HIV, Black Lives, and Criminal “Justice”

By Michael Broder
Director of The HIV Here & Now Project

Today is a day to think and feel and pray and talk about the murders of Philando Castile, Alton Sterling, Dallas police officers Lorne Ahrens, Michael Krol, Michael J. Smith, Brent Thompson, and Patrick Zamarripa, and all the others, police and civilian alike, injured in the Dallas shooting, and family, friends, anyone anywhere whose minds and hearts and spirits are soaking in spilled blood right now.

It is also a day not to forget the impact of HIV on black lives, an impact which is completely enmeshed not only with anti-black racism, white supremacism, heteropatriarchy, and predatory capitalism, but also and every day with the criminal justice system. The impact of an HIV that is racialized, criminalized, and weaponized as a tool in the ongoing genocide of black Americans.

Today I do not have the data, the research, the fully thought out and crafted arguments that I would like to have about the convergence on black lives of the prison industrial complex, the military industrial complex, and the healthcare industrial complex. Talk about the intersectionality of our identities—what about the intersectionality of the repressive forces massed against black lives? How we create social and economic conditions that maximize opportunities for black Americans to get HIV (particularly young black gay men and transgender women); then we create criminal justice conditions that punish black lives for the activities that contribute to their HIV risk—drug use, sex work, domestic abuse, mental illness, poverty; then we incarcerate black bodies in prisons organized, once again, to maximize their risk of HIV infection while incarcerated; then we diagnose them as HIV-positive while they are in prison and give them substandard healthcare as well as making them targets of HIV stigma; then, when we do release them back into society, we make it as hard as we can for them to access HIV care and treatment. “Wham, bam, fuck you black man!”

Since I do not have much more that I can write confidently about these issues, I am copying and pasting the brief essay “Prisons and Jails” from the website of The Center for HIV Law and Policy.

Prisons and Jails

Over two million people are incarcerated in the United States. Men and women of color, particularly black men and women, are disproportionately represented in the correctional system. In 2010, black men had an imprisonment rate that was nearly seven times that of white men, and almost two and a half times that of Latino men. Each year, an estimated one in seven persons living with HIV pass through a correctional or detention facility. At the end of 2010, state and federal prisons held over 20,000 people living with HIV. The rate of HIV among prisoners is 5 to 7 times that of the general population. HIV rates are highest among black prisoners.

The correctional setting is often the first place incarcerated men and women are diagnosed with HIV and provided treatment. Inmates in jails and prisons across the United States, generally, do not receive health care that meets public health standards. In some facilities, prisoners with HIV have no confidentiality or privacy regarding their HIV status. They may be segregated and housed separately from other inmates, and may be blocked from some recreational activities and work assignments.

For many inmates, the behaviors and circumstances that contributed to their HIV infection are those that led to their incarceration (e.g., drug use, sex work, domestic abuse, mental illness, poverty). For others, infection with HIV occurred during incarceration, either by coerced or consensual sex, or by sharing needles or syringes for injecting drugs. Response to the critical need for health care interventions and prevention efforts in correctional facilities have a direct impact on the health of the communities to which prisoners return.

© The Center for HIV Law and Policy

Large Blog ImageI would like to post more ideas and information about these issues. If you have access to the data, the research, and you have the passion to write about this topic, contact us.

Coming Out as a Long-Term Survivor at a Cure Focus Group

By Julene Tripp Weaver
Guest blogger and HIV Here & Now poet

In April I attended a long-term survivor focus group discussion about participating in HIV cure-related research in Seattle sponsored by The Martin Delaney Collaboratories and the National Community Advisory Board. In a packed room at the AIDS Clinical Trials Unit, we were led through a series of questions. There were separate groups for women and people of color, but I chose the long-term survivor group because I am a long-term survivor. I was one of two women in the group of mostly older men. I am an elder as well. Coming soon: over 50% of people who are HIV-positive will be over age 50.

The group was what I expected. I’ve been in many groups with some of these same men, usually as a case manager, since I spent 18 years working in HIV/AIDS in Seattle. My work in the field helped me process and deal with my own status. One of my personal goals was to learn everything possible about the disease.

Going to this focus group was a new layer of my coming out process. When I walked into the room, to my embarrassment the men applauded. Aside from the moderator, I was the only woman, although another woman joined the group later. Only two friends in the room knew my status before I entered. I had contacted them early to ask if they were attending and encouraged them to do so. I wanted their support. They are politically active so I knew they would most likely be willing. I sat next to a man who used to be a volunteer where I worked. I felt at home, as I do around gay men.

The facilitator led us through a series of questions such as: What does the term “AIDS cure” mean to you? Why would you choose to join a study? Why would you choose not to join a study? We were encouraged to keep our answers short.

I would join a study for science if I would qualify. Women are often ruled out. There were a few studies I’ve been eligible for earlier, and I’ve called to be screened for many studies. Being female with so many more hormones than men, and the risk of pregnancy, tends to be a disqualifier. For other medical studies not about AIDS, being on AIDS meds is a disqualifier. Certainly being over 60 may put one over the cutoff age. And would I have to stop taking the medications I’m on now? I waited a long time to take medications, which I believe saved me, but now there is no one easy pill I can take. It took a long time to get on a regimen I could tolerate. I developed resistance to the whole NNRTI class of HIV drugs, so some of the new drugs will not suppress my virus.

One question was interesting. Would you define yourself as healthy or unhealthy? I consider myself healthy; it is part of my self-talk and spiritual healing process not to think of myself as sick. Most in the room stated they are unhealthy. The discussion that evolved asked who decides if we are healthy or not when there is so much hidden in this disease. And fear, because if Social Security Disability decides someone on benefits is healthy they will lose their benefits. So what does that mean in terms of income? Housing? The ability to get assistance with medications or otherwise? There is a lot to lose in the semantics of how our health is defined and by whom.

For a fact, I do not have the energy I used to, possibly not the same mental clarity. There is aging that makes such innocuous changes blurry as to the cause. And of course, there is the virus. Even if it is undetectable, even with a decent CD4 count, it is an inflammatory agent in our body causing stress and an accelerated process that impacts our organs. My health issues are minor, but they are constant, annoying, and hinder me in ways I don’t like to admit. I’m not on disability and would not qualify. CD4 has never been a definer for Social Security disability; it has to be by opportunistic infections, or some combination with mental health.

So, was this focus group helpful? I hope so. There has been a lot of progress with the meds for sure. But some of us are not able to use what is coming out. There is a lot of talk about a cure, but what will it look like? I don’t think I’ll see a cure in my lifetime. But I do expect to live a full lifespan. Any possibility of my acceptance into a study for a cure is improbable and risky.

