Remembering...

December 1, 2012
World AIDS Day

Seems like my blog entries have been somewhat somber lately and I keep trying to remember to do what my friend Jon once told me and write "more funny AIDS.". Well folks, you're gonna have to wait for "more funny" - after collecting the pics and reading through the materials I've selected for this blog, funny doesn't really describe my mood today.

Portland, 1996: I know Robbie and Linda and I are all
still around. Barry passed in 1998. Grant 2004. Don't know
about the others David, Tony and... what is his name, RC?
I hope they're out somewhere in the world smiling today.

But that doesn't mean I'm not smiling. That's the great thing about memories. They make you smile. Even the saddest ones can bring a smile to your face - after time has passed, of course. Because they're connected to the others; the not-sad ones. The ones of sharing a bucket of popcorn at the theater, of running into the surf and both falling flat on your face, of taking that long drive to the mountains and getting there right before the sun sets, of accidentally killing your friend's fish while house-sitting (ok, that wasn't funny at the time but it kind of is now). They're the memories of smiles and touch and laughter and quiet and meals and movies and arguing and protecting and adventures and laziness.


And today I'm full of memories that are keeping the smile on my face. Sure, there may be a tinge of sadness in my heart but it's overpowered by the warm comfort of all the moments captured... like a big hug in my head. Pretty crowded in there today actually. And there's a lot of laughter. And brightness. And hand holding. And tree climbing. And... life.

In addition to the memories I hold in my mind, there are the memories that have been documented. Some of them I've shared on this blog or in my old blog. Others, like cards and letters and photos, I've kept in a little box of treasures here in the house. And there are even more that belong not only to me but to the community. A way for us to share our memories of those we've loved and lost.

For me, some of those memories are kept in three books which are now housed in the archives at Cascade AIDS Project. Well, actually only two of the books hold memories for me. The first one, started in 1988, was full before I walked through the doors of CAP in 1991. My friend Judith, who still works at CAP, has done a wonderful job in historical archiving - some of it, including pages from these three books, are even online here.


Each day when I walked into work, the first thing I passed was the table holding the Remembrance Book... always a lit candle next to it. I  don't know how many names I wrote in these books or what types of stories or goodbyes I shared. Reading through the archives though, I see names of friends who are no longer with us... like Steve & Bob & Paul & JR & Barry... just names and dates or maybe little memorials written by other friends of mine like Mimi & Gay & Fred & Tom. There are obituaries pasted onto the pages. There are photos. There are notes from mothers and lovers and daughters and cousins. There are entries from some, like Mica, remembering those he lost during his tenure at CAP. Followed by entries for Mica, from friends who said goodbye to him on March 30, 1995. For me, those books hold memories of times shared, friends I still see, volunteers I said goodbye to many years ago, colleagues whose candles burnt out long before they should have. Three little books. Hold so much of our lives. So many smiles. And personalities. And love.

And love... sometimes love is little like those books. And sometimes it's huge. Larger than life. Sometimes it weighs over fifty tons, contains 48,000 panels, almost 100,000 names, is considered the largest piece of community folk art in the world and was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. That's big love... that's the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt.

Some of the panels are people you've never met, but
you've heard about. Like these in memory
of Ryan White and Pedro Zamora.

Have you ever seen the quilt? Or a piece of it? It's moving. It's intense. It's happy. And sad. And colorful and bright and has more love on it than you'd ever think possible in the world. Then you remember, it's just a very small part of all the love that exists. It has handwriting and signatures and photos and scraps of fabric, and little pieces of peoples lives... things like this that I found listed on Wikipedia:

• Fabrics, e.g. lace, suede, leather, mink, taffeta, also Bubble Wrap and other kinds of plastic and even metal.
• Decorative items like pearls, quartz crystals, rhinestones, sequins, feathers, buttons.
• Clothing, e.g. jeans, T-shirts, gloves, boots, hats, uniforms, jackets, flip-flops.
• Items of a personal nature, such as human hair, cremation ashes, wedding rings, merit badges and other awards, car keys.
• Unusual items, e.g. stuffed animals, records, jockstraps, condoms, and bowling balls.

Yeah, there's a bowling bowl on the quilt. Or maybe more than one... I mean, Wikipedia has it listed as plural. I've never had the experience of seeing it in its entirety. I've seen panels. Panels that hung behind me during presentations I gave when I was an HIV educator. I've seen panels being sewn together by one very dedicated woman at the NAMES Project offices. My friend Demetri worked for the NAMES Project - and he took me back there to the sewing room. I don't remember the whole story. But I think she started the second or third year of the quilt... and sewed and sewed and sewed all those panels together for years as they were mailed in from all over the world. Talk about a labor of love. Then there are the panels with the names of my friends. Like Steve and Bob... on the same panel with my friend Jill's son, Ken. Steve and Bob - yeah, it was their fish that died on my watch. They were in Jamaica. I was house sitting. And I felt so terrible when I woke one morning and that poor thing was floating at the top of the tank. Almost pulled a trick like the Brady kids would have - almost went to buy a look-alike fish and think they'd never notice. But I didn't. I flushed him. And told the guys the truth. They were very forgiving ;)

The light blue panel, bottom center, the one that says
"I've Gone Over The Rainbow" - that's Steve & Bob & Ken.

Steve and Bob.... they had been partners for years. Then they both passed away within months of each other. But they left me with a lot of wonderful memories - and an awesome Eggplant Parmagiana recipe! Ken, I never met. But I became very close friends with his mom, Jill. She and I spoke to hundreds of people about how HIV had affected our lives. She was so "June Cleaver" - always impeccably dressed, with a small string of pearls or gold chain adorning her neck. Classy woman who held her sons hand 'til the end. Then stitched together this panel. Probably wearing an A-line skirt, cashmere sweater, and small diamond stud earrings while she sewed.

Today I'm not writing in a Remembrance Book. Not going through my box of cards and photos and letters. Not sewing a quilt panel. And definitely not wearing an A-line skirt with a string of pearls around my neck. But I am recognizing World AIDS Day - by writing this blog. Lighting a candle. Taking my bike out for a training ride. But most of all I'm remembering. Remembering those I've shared so many experiences with. The ones who passed away. The ones who didn't. The ones who fought the fight. The ones who still fight the fight. The ones who will fight the fight. The ones we lost to AIDS. The ones with HIV. And the ones without.

You see, each day for me is World AIDS Day. But, after reading this, I'm sure you've seen a theme. It's about remembering and it's about love. So today, I remember the most important thing in my life. The ones I love. The ones like you. And you. And you.