your life."
The facts haven't changed, even as people try to politicize them. The way out of this is simple: Wear masks. Wash your hands. Practice social distancing. Be responsible, and think about the needs and health of others around you.
For gay men like me, we've been here before. Our lives don't have to stop. We don't have to give up on the things we love, or on what makes us gay.
But we do, for the time being, have to change some of our behaviors, because we are living in a time when the institutions that should be protecting us are lying to us.
Until that changes, it's on us. To take care of each other. To behave responsibly. To believe in science and not misinformation. And to be kind to each other. None of this is easy.
Jeff Leavell is the author of "Accidental Warlocks," a memoir, and his work has been published in Vice, Them, Hornet, and the Washington Post. You can follow him on Instagram at leavelljeff and at his blog Jeffleavell.com.
Read more:
The stunning way the White House and reporters first reacted to the AIDS crisis
How American discrimination has hindered the way we've handled disease outbreaks
COVID-19 will devastate Mississippi's African American community