My search continues. Where do I continue to make a difference with this disease now that I no longer work in the field? One way is through writing. My book of poetry about HIV/AIDS, including poems about personal experience and work experiences, has found a publisher, and will be available soon. That is a huge coming out. So perhaps it will be the best way to enter my next phase. My passion to work with AIDS runs deep, and it’s a large stream with many tributaries to step into.

 

Julene It's About Time AprilJulene Tripp Weaver worked over 20 years in HIV Services. Her poetry collections include No Father Can Save Her (Plain View Press, 2011) and Case Walking: An AIDS Case Manager Wails Her Blues (Finishing Line Press, 2007). Garrison Keillor featured a poem from Case Walking on The Writer’s Almanac and in his anthology Good Poems American Places (Penguin Books, 2012). Weaver’s poems appear in Anti-Heroin Chic, Riverbabble, River & South Review, Red Headed Stepchild, and Cliterature, among other journals.  Learn more at julenetrippweaver.com and follow her on Twitter @trippweavepoet.

UN High-Level Meeting on Ending AIDS

Video Commentary by Stephen Lewis
Co-Director, AIDS-Free World

This week at United Nations (UN) headquarters in New York City, member states agreed to ambitious new targets for HIV treatment and prevention. But some countries marred the global harmony by blocking language recognizing the importance of so-called key populations for treating and preventing HIV. In particular, Russia, Iran, Indonesia and a group of Gulf States pushed for silence on the need to repeal discriminatory and punitive laws affecting sex workers, people who use drugs and men who have sex with men.

The international advocacy organization AIDS-Free World offers weekly video commentaries by Stephen Lewis addressing the latest news in global public health. The HIV Here & Now Project is pleased to begin sharing Lewis’s commentaries. This week’s commentary focuses on last week’s UN meeting and the controversy over omitting reference to key populations.

AIDS-Free World logo

 

www.aidsfreeworld.org

Hourglass

By CJ Stobinski
Contributing Editor

We cross paths with many soul mates during the hours of our lives. Some are friends, others lovers. Some are strangers we meet in passing at boutique sandwich shops, exchanging words of hope, fear, despair, anxiety, and wisdom, trading stories across generations, helping each other breathe a little easier, a little lighter.

There are the soul mates we count the stars in the sky with, surrounded by cornfields in the country, self-diagnosing our personality disorders and sharing our theories about god and the universe. There are the soul mates we turn to for guidance hours after two pink lines appear on an Ora-Quick test. There are the soul mates you share dreams of living together with on the Rich Coast with toucans and scorpions, and your organic farm. There are the soul mates you chase Four Lokos with hot smoke chilled by Mountain Dew in the bottom of the Zong. There are the soul mates you overhear singing through the bathroom vent, their complete ignorance to the importance of their words two days post-diagnosis. “The sun’ll come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow….

Then, there are the soul mates we live to spend a fleeting moment with; those who upend our hourglass, those who pulverize the calcified stone within.

The miniature shards of immature glass inside my soul had ceased churning. The grains of sand within caked, hardened, solidified in formation at the bottom of my hourglass.

He appeared in the periphery of my vision, the large structured S adorning the tank top showcasing his biceps, barely contained by the olive skin stretching over the myofascia, catching my eye from afar. I circled nearer to him, trading pleasantries one-by-one until I stood before his statuesque presence. Time allowed a brief hello, and trading of Polish ancestries transpired before the whistle sounded. The circle turned to the next introduction.

I caught up to Polish man a few hours later, finding myself immersed in his presence quite immediately. Time stood still as single file, grain after grain, shard after shard, descended into his half. On the edge of my seat, the tip of my tongue, I waited for a chunk of glass, a hard pebble to descend through the ethereal flow, to clog the transfer.

Waiting for him to run, to scatter, sharing anxieties, insecurities, insanities. The purple crystal clasped to the chain encircling his neck vibrated, entrancing, inviting sweetly nearer, as a Magnolia draws a hummingbird or butterfly to its sustenance, its nectar. Hours expired before exhaustion eclipsed our energies, and drove us both to the surrender of slumber.

He laid feet away as he danced in my dreams; dreams I just shared I almost never remember. I tell him when I wake up, I’ll regale him with the story of us in my dreams. Alas, the extent of recall upon emergence into consciousness is vague.

Day and night, his gaze imprisons mine, as I wrangle the urge to unfurl his proboscis from its gray and neon cage, to lap up the nectar trapped within. Transgressing the rules would ban us from returning. Daring to share a late-night kiss over falling water, I feed the breath of life into his soul. The entirety of the hourglass has transferred to the other side, his side. We fight exhaustion later still tonight, basking in one another’s glow, each other’s vibration

We depart each other’s presence the next day, 40 hours having felt as if 40 lifetimes passed, returning to our lives separated by 647 miles. Appearing on my phone not long after are three words I’ve waited the better part of a decade to hear. “I SEE YOU.”

The hourglass is upturned again, and the sand, the immature glass flows effortlessly back to my side. It is light, free-flowing like never before. It is quicksand, and I surrender to its seduction.

In half a heartbeat, the glass could shred my insides with its dangerous beauty, but it could also polish away the scar tissue.

These are the soul mates we wait a lifetime for, to be in their presence fleetingly. Our paths may weave in and out of one another’s life, or we may never lock eyes, or lips again.

But you have gratitude for the gifts they have brought you, for softening you, for what they have shown you by upending your hourglass:

You are awake in an insane world.
They are light.
They are sustenance.
They are nectar.

Learn more about Contributing Editor CJ Stobinski and the rest of Our Team.

Truvada Blues

By Joss Barton
Contributing Editor

Baby birds squallin’ in a nest made of hay, twigs, and garbage lodged beneath the sleeve air conditioner outside your apartment window. Should you ask the landlord to have pest control destroy the nest? You think of how death based on discomfort always brings the worst kinds of karma, like six months of cold showers and no heat, or your mother letting you know you’re breaking her heart. Your bed still smells of the stale poppers you spilled on your sheets last night while getting fucked by a man you met off Craigslist. He’s bisexual and you fucked before, one summer afternoon after his soccer game. He arrives sweaty with moist milky skin, his thick cock throbbing through mesh shorts. He fucked you raw but pulled out to shoot his load. But last night, as you straddled his body, running your hands across his hard flesh, his cock ramming up your ass, he is disconnected. He continues to fuck you, but his eyes go somewhere past your skin, his erection slowly deflating with each thrust. You know he posts ads looking to fuck men and trans women, but only in the ads targeting men does he say he’s POZ/undetectable. You tell him you know, and that you don’t care. You just want his cum. He ends up pumping two loads inside you.

