No More Names

A week has past since World AIDS Day on December 1st, and it has taken me a week to process all that occurred in the few days leading up to WAD and on WAD itself. I had no idea what it would be like for me this year, after working day in and day out with those who are living with HIV/AIDS. I am so used to our more passive events that SGAC put on at Fordham - movie screenings, benefit dinners, HIV 101. AAS-C's Faith Ministries department - directed by Ms. Carolyn - held two events, one on AIDS Sunday and the other on World AIDS Day. Please bear with me as you read this...it is still very difficult for me to express all of the emotions I felt in those days. It has truly been unlike anything I have ever experience, and I have never become so emotional when directly confronted with stories of those living with or who have died from HIV/AIDS.

On AIDS Sunday, there was a candlelight labyrinth walk at Millbrook Baptist Church. For those of you who do not know, the labyrinth is a maze of sorts, but rather than not being able to find your way out, the path is clearly defined and there is only one way to the center and back out. It is a time for deep individual reflection. The only time I have walked one was this past March in Nashville with my wonderful team. When we got to Millbrook, I was stunned by the beauty of the garden and by how incredible the labyrinth looked with the candles all around it. Throughout the walk, a continuous reading of names took place. Names of those clients whom AAS-C has lost were read, along with other names from the AIDS Names Project. After each name, a bell was sounded. This continued for one and a half hours and about 2000 names were called - an incredibly small number/percentage of all those who have been lost to AIDS in the last 30 years. I helped read some of the names, and tears came to my eyes as I read, and I didn't even know any of the lives behind those names. I have my own list of names of people I have met who are living with HIV/AIDS: my clients, the kids I worked with this spring at Incarnation Children's Center in NYC, the guys from the ACES program when I interned at the CT AIDS Resource Coalition, and the wonderful men I met in Nashville both times I went down there. Someday they, too, will be a name on that list. I just pray that they do not die from AIDS, but from natural causes after living long, healthy, fulfilling lives. My heart breaks to know that with the right education, this pandemic can be slowed. Yet, each day I meet younger and younger clients who are living with HIV. How do we stop this? How do we fight so that no more names will have to be added to that list?

As I walked the labyrinth myself, I heard those names being called. Name after name after name. I began to reflect on the injustice associated with HIV/AIDS and about all of the people I have met who are living with the virus. Each one of them was a member of a marginalized population before they became infected. The poor; drug addicts; homosexuals; convicts/prisoners; prostitutes. Though there are people living with HIV who are middle class or even wealthy, the virus spreads much more rapidly amongst the already marginalized. Why is is that those who are already suffering are made to suffer more? It is the harshest realization to know that vital resources, resources that are essential to live and live well, are not available to all people. Even in our own country, people are living in desperate conditions - homeless, jobless, in homes that are falling apart, without running water or proper sanitation, without nutritional foods to make them stronger. And these are individuals living in the US who are most likely to become infected with HIV. Suffering on top of suffering on top of suffering, but why? How do we reconcile the idea that God created us out of unconditional love with the fact that the previously marginalized are becoming even further removed from society because they are more likely to become infected with HIV? The stigma has not disappeared and will not disappear until change is made; until new programs are implemented; until comprehensive sexual education is available to all people; until poor mothers living with HIV can afford formula for their babies so that they do not infect the infants through breastfeeding; until homosexuality is accepted. I was so angry with God as I walked toward the center of the labyrinth. As I listened to those names, my anger grew stronger. I just kept asking why. Why hurt those who are already hurting? Why take away their feelings of dignity? Haven't they suffered enough?

Once I reached the center, my thoughts started to change. I started to reflect on my place in the world, how I live today, what I do to make a difference. What have I done to change my way of life to the point that I can understand what it is like to live the lives of any of my clients? I recognize that in my own ways, I am only contributing to the issue. I am still trying to separate myself from the poor, trying to prove to myself that I can live simply, but have an out in case I really want something. My clients do not have that out. My clients rarely have such an out if there is an emergency. Peter Maurin once said, "Voluntary poverty is the answer. We cannot see our brother in need without stripping ourselves. It is the only way we have of showing love." God opened me up and forced me to really question my actions and intentions. How an I work to assure there will be no more names? How can I help bring an end to the stigma? How can I change me in order to truly practice what I preach?

World AIDS Day was a very emotional day for me - full of tears that were quickly followed by strong feelings of hope. During the day, we had Rent playing on repeat for our clients and we had our meditation room set up with candles to light in memory of friends lost to AIDS. I avoided both rooms for most of the day - until about 2pm when I sat down to watch Rent for the first time. In the characters, I saw my clients. But I saw my clients in a completely different light. I saw their struggles so much more closely. There was anger; there was fear; there was a desire to end it; there were struggles with love and friendship; there were challenges in understanding; there were financial struggles. Every scene so clearly showed me the inner struggles that I often do not get to see from my clients. I cried and cried as it was revealed to me just what it means to be HIV+ and how important it is for those who are infected and affected to have a support system. It breaks my heart to know that so many of my clients cannot tell their loved ones about their infection. I cried and cried as I realized that I can only do so much, that I am limited.

When the movie finished and the tears dried a bit, I finally made my way into the meditation room to light a candle and reflect. I sat staring at two quilts hanging on the walls - quilts made from patches created by clients, clients' families and friends, staff, and others in memory of those clients whom we have lost to AIDS. One said, "Your lives were worth living." One said, "Thank you for helping me remember why we continue to fight." Some were just names; others said "I'll always love you"; others were prayers. Each one has a story; each one represents a life lost to AIDS, as well as a life lived. I say, and I cried, and I thought about what I can do. The quilt square that stood out the most were the ones that said "No More Names" and "Until There's a Cure." All of a sudden I started praying words that I know so well - "Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things that I cannot change; the courage to change the things that I can; and the wisdom to know the difference." The words just flowed and flowed, as though I had no control over them. I felt so liberated through those words, that I sat down to create my own quilt patch with those words on it, along with a red AIDS ribbon and the words "NO MORE NAMES." I knew, in that moment, that God has really called me to work in this ministry. I am meant to work to fight HIV/AIDS and fight for those living with and affected by the virus. THis is my vocation. THis is what I have been called by God to do.

The day ended beautifully with an Interfaith Worship Service themed "Hope is Greater Than AIDS." Ms. Carolyn asked me to lead the community in a prayer of hope, about which I felt very honored to have a role in. The service really didn't affect me until the calling of the names. One by one, twenty-two of us stood and said, "Tonight, I rise in memory of my friend, who we lost this year; and hope for the day when no one else will have to stand again...for HOPE is greater than AIDS." When it was my colleague Kristin's turn to stand, she began reading the words, and with those words came tears. I began to cry as I remembered the day a couple of months ago when she lost one of her clients, an older man who had no family, but had Kristin. She brought all of his belongings to the office after he passed on and put his Christmas teddy bear on my chair. (It now sits proudly on the bookshelf in my office). As she cried, I cried, we all cried. I saw such compassion in that church. Everyone was there for a reason - to remember those lost, those living and those we still need to protect and to pledge to continue the fight until there are no more names. After the 22 clients we've lost so far this year (make it 23 as of yesterday) were called and remembered, Carolyn asked for anyone who has lost someone to AIDS or knows someone affected by AIDS to stand, nearly every person in the church stood. Everyone is affected; it has never proven to be more true. When I saw everyone stand, I knew that we were all making a vow to continue fighting, to never forget. We vowed to keep the promise to never give up; to continue the fight until there are no more names. With hope, all things are possible. AIDS cannot beat us. For HOPE is truly greater than AIDS.