Petyr Kropotkin
Nov 6 · 2 min read

Salt N Pepa Diner

I don’t think we as “young” queers have had a discussion of the AIDS epidemic. We have analyzed it, in millennial breadtube fashion. Made videos, documentaries, sliced together every bit of media we could. And put it in a historical context as a rather harrowing prelude to all of our own struggles. But the personal aspect, knowing what happened, what we lost, what is missing… Perhaps I am projecting. But I don’t remember having that conversation with people my own age.

I remember a few knowing people who lost lovers. A craigslist hookup, a gentleman at the bar. My parent’s perspective. Even friends who are positive. I have seen the film and video tinted echoes in the documentaries. But it has only in recent years sunk in as to what I lost. And I can put words to the particular type of mourning.

I was shy coming out. I always was a bit of a misfit. And definately unstable. And like most folks of my era, took to online spaces as opposed to physical ones. Maybe I would have found mentor figures if I had gone to the bars and fit in. But I didn’t, and I am not alone. But I was often left to my own devices, most of my friends and cohorts are around my age. I remember a few older mentors, but they were mostly women. And it was something I craved. Some guidance and advice, approval. It is something I still want. But admittedly that has been used by people to use me.

I find myself filling that role now. Fully seated in the “adult” role with no way to get out, I have helped younger queer kids confront abusive family members, recover from exploitative relationships, break from family and stabilize, ect. I like to think I have done well. And I am sure I have. But I have no metric or role model to look to. Just what I have done against what needs to be done.

There is also a good degree of pain too. I didn’t have anyone in the queer community looking out, with a vested interest in my growth as an adult. With wisdom that comes from years of making mistakes and learning from them. And giving it so freely, and seeing people grow with it… It hurts immensely. And I feel guilty for having this pain. I feel guilty that I am jealous of the younger queer kids. I feel guilty that I am hurt because others suffered and died before I even knew how to read. I feel guilty that this is what hurts me with all the the other shit going on. I feel guilty for wanting to plug my suffering as an extension of theirs; as if I am desecrating some hallowed dead.

I think my generation doesn’t talk about it because we can’t find words for the pain. Because it is a vast hole where wisdom and love should have been. And it is only now as we struggle to fill it, that we fully grasp the scope of things.

I hope they would be proud of us.

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