He isn’t the first man with HIV you’ve fucked. You loose your virginity the first semester of college at 19. A good part of those first sexual years are spent terrified of HIV. You use condoms like you’re told to, take them like candy from bowls at prevention centers across campus. You’re even okay with settling for sloppy blowjobs because seroconversion by oral sex would require taking anon loads right after oral surgery, like, CUM INSIDE MY BLOODY WISDOM TOOTH DRY SOCKET DADDY!!! But sometimes the condom isn’t on, and in those moments, you always whine to the tops please, don’t cum in me. This pattern continues thru your 20s and each year your interest in condoms wanes while your fascination with erections grows with blissful intensity. You realize somewhere in your early 20s, coming up through the faggotry, that statistically a good percentage of the men fucking you were already HIV+ or would seroconvert at some point. You’ve lost count but your best guess is you’ve had sex with somewhere between 300 and 400 men. Every HIV test you take comes with a feast of inner-paranoid shame, self-loathing, and fear. You admit, every time, the process feels better, healthier, with each kernel of knowledge and de-stigmatizing you teach yourself about HIV, treatment as prevention, incubation periods, seroconversion symptoms, risk-reduction practices. You know systems profit off HIV and marginalized bodies, and that under capitalism, The State works by employing medical industrial systems to remind us our bodies are not our own. We can’t liberate the cells or the genitals. We can’t be seen in the wrong bathroom. We can’t evolve without AIDS.

Last year, your black butchqueen sisters start to get on PrEP one by one. You kiki with them on the phone about taking raw dicks, start using the hashtag #TRUVADARYDR, very faggot homage to EVE’s WHAT YA WANT: BOMBSHELL JUST A SECOND/MAMI WANNA SPEAK OUT: Sunday brunches spent gagging over gangbangs and five load Fridays. The #TruvadaWhore think pieces prompt you to ask your friends how they got on the drug. You more than meet the requirements for a high-risk patient. Cum was now QWEEN of your sexual life. You craved it in your mouth and ass as much as possible. What once seemed like a shy fascination was now a full-grown HOBBY. Your pussy becomes a beaming Technicolor rainbow but with a pot of cum at the end of every afternoon fuck.

IMG_20160302_124556750Obamacare comes through and you’re able to make an appointment with one of the few queer/trans-affirming doctors in Saint Louis. You sit in the exam room listening to him explain the PrEP (pre-exposure prophylaxis) consultation and what to expect with hormone replacement therapy (HRT). He tells you he’s starting you off slow on a low dosage and that if the HIV test is negative you can get started on Truvada (the brand name of the drug used for PrEP). Behind you, on the wall, is a huge multicolored painting of Judy Garland, her face repeated over and over again in rows of film, transitioning between pastel colors and black and white, and she just stares at you, her face in her hands.

You’ve been on HRT and Truvada for two months now. The estradiol starts white at half a milligram, hues sky blue at 1 milligram, and when you pack your PM pill in your plastic wallet the two milligrams sometimes look like crumbling robin’s eggs lining the red seams with light dust. The Truvada stays blue. Your pussy is the divine drunk on desire. It don’t give a fuck about HIV. It needs weed and silicone lube. It is a queero-faggot-tranny-god. Your body isn’t soft enough. It has ugly feet and missing eyelashes. What will your mind do when the fear of HIV is gone? Will you realize you’re poor? Will you demand a pill to cure poverty from your body? Where is the gene therapy to get Islan a murder conviction? These pills won’t stop you from being slaughtered. They won’t heal you from cultural genocide. You write a poem after Tamara Dominguez is killed in Kansas City: death stroked our hair and kissed our cheeks and asked us to never call their phones only text only let it fuck us at five or six in the morning only wear a wig and black panties and neon fishnets and shiny heels only snort and smoke what it brings over in clear plastic baggies only sleep when it’s all over.

The men fucking you are all sad in their own ways. The short, tatted stripclub bouncer who lives around the corner constantly wants to know if you’re negative yet always wants to cum raw in your ass. The HS basketball coach made you the sidechick through two different girlfriends. The hung former frat boy turned Trump supporter who you run into walking his Labrador one morning in the lobby of your other trick. Their textfloods are always looking for pussy and ass and your clit or your cum and always how horny they are and how they miss your body. They always fuck you in beds where their wives or girlfriends or buddies won’t find, where your value is sold on ripped thigh highs, 7-inch pumps, hard nipples and your cock tucked into velvet thongs. They’re the kind of men who drown cigarettes in puddles, whistle a lil sunshine with a lil rain, lust on you, the girl picking skin off her lips, tossing the flesh on the bar. They never take off their wedding rings. You take them raw or if they insist rubbered. It doesn’t matter. They want to own your holes. Is it clique to believe bottoming is an art?

These medical interventions you’ve chosen are the best resources and tools you have to ensure you stay alive in this world. You believe this because you know there are people and institutions that want you erased. Your humanity is still debated and negotiated while your sisters shout and fight for freedom in North Carolina. You dream of jails and host cells exploding with virus. You think of how the mind is a wonderful and frightening place. You vogue yourself back to health with duckwalks and deathdrops and druggy cunty wrists. Survival sounds like Minnie Riperton singing Rainy Day in Centerville, tastes like fresh March mud worms, feels like the ravenous mouths of screaming chicks.

Learn more about Contributing Editor Joss Barton and the rest of Our Team.

Poem 316 ± April 15, 2016

Lucy Sheen
Grief

Dark
Deep
An emotional duvet
A patched work
Stitched with frayed time
Worn out thread-bare excuses
Guilt woven in and out of the feeling weft
The centre did not hold
The synapse fractured
Flaying the fabric of sensation
Allowing the deep abyss to perforate the cover
Haemorrhages through
Staining the quilt
Spreading
Creeping
Crawling
Over, in, under and out
Variegating the patches
Tinting the needlework
Until the original colour is lost
Sinking
Pulling
Enveloping
Smothering

Lucy SheenLucy Sheen is an actor whose appearances include the films Ping Pong, Business As Usual and Secrets & Lies. Born in Hong Kong and raised by an adoptive white family in the heartland of conservative England—next to the cucumber sandwiches, church spires and cricket on the village green—Lucy seeks to write and make sense of identity issues that may be unfamiliar to British audiences. Her essays appear in the anthology The Dance is New (Mardibooks, 2013) and Perpetual Child: Dismantling the Stereotype (CreateSpace, 2013).

