Why I Care

When I was fourteen years old, all of the libraries closed. It was spring of 2020, and with them went my school, my clubs, and regular access to my friends. I was a voracious reader, and a very closeted kid. The books that most interested me were about queer people, and then, with no school library, I had no place to find them. I couldn’t even meet up with my largely queer friend group and hang out with the only people who really knew who I was. I felt completely adrift.

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As for books, I resigned myself to the options on my parents’ substantial, yet almost completely ignored bookshelves hidden away in the basement. I found what I was expecting, cookbooks from the 70s, biographies of problematic presidents, and chick-lit with cringy titles about boys. Not me. I told myself that there was no way I would ever find anything properly queer enough on these shelves, no way I would be finding anything that reminded me of myself, or that felt like home.

 

Then, by some miracle, I managed to find two books that would go on to define the type of person I wanted to be for the rest of my life. The first was Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg. I vividly remember devouring it on my porch, shivering under the April stars. Although it is in some ways very much a problematic story reflective of its time, the gay protagonist, Idgie Threadgoode, was like a miracle to me. Flagg wrote of a universe where Idgie was strong and kind, butch and brave. Her queerness, and her butchness in particular, helped to facilitate her own kind of heroism.

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The next was How the Band Played On by Randy Shilts. I read it slowly and deliberately over the 10 minute breaks in between Zoom classes. It’s another title which, looking back, is certainly not unproblematic. However, not only did it also tell the stories of unabashedly queer heroes, but it was the first time I was ever really exposed to the history of the AIDS crisis. Colloquially, it blew my mind. I tried to put myself in the shoes of the queer communities of the 80s and 90s. I imagined losing half of my friend group in half a dozen years. I imagined the indignity of half the world refusing their humanity at the same time. How had I never heard about this? How did people not talk about it? These realizations felt even more shocking when considering how queer my life felt. Most of my friends were/are gay, and we consider ourselves to be very tuned in to queer community and history. And even we didn’t (and don’t!) talk about it. 

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And there is so much to talk about! In high school, I read everything that I could get my hands on about the movement. Cleve Jones’ memoir. How to Survive a Plague by David France. All the Young Men by Ruth Coker Burks. Then, in my junior year in college, a course was offered about the history of HIV Protest and Politics. It was a dream come true. We brainstormed what young change-makers could learn from Sarah Schulman’s history of ACT UP. We practiced creating agit-prop inspired by Gran Fury. We discussed all the work yet to be done regarding stigma, access to PrEP, the global HIV/AIDS response, and HIV decriminalization.

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I decided in high school that I wanted to live these stories, and I try to continue to make that choice every day. I want to channel my queerness into a complimentary strength and empathy inside myself that I can tap into to help others. I want to fight with my people for the causes no one else will, and understand that my identity is a tool to help me do so.

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Both books felt like they opened me up to some kind of secret world that only I could see. I don’t want these stories to simply be my own private miracles. My life has only gotten more queer. I go to what feels like perhaps the queerest college on the East Coast, a place where every student walks around with Audre Lorde in their tote bags and carabiners on their jeans. Everyone wants to be an activist. We have so much to learn from the movements that came before us and those whom we lost. There is still so much work to be done. Let’s listen to their stories and heed the call.