Posted on 08/20/2002 8:07:40 AM PDT by Starmaker
The next few meetings of the AIDS Walk Committee were quiet ones. Jerry was missing, busily marching in gay pride parades all across America. The AIDS Manager kept us apprised of his whereabouts and agenda as we set the schedule and details for the Worcester walk.
I did a lot of thinking over those days and weeks about the sensitivity training I had attended. I was troubled by Ralph's comment that there were no innocent victims. All logic told me that that was a lie. At one of our committee meetings, a member shared that a friend had been diagnosed with AIDS, and another asked how her friend had contracted the disease.
"What does it matter," the woman challenged. "The suffering's the same. What difference does it make how someone gets AIDS? It has to be stopped, that's all. That's why we're all here."
"I suppose," the man answered weakly and backed down (most of us did in those days), and I thought, "But it does matter. Not in determining who gets what treatment — but it does matter..." Of course, I was silent.
Jerry returned to us in early May, and energetically heralded his exploits in the gay pride marches. The women seemed very comfortable with what he was saying. The men were a little less so. For some reason, it was important to one of the women to ask what seemed a stupid question with an obvious answer:
"But did you have a good time, Jerry?"
"Oh! Yes!" His face lit up with happy determination and he began gesturing wildly. "Oh, it was wonderful! It was so empowering! We did whatever we wanted, especially in Washington. There's no stopping us now. No one dared to challenge anything we did."
In his excitement, he began to cough. The woman patted his hand, smiled indulgently and began to ask other questions. The men busied themselves with additional details regarding the AIDS walk, now only a month away. But I said nothing.
[I had heard about the Washington march, how men performed sex acts with one another on the streets, and lesbians climbed bare-breasted onto statuary and writhed about to achieve orgasm. I had heard about the police who turned away — but I couldn't help wondering if they turned away, not because they endorsed the marchers, but because they were afraid of them? A man who had witnessed the Washington march said he'd never seen such disgusting and perverted acts — and then made the astute observation that if heterosexuals had done the same things in a public march, they would likely have been arrested for lewd behavior. But no one was arrested at the gay pride march in the nation's capitol.]
As I listened to Jerry's rambling, I felt sick to my stomach. I wished I were any place else.
For some reason, it was announced that I would carry one side of the company banner at the front of the AIDS walk. I wondered cynically at the time if I weren't being rewarded as the "token Christian." I worked hard to get support for my walk, mentioning at church during announcements that AIDS was a serious disease that would eventually effect us all (but not saying that there were no innocent victims!) — and three people finally put down dollar amounts for each mile I walked. I told my husband that I wanted to wear a John 3:16 Tee-shirt, and he forbade it outright.
"You mustn't do that. I remember these people from the Navy."
"But the same Jesus who died on the cross for me died for them, too. How will they know that if someone doesn't tell them?"
"Maybe they don't want to know. Have you thought of that? You'll be beaten to a pulp if you show up wearing anything about Jesus. I don't want you to do it."
Reluctantly, but because I trusted his wisdom (and had heard stories about homosexuals in the Navy), I agreed.
That Sunday in June dawned hot and sunny, breezy but with low humidity, a perfect day to walk five kilometers for a good cause. I dressed in light colored clothes and carried a straw hat. The walk was scheduled to begin at noon, and I went to City Hall, the gathering place, at around 10:30. The AIDS manager and several members of the committee were there, registering walkers and collecting pledge cards and funds already secured.
Aside from those few people from the AIDS walk committee, I did not recognize anyone else out of the several thousand who had gathered to walk. After about a half hour, I spotted Jerry and went over to talk with him. He was a very good looking young man, but he did not appear well that day. He informed me that he was too ill to walk and would wait for us until we returned to City Hall. I asked him what was wrong.
He coughed and said, "Oh, you know. The same old same old." I nodded sympathetically.
We talked about the walk for a few minutes, then he stopped cold in the middle of a sentence and murmured softly, his voice low and husky, "Oh! What a babe!"
"Who?" I asked, following his gaze. "What babe?"
"Over there," he pointed to a handsome teenager who was standing with several girls. "Isn't he beautiful? Oh, I can't stand it. I'm going over to meet him."
"Jerry," I grabbed his sleeve as he started away. "What are you doing? He's just a boy. You have AIDS."
Jerry frowned angrily at me and jerked his sleeve from my hand. Then he smiled and added, "Don't worry. I'll treat him very well. He'll be just fine! Trust me."
And he winked and walked over to the kids. He stood next to the boy, rested his hand against the boy's back and introduced himself. The boy smiled but pulled away slightly, and Jerry moved a little closer. The boy spoke with him, but as the girls drifted away, he pulled one of them close and put his arm around her. Eventually, when it was apparent that Jerry was not going to have his way, he returned to me with a wistful smile, his eyes glittering.
"Oh, well," he said, "You can't have them all!"
Thousands of us walked for AIDS that day. I saw no Christian sentiments on Tee-shirts — but I did see some of the filthiest words I'd ever seen in public, and they were worn proudly. Even today, nearly ten years later, I cannot speak some of those phrases, because they're still so repellent to me. I remember starting at the front of the crowd and holding the banner, then passing it to someone else and falling behind as we hit the first hill. I said to the man next to me, "This is a good thing we're doing."
"Oh, yes," he agreed. "It's our day!" But he was uninterested in talking about how money we raised for AIDS research might buy a few more days of life for an AIDS patient. He spotted a friend ahead of us, shouted, "Oh, hi!" and waved, and ran ahead of me. He kissed the man on the mouth when he caught up.
I walked along, not talking to anyone else as I concentrated on finishing, observing men with their arms around each other, and women the same, and thinking, "What am I doing?" Ahead, people were touching each other suggestively, fondling each other's body parts, kissing, sighing heavily, men with men and women with women, all as they walked along. I tried to get by them, but there were too many so I dropped back. I looked away and began to count the minutes to the end.
The chant "Two-four-six-eight! Is your husband really straight?" suddenly erupted from the throats of the male walkers as we passed a small knot of people who were staring, and it was then I realized that all along our route, there were relatively few people standing by to encourage us. Oh, people involved in the AIDS community were there with paper cups of water to refresh us — but the sidewalks of Worcester were hardly swollen with throngs of supporters.
When we got back to City Hall, there were cold drinks, snacks and congratulatory speeches waiting for us. Jerry was no where to be seen. I saw the AIDS Manager and approached him, and he was polite but very cool to me as he turned his attention to a more interesting companion. I felt like a stranger in my own city. I wandered through the crowd, watching them for a few minutes, predominantly men with men and women with women, lolling about on the grass. I had the distinct feeling that I didn't belong with them, and so I left.
As I drove home, I was deeply troubled by something I couldn't quite place. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, but I couldn't figure it out. I suddenly felt dirty, as if I had been used, and I asked aloud several times as I drove,
"If I just did such a good thing, why don't I feel better about it?"
When I got into the house, my husband observed calmly, "Well, I see you're still in one piece. How did it go?"
And then it hit me, and I sat down as the shock of it sank in. I blinked back tears of frustration and disappointment. After a few moments, I answered,
"I feel as if I just marched for gay pride."
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