A Tail of Two Kitties: How HIV Woke Me Up to LIVE

By CJ Stobinski
Contributing Editor

CJ_with_Cleo_&_FieldsApril 9, 2016—This morning I awoke to seven inches of snow covering my car and, for that matter, everything else in sight. Even in Toledo, where all four seasons can be experienced in a day, one hardly expects to encounter this much snow so far into the year. “Pretty,” I heard it described perfectly, “but uncalled for.”

I managed to clean my car off well enough to rush to the yoga studio I’ve frequented for the past two and a half months just in time for class. A co-owner of the studio was teaching class today, and she asked us to ruminate on how nature, and life, can bring the unexpected our way, but can still result in something absolutely breathtakingly beautiful if we embrace it.

After a particularly enjoyable class, I went about my day trying to keep this sentiment close to heart. An exasperatingly stressful serving shift later that night found me repeating, “Keep with the breath, it’ll be ok,” as I attempted to remain calm when all I wanted to do was scream and freak out. Nothing seemed to be going my way, until I spotted my yoga teacher standing at the host stand, requesting me as a server. In that moment I knew it was finally time to write this.

Today was the 30th birthday, or would have been, of a friend who was the victim of a wrong way drunk driving accident on I-75 early Christmas morning a few years back. He was supposed to be hosting his first Christmas, his favorite holiday, but instead left this world tragically in an instant.

I only knew him from four months of working together, and I don’t even have a picture with him, but he was extremely kind to me when he could have easily been as nasty to me as I was to him when first getting to know him. He was that amazing person you know who makes you work for their friendship, but once you’ve earned it you realize just how worthwhile it was breaking through the hard outer shell to get to the gooey inside. After calling him an asshole in the middle of the restaurant, he could easily have turned the entire staff against me, but instead reached out to me and lent a hand of kindness. He was the first gay man ever to show me the true meaning of friendship. I will never forget the call from an unknown number after work, him telling me to “Stop crying over spilled milk.”

I can still hear the echo of the door slamming behind me as I walked down the corridor away from room 101 at the local health department. When the tester turned the OraQuick around, hesitated, and asked me how many pink lines I saw, my heart sank. I had entered a half hour prior, resolved to start a new year in control of my health and life. I left in a hurry, in control of neither, less than nine hours away from my 24th birthday.

A few weeks prior, I had woken up next to a fifth of gin I couldn’t remember finishing, and witnessed what a bowl of Chipotle looks like in reverse all over my bathroom, followed by an emergency appendectomy later that night. As I waited for the results of my CAT scan, I joked to my mom and littlest sister that this was Life #7 of my nine cat lives. The first six I spent wrapping my car around a tree at age 18, resulting in a medically induced coma to control bleeding on my brain, a stable neck fracture at a young age I learned of from said accident, and a few other crazy stories.

I thought, how better to start taking control of my life and health than with an HIV test? It had been some time since my last test, and although I was having less sex and had fewer partners than at any other time in my life, it was time to check it off the list. Instead, a second tester was brought into the room as I held the Western Blot pad in my cheek, and I scoffed as she said she wanted me to feel empowered by my diagnosis.

I managed to drive myself home, wanting to throw myself from the expressway overpass next to my job, which was just down the street from my apartment at the time. One of the two friends I told that day convinced me not to, saying this could be the end or the next chapter, but it was up to me which chapter that was. She was the oldest friend of my friend that died in the car accident.

My two earliest memories in life are of being the fastest kid in gym class, the one everyone wanted to catch while playing Rabbits & Foxes, and before all else, of experiencing abusive sexual exposure. Ironically, I’ve spent most of my life running from my issues. My longtime childhood friend and I—he was two years my senior—explored our sexuality at an extremely early age; so young that I don’t remember how it first started.

The situation between us evolved into different beasts over the span of about six years. At times he was my only friend, and I went along with “playing doctor” in the acres of forest behind our houses because I didn’t know any better. As I moved into puberty, I think I was genuinely attracted to him at times, but the shame of being gay was strong enough to contort my young psyche into a twisted mess.

This friend also tried unsuccessfully to mess around with my younger sister close in age, so I am certain it started out in a less than innocent manner. At the age of 15, after four years of not speaking to him, I confronted him about the better part of a decade between us. The breaking in his voice as he told me he was raped by his uncle told me he’d never told anyone this, and suddenly everything made sense. I could no longer hold him responsible for what transpired between us. He was just as much a victim as I had been, truly remorseful, and too young to know any better.

Walking into work a few weeks after learning I had HIV, I saw the most exotically beautiful calico kitten running around and immediately knew I had to adopt her. One of my best friends working with me had caught a kitten (most likely her brother) a few months prior, and it brought her fulfillment. I was extremely resistant to the idea of starting medication, and I’d told very few people about my HIV secret at the time, including my best friend. Desperate for non-judgmental companionship, I set a live trap borrowed from my grandmother hoping for a snare.

The following day, I came upon the trap to see I was successful in my quest to capture the elusive calico. Growing up on acres of field-land, I had close to 200 cats over the first 15 years of my life, but never a calico. Little did I know, they are a breed of their own. She ferociously shook the cage as I carried it back to my car, spitting, hissing, and vehemently protesting my forced human interaction unabatedly.

Confined to my bathroom, I was able to pet the calico, ever so lightly, on her terms. The name Cleopatra seemed to bestow itself upon the majestic queen. Middle name Beaverhausen added for good measure. I let her out of the bathroom the next day, and came home to an empty apartment. I turned everything upside down, even checking the microwave. Twice. I was losing it. I took to my newly reactivated Facebook page to proclaim, “MY PUSSY ESCAPED.” I was convinced I’d captured the world’s first teleporting cat. After two days, I finally discovered Cleopatra’s hiding spot—underneath the floorboard beneath my sink. My mom told me she was feral and that I should get rid of her. I told her I wasn’t going to give up so easily, that she needed time, and was worthy of my effort and love.

Three months, two house moves, one brotherly cat rape, and three vet visits (including an emergency spay) later, Cleopatra was more committed to hating me than ever. Not only had I never held her, she would barely even let me pet her anymore. We had moved in with two roommates I hardly knew, and everything was good for about six weeks, until I wanted to take a bath. During a level 3 snow emergency, on February 1st, I went to take a bath in the upstairs bathroom my roommates used (I had been using a finished bathroom with a standup shower in the basement, which I thought was for my privacy and comfort) only to be told that I wasn’t allowed because I had HIV. This lit a fire inside that I hadn’t felt since fighting the school board to establish the Gay Straight Alliance in my high school and since lobbying for anti-bullying legislation with the Gay, Lesbian & Straight Education Network (GLSEN).

