Chapter 2: Next Steps
When I received my test results, one of the things the test counselor provided me with was information on a program called “Next Step” which was run by the Montrose Clinic in Houston. I was eager for information and reassurance, so I called the clinic right away and learned that Next Step was a two-part program and that there was a new group starting in the next week. I registered to attend.
Just a couple of days before the first session of the program, Magic Johnson announced publicly that he was HIV-positive. The story was an instant media sensation, with constant coverage on television and lots of discussion in everyday settings. I attended graduate school in an extremely conservative part of Texas, and as the Magic Johnson story filled the news, it was routine to hear people vocally voice opinions about HIV that were full of hate, homophobia, and racism. The messages were rooted in ignorance about the disease, and contained a strange and disconcerting mixture of rage and glee. I heard people discuss AIDS with a palpable sense of fury toward those affected and infected, and some people seemed joyful that people living with HIV/AIDS were going to suffer and die. A popular saying for those expressing negative views of gay men with HIV was “AIDS cures homosexuality.” It was usually accompanied by an eruption of group laughter. As a newly diagnosed person, this was enormously difficult. I constantly felt like I was on the verge of serious danger. I became very worried that I would inadvertently be found out, and my daily concern became finding a way to stay hidden.
I was immersed in this attitude when I drove to Houston to attend my first Next Step meeting. That program turned out to be a lifesaver. We met in a room behind a nondescript storefront in the Montrose neighborhood of Houston. There were probably 30 attendees in the room, almost all gay men. The group was faciliated by a very sweet employee of the Montrose clinic named Chris Jimmerson. Chris was warm and handsome, with blondish hair, bright blue eyes, and a quick smile. He spoke about HIV/AIDS clearly and without judgment. He gave us information about the virus, about safer sex, and about caring for ourselves, and he took his time answering each and every question we asked. He also had a wicked and very refreshing sense of humor. But most importantly, Chris conveyed a strength that was captivating. He radiated confidence, and I realized watching him and talking to him that he had somehow innoculated himself against the corrosive effects of stigma and shame that a broken culture desperately wanted to foist on gay men and people with HIV/AIDS.
I didn’t know where this strength and centeredness came from, but I knew that I wanted it. Chris discussed how to disclose our diagnosis with others in a forthright way, and because of his clarity, I developed my own strategy for thinking about who to tell and when to tell them. What I realized was that I could always tell somebody about my diagnosis later, but I could never un-tell them once I had disclosed. Somehow, knowing this gave me the space and permission to take things at my own speed, and also helped me see that I needed to be true to my own experience and feelings. Because of the steady guidance of a wise and gentle man (who is now a Unitarian minister in Austin, Texas), I had taken my next steps on a difficult journey. In doing so, I had sown seeds of self-confidence and trust in my own experience, which have been vital to my success and survival.
Visit http://clayrides.bike to learn about my cycling to support Housing Works, an amazing organization that provides lifesaving services to homeless people living with HIV/AIDS.