In the meantime, I’d been attending a Buddhist temple that helped me accept my diagnosis, and it took about two months to get prescribed the newest once-daily medication on the market at the time, Triumeq. I stood at the service bar at work on February 13th and said, “Buddha, help me,” as I swallowed the first of my pills. Less than a week later I drove almost five hours to Indiana University to participate in a social media campaign called HIV Ends With Me Because… with the slogan “I Believe in a Better Way.”

After returning the next day, I went on the Humane Society’s website and saw a newly turned-in cat that captivated my attention. I went to the Humane Society in search of Fields, an all black, long-haired companion for Cleopatra. I searched the first room in the hallway to no avail, moving onto the next. I picked up one of the long-haired black cats in the next room, and it immediately playfully nibbled on my earlobe. IT WAS FIELDS! He was missing most of the fur on his underbelly and tail, having had numerous burrs buzzed off. I walked to the front desk and said, “I want the dirtiest, most scraggily looking cat here; I’m adopting Fields.” Someone had found him in, you guessed it, a field, 25 minutes west of Toledo without a collar and turned him in.

I took Fields home, and to no surprise, Cleopatra was not having it. She hissed, swatted, and growled at Fields as he paid no attention to her. He sauntered around the room as if saying, “Simmer down bitch, we’re adopted.” The calm, cool, and collected Zen Master Fields, whom I have yet to hear hiss to this day, almost immediately changed Cleopatra’s disposition. Within a week, she was more sociable than ever, and beginning to follow his lead of welcoming my interaction once again. Now at 15+ pounds, he is the definition of a gentle giant, offering many early morning, afternoon, and evening greetings of kisses. After about a week, I realized that Fields was turned in on February 13th, the same day I started meds.

After the Indiana HIV Ends With Me photo shoot, I partnered with the now-defunct Positive Young People’s Foundation as their Ohio Ambassador and threw my own stigma-busting photo shoot at Toledo’s 1st Annual LGBT Health Fair. My slogan, inspired by activist Robert Breining, was HIV Ends With Me Because…#OurDreamsAreNotInfected. Two weeks later I came out about my HIV status in a Facebook post, announced the start of a 5K awareness campaign to bring attention to the rising rates of HIV in today’s youth, and started raising money for Toledo’s first AIDS Walk in 5 years. The next day I went on two live news broadcasts as a client of AIDS Resource Center Ohio and announced my campaign to the city of Toledo.

Within four days time, people pledged over $1,200 to push me to be the top individual fundraiser for Toledo, where I took 1st place in the 5K. As a Grand Walker, I was invited to a celebration in Dayton the next day, where I won the 5K as well, pulling it off by three seconds. This was only my third race ever, and I’d just won two in two days. Needless to say, I was beyond ecstatic and couldn’t believe that I’d accomplished it. A week later I took 17th and 1st in my age group at the Glass City 5K. I could say I trained harder or slept better than my competition, but neither is probably the case. Deep down I believe that I WANTED it more. I wanted to show that an HIV diagnosis does not have to be a death sentence, or an end to a quality life, but rather can be a beautiful rebirth of self.

After being the fastest kid in gym class in second grade, I became the biggest kid in my class of 500 by ninth grade. I self-medicated years of depression stemming from my past abuse with my drug of choice: food. At 5’8” I reached over 250 pounds with a 38-inch waist. I began my weight-loss journey before I acquired the virus and had dropped about 70 of the almost 100 I’ve lost, but the resounding thought in my head was “HOW UNFAIR.” I had done all this work to get healthy and fit, and who could love me now that I had HIV?

Living through my diagnosis taught me that if you allow people to value your worth, then they will. Most of the people I’ve slept with in my life, once I found myself in the situation I wanted to leave it, but proceeded because I never learned how to say no. Living through my diagnosis taught me that self-respect—in the form of being able to say no, whether it be to destructive drugs or sex, that fifth or maybe even first drink, or whatever demons you battle, is the truest form of love: love for oneself.

Now, I am not glamorizing living with HIV. I have dedicated my life to the fight to end the ongoing epidemic. I have become an Ohio Department of Health HIV Education Presentation Trainer, helping to rewrite the updated curriculum this year. I am pursuing a Community Health Worker Certification, completing my clinicals in the same hallway I was diagnosed in. I’ll also be attending Sero Project’s HIV Is Not A Crime law decriminalization training this year, will be running all three of the Ohio AIDS Walk 5Ks, and hope to be invited to AIDS Watch Ohio to lobby and educate the legislative bodies. I believe if you live with HIV, you should help others live without it. I truly Believe in a Better Way.

My diagnosis presented me with a choice of continuing to run from my problems or looking them dead in the eye and daring them to defeat me. It woke me up to a life I wasn’t living, allowed me to recognize a growing alcohol dependency and a life-long dependency on anger. It was time to stop crying over the spilled milk and truly live the last life I had left, my Cat Life #9. HIV is now living with me at an undetectable level, and I can honestly say I’m healthier than I’ve ever been.

See, in many ways I am Cleopatra, who to this day I haven’t held. Exposed to the wild at a very young age for a long time, we both recoil at most human interaction, unless it’s on our own terms, because we don’t trust it. As I have begun to heal, more and more she curls up beside me and the free-flowing Fields, inviting my touch, healing with us.

Something I’ve learned is that we move on from traumatic experiences in waves. Some days you can feel completely freed from shackles you once wore, and on other days feel like you’re right back in them, hog-tied and chained to the floor. Over time, the former should grow more numerous, and will crowd out the latter, but there will still be the days filled with self-doubt and judgment. If the closure you’re looking for is never again to feel the weight of those handcuffs, the feeling will find you just as you’ve convinced yourself you’re over something, and the unexpectedness of it will rout your soul once again.

I know ahead lie days both good and bad, but when you choose to love more than you hate, trust more than you worry, and get up every time you fall down, you learn how to pick locks with much greater ease.

Thinking back to when my now friend at the Health Department said she wanted me to feel empowered by my diagnosis, I can’t help but echo the same sentiment to those struggling with their own. People will ask you, “Do you regret getting HIV?” and frankly, who has time to answer that question? Mrs. Nowak, a teacher I had in the seventh grade, taught us never to answer “what if” questions. All we have is the present moment and a choice how to spend it.

I have committed myself to a life of wellness because I reject the sentiment that society and the media impose upon people living with HIV (PLWHIV), that our lives can never be as good as before our diagnosis, and certainly cannot improve. It is time for PLWHIV to reclaim our place in society, and not just to ask for it, but to DEMAND it, because Our Dreams ARE NOT Infected. We are no longer just going to survive, we are going to THRIVE!

There is never a better time to take charge of your life and the direction it’s taking than now. So on the days when you least want to, trudge through the seven inches of snow thrown your way in spring and show up on the yoga mat that is life. Establish your self-worth and let no one tear it down. Make the hard choice to say no to the things that serve you no longer, and usher in the good.

Whether I win one, all three, or none of the Ohio AIDS Walk 5Ks next in my awareness campaign, what truly matters is that I have begun to heal. I now have burgeoning trust in my head, love and forgiveness in my heart, and most importantly, purpose in my soul. Once again, I feel like the fastest kid in gym class.

Learn more about Contributing Editor CJ Stobinski and the rest of Our Team.

THE WORLD IS A VIRUS, THE WORLD IS A VIRUS, THE WORLD IS A VIRUS, THE SPIRIT CAN ONLY SECRETE THE MEMORY OF A WOUND, THE PAIN SETTLES SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE BONE

By Joss Barton
Contributing Editor

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Illustration by Hulee Heck

I can’t begin without admitting defeat.

When I agreed to become a contributing editor for HIV Here & Now, I knew I wanted to craft a narrative and visual project that would become an honest document on the current state of HIV/AIDS art and activism in America.

I wanted to write about my experiences as a queer transgender femme of color, someone who statistically meets the definition of HIGH RISK: risk of poverty, risk of rape, risk of being imprisoned, risk of being murdered, risk of being profiled, and risk of contracting HIV, in a way that not only honored the lives and stories of marginalized queer and transgender communities, but also said FUCK IT to the respectability politics around how we are expected to talk about HIV and AIDS.

My mind soon filled with dozens of essay ideas. I began writing up a mini-list of artists and writers who were not only exploring HIV/AIDS in their work, but also working in ways that were powerful, poignant, and pushing those narratives in radical and innovative directions. I wanted this project to become a collaboration with these artists in interviews, dialogues, and daydreams of how we found liberation in the shadow of AIDS. Bryn Kelly was at the top of that list.

News of her death a few days later was soul shattering. I met Bryn as a 2013 Fellow at Lambda Literary Foundation’s Emerging LGBT Writers Retreat. Her aura and personality captivated me from the moment we met. Part of me was insanely jealous of her non-fiction cohorts who got to sit in her presence every morning and share their work with her under the direction of novelist Sarah Schulman. They were getting to know her better than I was. They were bouncing literary critiques back and forth with her and I wasn’t. They were the ones who got to hear her laugh.

Bryn’s work is an incredibly nuanced and intersectional look at the dynamics of modern day transgender liberation and survival in a world that actively seeks to erase marginalized communities. She wrote about poverty and transwomanhood and about living with HIV with stark honesty that allowed her to take raw moments of basic survival and craft them into narratives adorned with poignancy and human compassion. She also found ways to cut her stories with a searing dark humor that, like a narcotic, became an addiction for me whenever reading her work.

My goal with this essay is to give Bryn a proper literary analysis of her work. But I already know that nothing I can say can truly honor the immense genius inside her words. I could spend years truly examining her body of work, but for now this essay will focus on her pseudo-anonymous blog, PARTYBOTTOM, and her short story “Other Balms, Other Gileads,” which was curated for the journal We Who Feel Differently in the issue Time Is Not A Line: Conversations, Essays, and Images About HIV/AIDS Now. I hope what follows honors her narratives in a way that says, without conditions, that an HIV/AIDS art canon devoid of work by transgender women is pure bullshit.

HIV IS MAGIC!

IMG_1712The blog’s title, PARTYBOTTOM: THE SEXY HIV+ TRANSGENDER BLOG, alone is an artistic and political statement.

Bryn was no stranger to utilizing pseudonyms in her work. My first encounter with her writing came through her blog The Hussy (an extension of her column of the same name for the now defunct website PrettyQueer.com). While The Hussy is both a diary of her misadventures in dating and sex across Brooklyn, as well as a collection of stream of consciousness musing on gender, transfeminist theory, and snark, PARTYBOTTOM: THE SEXY HIV+ TRANSGENDER BLOG, is a document of incredible importance in the trajectory of future HIV/AIDS narrative art as activism.

Partybottoms, scourge of the BODY POLITIC in LGBT INC., are the irresponsible whores, the THOTS of the parTy, the ones who you can always count on with pockets full of poppers, noses stuffed with cocaine, eyes glassed by molly or meth. In their drug induced states they are also the ones who proudly proclaim NO LOADS REFUSED in online ads, orgy texts, or maybe marked on ass cheeks in black sharpie marker. Partybottoms become the magical, mythical creatures that conjure both repulsion and desire from the social and sexual queer culture. They are the monsters in the bathhouses and the trap houses who we can shame and fuck and write public health grants for under the banner of high risk demography. These are only a sprinkle of the existential reasons that makes Partybottom’s narrative both radical and subversive.

SEXY suggests desire and seduction and is immediately contrasted with thirty-five, years of fear, stigma, paranoia, and death in the term HIV+.

Bryn would often recount a timeless tale via social media about an anonymous commentator on TheBody.com who asks if he was exposed to HIV after sex with a transgender sex worker. The man in the story would be rambling off paranoid questions that he might have become HIV+ after using a condom with a transwoman or something even more banal like a back alley blowjob or handjob. The story is typically set in Brazil or maybe Puerto Rico or perhaps New York but the geography of the tale is irrelevant. The stigma of HIV and of the male-to-female transgender identity is universal enough to fill any province worth of fear and loathing for the cis gaze. Bryn utilized this story to expose not only the stigma and ignorance surrounding HIV but also the immense transphobia and transmisogyny embedded inside the cis consciousness.

This makes Partybottom’s transgender label so crucial to her thinking and her commitment to transliberation. Not only does she unapologetically state that she is a SEXY HIV+ TRANSWOMAN but she knows exactly how you are reading those words. You are walking along that headline with trepidation, with some kind of PC shyness. She knows that folks who share her narrative, trans, HIV+ folk, poor folk, gender nonconforming, may be in on the joke, but even if you are hesitant to celebrate that statement, she doesn’t care. She is going to show you HER TRUTH regardless if you are aroused or not.

On the surface, the blog appears to be another confessional outlet with a focus on the blogger’s serostatus, but there’s much more to it than that. Rather, Partybottom is a historical-ethnographic document that positions the stark realities of survival for a transgender HIV+ woman in the dark heart of neoliberal capitalism: New York City.

Two of Bryn’s first posts, “Experiences With Trans/HIV Health Care in NYC: Part 1,” and “A Tale of Two Trans Care Program Case Managers,” are short narratives on the very real difficulties of being poor and trans and relying on state assistance for one’s HIV meds. Because she is living these experiences, she is able to clearly explain why even the most well intentioned public health institutions and professionals focused on queer and trans* health can still fail those who need their care and attention the most. She cites funding constraints, unappreciated and underpaid staff, high case manager turnover, long hours, and the academic-bubbled world of social work graduate programs as some of the many problems ingrained in HIV/AIDS service organizations.

She also contrasts two very distinct and different forms of care in “A Tale of Two Trans Care Program Case Managers” in a translatina social worker and an ivy-league, genderqueer, white social worker. While she sees that both want to help their clients as best they can with the tools given, she can’t help but understand that the language of care coming from them and their respected institutions are polar opposites.

She writes, “I think it all comes down to hiring practices. If you prioritize education and being able to speak a certain kind of social-work-y, tenderqueer vernacular, you will get providers who can provide services for white, FAAB, transmasculine people. If you prioritize hiring people from the communities you hope to serve—people who have lived the life—you will serve those communities, and, hopefully, serve them well,” (Partybottom, December 13th, 2013).

Bryn’s writing throughout Partybottom also brings together some of the most nuanced and intersectional contemporary perspectives on HIV/AIDS with raw, personal accounts of poverty, welfare benefits, casual erasures of transwomen in HIV/AIDS service organizations, transmisogyny, and the physical and mental effects on marginalized people when their survival is tied to bloated political and medical bureaucracies.

In a post titled “Medicaid Mental Health Bureaucracy: Sooooo boring,” Bryn makes clear how the current systems of HIV/AIDS services for poor folk and people on welfare assumes certain levels of linguistic and technological literacy. She retells a simple story of how her basic computer skills, access to the Internet, a cell phone, and her ability to track down a ghost mental health HMO in the vast density of New York City affords her a small level of comfort; that, although she’s stuck in a cruel maze, she knows that others navigating the same routes, with few-to-none of the same skills, must be holding a much sicker kind of knowledge: One that tells them they are lost and being ignored by bureaucratic systems of care.

Bryn’s analysis of poverty and its relationship to HIV/AIDS ranges across her posts from her microscopic accuracy in charting the complexities of government housing assistance for PLWHA to the almost dystopian absurdities of Medicaid. The genius of how she describes all of this rests in her ability to convey the ugliness of oppression with moments of compassion and empathy.

For example, in her incredibly raw essay, “The HIV Welfare Merry-Go-Round: A Day In The Life,” she deals with matters quite literally of life or death: the threat of losing her case management, access to her HIV meds, and possibly her housing. She draws the reader a road-to-nowhere map of state and federal public health tightropes that she and other poor HIV+ citizens are forced to endure for their basic survival. At one point, Bryn finds herself in the halls of a Social Security office when she overhears two strangers discussing how to apply successfully for food stamps.

She writes:

This is not the first time I’ve seen this go down—in these weird liminal spaces, total strangers who share nothing but the commonality of poverty—well, somehow we all manage to form some sense of solidarity. We make small talk. We encourage each other. We share advice about what we have learned about the system. We make sure that we are taken care of. In small, understated, undramatic ways, we show each other tiny acts of love. And there is beauty in that. (Partybottom, August 1, 2014.)

HERE IS NO HEALING FOR YOU

IMG_1824Bryn’s 2014 short story “Other Balms, Other Gileads,” a beautiful, emotionally jarring narrative, walks the reader through the fictional day of SHE, a young, working-poor, HIV+ transwoman fucking and dreaming in New York City.

SHE strolls through Brooklyn, watches Scratch & Win! lotto players:

The cashier pulls from the crowded rolls of scratch-offs, a cascade of unspooling paper, but the deft clerk seems to have eight hands, handling the unfurling chaos while simultaneously wolfing down Sun Chips. She wonders if her boss ever gives her a break. (“Other Balms, Other Gileads”)

Buys beans, cornmeal mix, limes, some eggs, and stares through a blurry contact lens:

There is something wrong with her contacts. They are stained with waterproof mascara, making everything is a little blurry, so she hunches over the counter to make sure every letter is in its proper box on the little form. In the “amount to send” box, she writes $235, a week’s worth of wages she has earned as a receptionist at a Lower East Side salon, paid under the table. (“Other Balms, Other Gileads”)

Bryn’s ability to describe the interior mind with complex detail through a mundane errand is the narrative foundation to the consciousness of SHE. We learn about a new subletter, see her transmasc boyfriend jacking off in her bed, we smell her kitchen.

Bryn also gives us her projection of the NEO-CLASSIC TRANSSEXUAL. Vidal had Myra Breckinridge; Bryn gives us something fucking better. SHE contemplates her favorite drugs:

Her favorite pharmaceutical—hands-down (and she’s tried them all)—is Valium. She has an immense tolerance for it. Valley-yum. The “valley” in the name reminds her of Valley of the Dolls and the glamorous downward spiral of Neely O’Hara: dolls to wake her up in the morning, dolls to put her to sleep at night….She likes having about a pound of pills around. There’s something transsexually, femininely classique about it, and she loves anything feminine and classique (“Other Balms, Other Gileads”).

And how she likes to fuck: “She wants to be fucked like dogs fuck—a few thrusts, then cum, then a knot to tie the two animals together to give them time to imprint on each other, and then to be done with it” (“Other Balms, Other Gileads”).

Bryn’s neo-classic transsexual is unapologetically femme and lives in an incredibly violent and pornographic world (pornography defined as war, capitalism, penetration). Her SHE is a symbol for the soft girls who worshiped gods and idols in Gilead, and the ones being murdered in Detroit. SHE is also HIV+ and her serostatus brings an even deeper layer of conceptualism to the consciousness. SHE’s serostatus never sits far from her waking mind as she and her boyfriend talk Truvada and discuss if he should start PrEP.

One of the brightest gems of the story is when SHE connects “There Is a Balm in Gilead,” a church spiritual from her childhood, and the Bible scriptures it references, to her boyfriend, to HIV medications, and to the virus inside her.

The title of the story, “Other Balms, Other Gileads,” is itself a complex intervention in the discourse of HIV/AIDS.  The notion of “balm in Gilead” refers to the biblical trope of a medicinal balm (made in the ancient city of Gilead) as a metaphor for divine redemption. The same biblical Gilead inspired the name of the pharmaceutical company, founded in 1987, that manufactures some of the leading treatments for HIV, including Truvada, the only drug currently approved by the federal Food and Drug Administration (FDA) for use as PrEP.

One of the brightest gems of the story is when SHE considers “There Is a Balm in Gilead,” a traditional African-American spiritual that SHE remembers from her childhood (and the Bible scriptures it references), and connects the song to the pharmaceutical company Gilead and the medications it markets. The beautiful and poignant passage in the story breaks open conflicts of hope, stigma, bareback sex, desire, destruction, disease and healing. SHE muses, in part:

Do these tablets offer the promise of curing the guilt and shame we’ve felt after taking a raw dick (or two, or ten) up the ass? Does it promise God’s mercy for our abominable Romanesque transgressions? Instead of stigma, will we be given stigmata, to mark our holiness? Does the soul, which has been degraded by poverty, by neglect, by racism, by homophobia, the soul that has always been told it has nothing to live for, now, somehow, have the promise of tomorrow? Of hope and everlasting life? (“Other Balms, Other Gileads”).

Bryn writes a character rich in desires and dreams but crafted with the true complexities of life: poverty, cooking dinner, making her lover cum. She creates someone who, in the quiet moments of existence, reflects our own small acts of transliberation. Bryn writes,

The Wikipedia article on long-term benzo addiction says that they degrade your cognition over the course of use, but sometimes she thinks she had too much cognition to start out with. Dolls. Years of estrogen shots, electrolysis, the back-alley snip by a half-trained medical student in a dingy hotel in Michigan, the thousands of hours spent on makeup and hair perfection and perfectly fitting clothes that show off her best assets. Dolls. She wants to be soft for him in every way. Soft, soft, soft. (“Other Balms, Other Gileads”).

TAKE THEM PILLS BB

I won’t pretend that this literary analysis of Bryn’s writing comes close to fully examining her body of work and its profound influence on the formation of contemporary transfeminist theory and transliberation narratives.

Her story and her art begin at the dawn of a digital era that has been shaped dramatically by the contributions of queer and trans* artists, activists, and accidental academics. The Internet has always given voice and space to the marginalized, and it is no coincidence that much of Bryn’s work will be forever coded onto the digital queer landscape. Just as I discovered The Hussy through an algorithmic dance on Tumblr, so will other future queer and trans* folk be introduced to her writing as it spreads, like a femme virus, across screens and feeds.

Sadly, this essay doesn’t even begin to truly dissect some of Bryn’s most vital and groundbreaking contributions to an HIV/AIDS art canon. In her essay, “How To Be A Good Roommate To Someone Living With HIV/AIDS,” Bryn crafts a monumental document of HIV/AIDS care that should be required reading for anyone contemplating medical, social, or cultural work around HIV/AIDS. In it, she not only lays out the complex housing blueprint for PLWHA when their housing is tied to state assistance, but she also bluntly details the emotional and physical realities that HIV+ people deal with everyday as they negotiate spectrums of survival and health. She writes with pinpoint accuracy about the consequences of homelessness for PLWHA, how unstable living conditions result in unstable antiretroviral regimens, the unique legal challenges facing undocumented HIV+ people seeking housing, and the fragility of an HIV+ person’s safety when their serostatus is disclosed without their permission. Bryn narrates these realities to point out the obvious: STIGMA AND POVERTY CREATE AN AIDS HOUSING CRISIS.

She tells us through her writing that a world built on greed, on binaries, on racism, and on the casual erasure and indifference to the most marginalized among us will continue to breed suffering in the human condition. She wrote to say that only a movement based on an intersectional commitment to transliberation, to anti-racism, to evolving beyond neoliberal capitalism, and to ending HIV stigma can alleviate the enormous psychic pain these various forms of oppression bring to the world. She wrote to restore dignity.

Her words were born from what can only be defined as the biblical state of grace, where one’s core encounters the divine in the most quiet and desolate of places, where the cosmic brushes against the soul to whisper truths that can only be translated by those willing to become specters for a disillusioned nation.

Bryn’s last post for Partybottom was a written response to an anonymous, young, HIV+ reader who asks her for reasons why they should take their pills when the weight of their depression seems too much to make any difference. Bryn lists her own personal reasons for staying on antiretrovirals, including a degree of health to work from when facing her own episodes of depression and the guilty pleasure of melodramatics with her friends and lover. She ends her list casting a stream of consciousness spell that transports the reader into dimensions still uncharted:

– YOU HAVE TIGER BLOOD AND ADONIS DNA –
– YOU HAVE BECOME A CYBORG GOD/DESS –
– YOU ARE EVOLVED BEYOND THE GRASP OF A MERE VIRUS THAT HAS CLAIMED THE LIVES OF 39 MILLION PEOPLE –
– YOU ARE THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE –
– YOU ARE THE BASTARD STEP DAUGHTER OF STATE SOCIALISM AND GLOBAL CAPITALISM –
– YOU ARE NEW PHARMACOPORNOGRAPHIC REGIME –
– YOU –
– HAVE –
– T I G E R –
– B L O O D –

(Partybottom, November 17th, 2015).

Learn more about Contributing Editor Joss Barton and the rest of Our Team.

Poem 248 ± February 7, 2016

Trivarna Hariharan
Answers

EDITOR’S NOTE:
To preserve the complex formatting of this poem, we have included it as a PDF that will open in a separate tab when you click on the title below:

Trivarna Hariharan “Answers”

 

Trivarna HariharanTrivarna Hariharan is the author of Home and Other Places, forthcoming from  Nivasini Publishers (2016). Her work appears or is forthcoming in Textploit, Writers Asylum, Literature Studio, TheOriginalVanGoghsEarAnthology, A Penny for a Thought, Orange Almonds, The Bougainvillea Lit Road Magazine, Mad Swirl, Tuck Magazine, Life In 10 Minutes, The Quail Bell Magazine, CultureCult, Tangerine Heart Lit Zine, Vigilante Publications, Germ Magazine, Paper Lens Zine, The Criterion, and On The Rusk, among others. She is editor in chief at Inklette, the poetry reader for Sprout and is the Head Officer for Journalism at Redefy.

This poem is not previously published.

Charlie Sheen, poz on meds, undetectable

logoCharlie Sheen joins the 1.2 million people in the US living with HIV, including me, and the 50,000 people in the US newly infected every year. Welcome aboard, Charlie. As you know, Charlie, because you are apparently in care, on meds, and virologically suppressed (“undetectable”), HIV is not a death sentence. But it’s not a joke, either. And even though you may have been “forced out” about your HIV status because of mounting gossip and legal action from sex partners, you will find that lifting the veil of secrecy admits much light, and the heat of truth can become the warmth of love.